“Are you joking?” asked Laura.
“No, he’s not joking,” said Livia. “I know him well. Did you discover it last night, when we went down there?”
Bruno returned carrying a bottle.
“Go get another!” they all said in unison.
The child set the bottle down on the floor and ran out.
“And you,” said Livia, who was beginning to understand what was happening, “you let my friends spend the night here with a dead body in the house?”
“Come on, Livia! It’s downstairs! It’s not contagious!”
All of a sudden, Laura let out her siren wail, which had become her specialty.
Ruggero, who had been sunning himself on the little wall, hightailed it away. Bruno returned, set the second bottle on the floor, and ran to get another without anyone’s having asked him.
“You’re such a jerk!” Guido said angrily, following after his wife, who had run weeping into the bedroom.
“But I did what I thought was best!” said Montalbano, trying to justify himself in Livia’s eyes.
She only looked at him in disdain.
“When Fazio phoned you last night, you had already arranged with him to provide you with an excuse to go out, hadn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And did you come back here to have a better look at the corpse?”
“Yes.”
“And afterwards you made love to me! You are an animal! A brute!”
“But I took a shower so that—”
“You’re a repulsive creature!”
She got up, leaving him standing there, and went into her friends’ bedroom. She returned about five minutes later, cold as ice.
“They’re packing their bags.”
“They’re leaving? What about the plane tickets?”
“Guido decided not to wait any longer.They’re going to go by car.Take me back to Marinella. I need to pack, too, because I’m going with them.”
“Oh, Livia, try to be reasonable!”
“I don’t want to hear another word!”
It was hopeless. On the drive back to Marinella, she didn’t open her mouth and Montalbano didn’t dare. As soon as they got there, Livia threw her things helter-skelter into her suitcase, then went out and sat on the veranda with a long face.
“You want me to fix you something to eat?”
“You only think of two things.”
She didn’t say what those two things were, but Montalbano understood anyway.
Around one o’clock, Guido arrived to pick up Livia. Also in the car was Ruggero, with whom Bruno had apparently refused to part. Guido handed the house keys over to Montalbano, but did not shake his hand. Laura kept her head turned away, Bruno gave him a Bronx cheer, and Livia wouldn’t even kiss him good-bye.
Rejected and abandoned, Montalbano watched them leave with a heavy heart. But also, deep down, with a sense of relief.
The first thing he did was phone Adelina.
“Adelì, Livia had to go back to Genoa. Could you come tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, signore. I can even come in a couple a hours.”
“That’s all right, there’s no need.”
“No, signore, Ima gonna come anyways. I can just imagina mess Miss Livia lefta house in!”
There was a little bit of hard bread left in the kitchen. Montalbano ate it with a slice of tumazzo cheese that was in the fridge.Then he lay down in bed and fell asleep.
When he woke up it was four o’clock. He could hear from the tinkle of plates and glasses in the kitchen that Adelina had already arrived.
“Could you bring me a cup of coffee, Adelì?”
“Right away, signore.”
She brought the coffee with a scowl on her face.
“Madonna mia! The plates was all covered with grease an’ I even foun’ a pair a dirty unnerpants in the batroom!”
Now, in reality, if there was a fanatically neat woman in the world, it was Livia. But in Adelina’s eyes, she had always seemed like someone whose ideal was to live in a pigsty.
“But I told you, she had to leave in a hurry.”
“You have a fight? You break up?”
“No, we didn’t break up.”
Adelina seemed disappointed and went back in the kitchen.
Montalbano got up to make a phone call.
“Aurora Agency? Inspector Montalbano here. I’d like to speak with Signor Callara.”
“I’ll put him on right away,” replied a woman’s voice.
“Inspector? Good afternoon, what can I do for you?”
“Are you in the office for the day?”
“Yes, I’ll be here till we close.Why?”
“I’ll be by in half an hour to return the keys to the beach house.”
“What? Weren’t they supposed to stay until—”
“Yes, but my friends were forced to leave this morning. A sudden death. Unfortunately they couldn’t stay the whole time.”
“Listen, Inspector, I don’t know if you read the contract.”
“I glanced at it.Why?”
“Because it states clearly that the client gets nothing back in the event of an early departure.”
“Who asked for anything back, Signor Callara?”
“Ah, okay.Well, then don’t bother coming here yourself. I’ll send someone down to the station to pick up the keys.”
“I need to talk to you and then show you something.”
“Come by whenever you like.”
“Catarella? Montalbano here.”
“I already rec’nize ya inasmuch as yer voice is all yours, Chief.”
“Any news?”
“No sir, Chief, nuttin. ’Xcept fer Filippo Ragusano, you know him, Chief, he’s a one wherats got a shoe store by the church, and ’e shot ’is brother-n-law Gasparino Manzella.”
“Did he kill him?”
“Nossir, Chief, jess grazed ’im.”
“Why’d he shoot him?”
“Says Gasparino Manzella was gettin on ’is noives since it was rilly hot ’n all an’ a fly was walkin on ’is head which rilly bugged ’im an’ so he shot ’im.”
“Fazio there?”
“Nossir, Chief. ’E went out by the iron bridge ’cuz some guy busted ’is wife’s head out that way.”
“Okay. I wanted to tell you—”
“But there’s somethin else happened.”
“Oh, yeah? I was somehow under the impression that nothing had happened.What happened?”
“What happened izzat Corporeal ’Tective Alberto Virduzzo went into a muddy locality and slipped wit’ both ’is legs in the mud that was there, breaking one o’ the legs aforesaid. Gallo took ’im to the hospitable.”
“Listen, I wanted to tell you that I’ll be late coming in.”
“You’re the boss, Chief.”
Signor Callara was busy with a client. Montalbano stepped outside to smoke a cigarette in the open air. It was so hot that the asphalt was starting to melt, making one’s shoes stick slightly to it. Once Callara was free, he came out in person to meet Montalbano.
“Please come into my office, Inspector. I’ve got air-conditioning.”
Which Montalbano hated. Never mind.
“Before I take you to see something—”
“Where do you want to take me?”
“To the house you rented to my friends.”
“Why? Is there anything wrong? Anything broken?”
“No, everything’s fine. But I think you should come.”
“As you wish.”
“I believe I remember you saying, when you took me to see the house, that it was a man who had emigrated to Germany that had the house built. A certain Angelo Speciale, who had married a German widow, whose son, Ralf, I think you said, had come here with his father-in-law and then mysteriously disappeared on their way back to Germany. Is that correct?”
Callara looked at him in admiration.
“Absolutely.What a memory you’ve got!”
“You, naturally, have the name, address, and telephone number of Signora Speciale?”
“Of course.Wait just one minute while I look for the information on Signora Gudrun.”
Montalbano wrote it all down on a scrap of paper. Callara became curious.
“For what purpose—”
“You’ll understand later. I seem also to remember that you gave me the name of the developer who designed the house and oversaw the construction.”
“Yes. His name is Michele Spitaleri. Would you like his phone number?”
“Yes.”
Montalbano jotted that down, too.
“Listen, Inspector. Can’t you tell me why—”
“I’ll tell you on the way there. Here’s the key. Keep it with you.”
“Will this take long?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Callara gave him an inquisitive look. Montalbano donned an expressionless mask.
“Maybe I’d better tell the secretary,” said Callara.
They headed off in Montalbano’s car. On the way, the inspector told Callara how little Bruno had disappeared, how hard it had been to find him, and finally how they’d pulled him out with the help of the firemen.
Callara was worried about one thing only.
“Did they do any damage?”
“Who?”
“The firemen. Did they damage the house in any way?”
“No, not inside.”
“That’s a relief. ’Cause one time when a fire broke out in the kitchen of a house I’d rented, they did more damage than the fire.”
Not a word about the illegal apartment.
“Do you intend to inform Signora Gudrun?”
“Of course, of course. But she certainly doesn’t know anything about this. It must have been an idea of Angelo Speciale’s. I’ll have to take care of everything myself.”
“Are you going to apply for amnesty?”
“Well, I don’t know if—”
“Look, Signor Callara, don’t forget I’m a public official. I can’t just look the other way.”
“What if—just supposing, mind you—what if I inform Spitaleri and have everything put back the way it was—”
“Then I will charge you, Signora Gudrun, and Spitaleri with illegal construction.”
“Well, if that’s the way it is . . .”
“Look at that! Look at that!” was Signor Callara’s exclamation of wonderment as he entered through the bathroom window and saw everything ready for use.
With flashlight in hand, Montalbano led him into the other rooms.
“Look at that! Look at that!”
They arrived in the living room.
“Look at that! Look at that!”
“See?” said Montalbano. “Even the casings are ready for installation.”
“Look at that! Look at that!”
As if by chance, the inspector let the beam of the flashlight fall upon the trunk.
“And what’s that?” asked Callara.
“Looks like a trunk to me.”
“What’s inside? Have you opened it?”
“Me? No.Why would I have done that?”
“Would you lend me the flashlight a minute?”
“Here.”
Everything was going as planned.
Callara opened the trunk, and when he aimed the beam inside, he did not say “Look at that,” but took a great leap backwards.
“Ohmygod! Ohmygod!”
The beam of the flashlight trembled in his hand.
“What is it?”
“But . . . but . . . there’s a . . . there’s a . . . dead person!”
“Really?”
5
Thus, with the dead body’s deadness now official, the inspector could look into doing something about it.
First, however, he had to do something about Signor Callara, who, having dashed outside through the window, was now vomiting up what he had eaten the week before.
Montalbano opened the real apartment upstairs, made Signor Callara, who was feeling very dizzy, lie down on the sofa in the living room, and went to get him a glass of water.
“Can I go home?”
“Are you kidding? I can’t drive you home.”
“I’ll call my son and have him come get me.”
“Not on your life! You have to wait for the public prosecutor! It was you who discovered the body, no? Would you like a little more water?”
“No, I feel cold.”
Cold? In this heat?
“I’ve got a blanket in the car. I’ll go get it.”
His role as Good Samaritan over, he called the station.
“Catarella? Is Fazio there?”
“He’ll be comin soon.”
“What does that mean?”
“He phoned just now sayin zackly: I’ll be there in five minutes.What I mean is, he will be here in five minutes, not me, since I’m already here.”
“Listen, a dead body’s been found, and I want him to call me at this number.”
He gave him the telephone number of the house.
“Hee, hee!” said Catarella.
“Are you laughing or crying?”
“Laughin, Chief.”
“Why’s that?”
“ ’Cause normalwise iss always me tellin you when summon finds a dead body, an’ now iss you tellin me!”
Five minutes later, the telephone rang.
“What is it, Chief? You find a dead body?”
“The head of the agency that rented the apartment to my friends found it. Luckily they’d already left before this wonderful discovery was made.”
“Is it fresh?”
“I don’t think so. In fact, I would rule that out. But I didn’t get a good look at it, ’cause I had to give a hand to Signor Callara, poor guy.”
“So, it’s the same house where I sent the firemen?”
“Exactly. Marina di Montereale, Pizzo district, the house at the end of the dirt road. Bring some support. And inform the prosecutor, Forensics, and Dr. Pasquano. I don’t feel like doing it myself.”
“I’ll be right over, Chief.”
As he was putting on his gloves, Fazio, who’d come with Galluzzo, asked Montalbano:
“Can I go down and have a look?”
The inspector was reclining in a deck chair on the terrace, enjoying the sunset.
“Sure. Be careful not to leave any fingerprints.”
“You’re not coming?”
“What for?”
Half an hour later, the usual pandemonium broke out.
First the Forensics team arrived, but since they couldn’t see a goddamn thing in the underground living room, they lost another half hour setting up a temporary electrical connection.
Then Pasquano arrived with the ambulance and his team of undertakers. Realizing immediately that he would have to wait his turn, the doctor pulled up another deck chair, sat down beside the inspector, and dozed off.
An hour or so later, by which time the sun had almost entirely set, someone from Forensics came and woke him up.
“Doctor,” he said, “the body’s all wrapped up. What should we do?”
“Unwrap it” was the laconic reply.
“Yes, but who should do the unwrapping, us or you?”
“I guess I’d better unwrap it myself,” said Pasquano with a sigh.
“Fazio!” Montalbano called out.
“Reporting, Chief.”
“Has Prosecutor Tommaseo arrived yet?”
“No, Chief, he called to say it would take him at least an hour to get here.”
“You know what I say?”
“No, sir.”
“I say I’m gonna go eat and come back. Looks to me like things are gonna take a long time.”
Passing through the living room, he noticed that Callara hadn’t moved from the sofa. He took pity on him.
“Come with me, I’ll give you a lift to Vigàta. I’ll tell the prosecutor how things went.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you
,” said Callara, handing him the blanket.
He dropped Callara off in front of his agency, which was now closed.
“Don’t forget: Not a word to anyone about the corpse you found.”
“My dear Inspector, I think I’m running a fever of a hundred and two. I don’t even feel like breathing, let alone talking!”
Since going to Enzo’s would surely take too long, he headed back to Marinella instead.
In the fridge he found a rather sizeable platter of caponata and a big piece of Ragusan caciocavallo cheese. Adelina had even bought him some fresh bread. He was so hungry, his eyes were burning.
It took him a good hour to polish it all off, to the accompaniment of half a liter of wine.Then he washed his face, got in his car, and drove back to Pizzo.
The moment the inspector arrived, Tommaseo, the public prosecutor, who’d been standing in the parking area in front of the house getting a breath of air, came running up to him.
“It looks like a sex-related crime!”
His eyes were sparkling, his tone almost festive. That’s how Prosecutor Tommaseo was: Any crime of passion, any killing related to infidelity or sex, was pure bliss for him. Montalbano was convinced he was a genuine maniac, but only in his mind.
Tommaseo would drool like a snail after every woman he interrogated, and yet nobody knew of any female friends or lovers in his life.
“Is Dr. Pasquano still inside?” asked Montalbano.
“Yes.”
It was stifling in the illegal apartment. Too many people going in and out, too much heat given off by the two floodlights the Forensics team had turned on. The already close atmosphere of before was a lot closer, with the difference that now it stank of men’s sweat, and now, indeed, one also smelled the stench of death.
The corpse had, in fact, been taken out of the trunk, unwrapped as best as was possible, considering that one could see pieces of the plastic still sticking to the skin, having perhaps fused with it over time. The men had placed the body, naked as they’d found it, on a stretcher, and Dr. Pasquano, cursing under his breath, was finishing his examination. Montalbano realized that it wasn’t a good time to ask him anything.
“Get me the prosecutor!” the doctor suddenly ordered.
IM10 August Heat (2008) Page 5