The Patience of the Spider

by Andrea Camilleri

  That was all. His voice was firm, his eyes dry. Troubled, yes, but not afraid. With this declaration, the geologist won the esteem and respect of all who had heard him.

  “He’s a real man, this Mistretta,” said Livia.

  The anchorman reappeared, saying he would report the rest of the news after the station’s commentary on what was clearly the biggest story of the day. The purse-lipped face of TeleVigàta’s main editorialist, Pippo Ragonese, appeared on the screen. He started by saying that it was well-known that retired geologist Salvatore Mistretta was of modest means, even though his wife, now gravely ill, had once been wealthy before losing everything in a reversal of fortune. Therefore, as the girl’s poor father had said in his appeal, if the purpose of this kidnapping was money—and he, Ragonese, certainly didn’t want to conjecture as to what other terrible motive might be behind it—then it had been a tragic mistake. Now who was most likely not to know that Mistretta and his family had been living in dignified poverty? Only foreigners, third worlders, clearly ill-informed. For there was no denying that ever since all these illegal immigrants had been landing on these shores in what was a veritable invasion, crime rates had soared, surpassing previous high-water marks. What were local governments waiting for to strictly apply an already existing law? Personally, however, he did take comfort in one aspect of this kidnapping case. The investigation had been entrusted to the able Inspector Filippo Minutolo of Montelusa Police and not to so-called Inspector Salvo Montalbano, known more for his questionable brainstorms and his unorthodox and at times downright subversive opinions, than for his ability to solve the cases assigned to him. And on that note, Ragonese wished them all a good night.

  “What a bastard!” said Livia, turning off the TV.

  Montalbano chose not to open his mouth. By now the things Ragonese said about him had no effect on him. The telephone rang. It was Gallo.

  “I just finished, Chief. There was only one house that didn’t have anyone in it, but it seemed like it hadn’t been lived in for a while. And everyone gave the same answer: Nobody knows Susanna and they didn’t see any girl pass by on a motorbike last night. But one lady did say that the fact she didn’t see anything didn’t necessarily mean that a girl on a motorbike didn’t pass by.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because those houses have all got their gardens and kitchens in back, not on the roadside.”

  He hung up. The mild disappointment made him feel tremendously weary.

  “What do you say, shall we go to bed?”

  “All right,” said Livia, “but why haven’t you told me anything about this kidnapping?”

  Because you didn’t give me the chance, he was about to say, but held himself back in time. Those words would surely have triggered a furious spat. He merely gave a vague shrug.

  “Is it true you were left off the case, as that cornuto just said on TV?”

  “Congratulations, Livia.”

  “Why?”

  “I can see you’re becoming a true Vigatese. You called Ragonese a cornuto. Calling people cornuti is typical of aborigines.”

  “I obviously caught it from you. But tell me, is it true you were—”

  “Not exactly. I’m supposed to work together with Minutolo. But the investigation was his from the start. And I was on leave.”

  “Tell me about the kidnapping while I tidy up.”

  The inspector told her everything there was to tell. When he’d finished, Livia looked troubled.

  “If they ask for a ransom, will all your other conjectures prove false?”

  She, too, was thinking that they might have kidnapped Susanna in order to rape her. Montalbano wanted to tell her that a ransom demand didn’t preclude rape, but he decided it was better if she went to bed without this worry on her mind.

  “Of course. You want the bathroom first?”

  “Okay.”

  Montalbano opened the French door giving onto the veranda, sat down, and lit a cigarette. The night was as placid as a baby’s sleep. He managed to stop thinking about Susanna and the horror that this same night must have represented to her.

  After a short spell, he heard a noise inside the house. He got up, went in, and froze. Livia was standing in the middle of the room, naked. At her feet was a small puddle of water. Apparently something had occurred to her halfway through the shower and she’d stepped out. She looked beautiful, but Montalbano didn’t dare make a move. Livia’s eyes, reduced to mere slits, heralded an impending storm.

  “You…you…” said Livia, her arm extended, pointing an accusing finger.

  “Me what?”

  “When did you learn about the kidnapping?”

  “This morning.”

  “When you went to the office?”

  “No, before that.”

  “How long before?”

  “What, don’t you remember?”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “When I got that call and you woke up and went in the kitchen to make coffee. Catarella told me first, but I didn’t understand a word of it, then Fazio explained that a girl had disappeared.”

  “And what did you do next?”

  “I took a shower and got dressed.”

  “Oh, no, you didn’t, you disgusting hypocrite! You laid me out on the kitchen table! Monster! How could you even think of making love to me when that poor girl—”

  “Livia, stop and think for a minute. When I got that call, I had no idea how serious—”

  “See? That newsman is right, what’s his name, the one who said you’re incompetent and don’t understand a thing! Actually, no, you’re worse! You’re a brute! A filthy pig!”

  She ran out, and the inspector heard the key turn in the bedroom door. He approached and knocked.

  “Come on, Livia. Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a little?”

  “No. You can sleep on the sofa tonight.”

  “But it’s so uncomfortable! Come on, Livia! I won’t sleep a wink!”

  No reaction. He decided to play the pity card.

  “And I’m sure my wound will start throbbing again!” he said in a pathetic voice.

  “Too bad.”

  He knew he would never succeed in making her change her mind. He had to resign himself. He cursed under his breath. As if in response, the telephone rang. It was Fazio.

  “Didn’t I tell you to go home and rest?”

  “I couldn’t bring myself to leave it all hanging, Chief.”

  “What do you want?”

  “They just phoned. Inspector Minutolo wanted to know if you could drop by.”

  He arrived in a flash in front of the locked gate. On the way there, it occurred to him he hadn’t told Livia he was going out. Despite their quarrel, he should have. Even if only to avoid another spat. Livia was liable to think he’d gone to spend the night at a hotel out of spite. Too bad.

  But now, how was he going to get somebody to open the gate for him? By the light of the headlamps, he could see there was no bell, no intercom, nothing. The only solution was the car horn. He hoped he didn’t have to keep honking until he woke up the whole town. He started with a timid, quick toot, and immediately a man came out of the house. Fiddling with the keys, the man opened the gate and Montalbano drove through, pulled up, and got of the car. The man who’d come out introduced himself.

  “I’m Carlo Mistretta.”

  The doctor-brother was a well-dressed man of about fifty-five, rather short, with fine eyeglasses, a ruddy face, little facial hair, and a hint of a potbelly. He looked like a bishop in civvies. He continued:

  “When your colleague informed me that the kidnappers had called, I came running, because Salvatore felt ill.”

  “How is he now?”

  “I gave him something I hope will let him sleep.”

  “How about his wife?”

  The doctor threw his hands up by way of reply.

  “Has she still not been informed of the—”

  “No,” the
doctor said, “that’s the last thing she needs. Salvatore told her Susanna’s in Palermo for exams. But my poor sister-in-law is not exactly lucid; she often goes blank for whole hours at a time.”

  In the living room there was only Fazio, who’d fallen asleep in the usual armchair, and Fifì Minutolo, sitting in the other armchair, smoking a cigar. The French doors were wide open, letting in cool, penetrating air.

  “Were you able to find out where the phone call was made from?” was the first thing Montalbano asked.

  “No. It was too brief,” replied Minutolo. “Now listen up; we can discuss things later.”

  “Okay.”

  As soon as he sensed Montalbano’s presence, Fazio, with a kind of animal reflex, opened his eyes and leapt to his feet.

  “So you’re here, Chief? You want to listen? Sit down here in my place.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned on the tape recorder.

  “Hello? Who is this? This is the Mistretta residence. Who is this?”

  …

  “Who is this?”

  “Listen to me and don’t interrupt. The girl is here with us, and she’s doing all right for now. Recognize her voice?”

  …

  “Papa…Papa…please…help…”

  …

  “Did you hear? Get a lot of money ready. I’ll call again day after tomorrow.”

  …

  “Hello? Hello? Hello?”

  …

  “Play it over again,” said the inspector.

  The last thing he wanted to do was to listen again to the fathomless despair in that girl’s voice, but he had to do it. As a precaution, he covered his eyes with one hand, in case his emotions got the better of him.

  After the second listening, Dr. Mistretta, face buried in his hands, shoulders heaving with sobs, rushed out, almost running into the garden.

  “He’s very fond of his niece,” Minutolo commented. Then, looking at Montalbano: “So?”

  “That was a recorded message. Do you agree?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “The man’s voice is disguised.”

  “Clearly.”

  “And there are at least two of them. Susanna’s voice is in the background, a bit far from the recorder. When the man making the recording says, ‘Recognize her voice?’ a few seconds pass before Susanna speaks, the time it takes for his accomplice to lower her gag. Then he gags her again almost immediately, cutting her off in the middle of her plea, which was surely supposed to be ‘Help me.’ What do you think?”

  “I think there may only be one of them. First he says, ‘Recognize her voice?’ then he goes over and removes the gag.”

  “That’s not possible, because in that case the pause between the kidnapper’s question and Susanna’s voice would have been longer.”

  “Okay. You know something?”

  “No. You’re the expert.”

  “They’re not following the usual procedure.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well, what is the usual procedure for a kidnapping? There are the manual laborers—let’s call them Group B—who are given the task of physically carrying out the kidnapping. After which Group B hands the kidnapped person over to Group C, that is, those in charge of hiding her and taking care of her—more grunt work. At this point Group A comes on the scene. These are the ringleaders, the organizers who will demand the ransom. All these transitions take time, and therefore the ransom request is usually not made until a few days after the kidnapping. Whereas, in our case, it took only a few hours.”

  “And what does this mean?”

  “In my opinion, it means the group that kidnapped Susanna is the same one that is holding her prisoner and demanding the ransom. It might be a family outfit on a low budget. And if they’re not professional, that complicates matters and makes it more dangerous for the girl. Follow me?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “It may also mean they’re holding her somewhere not very far away.” He paused, looking pensive. “On the other hand, it doesn’t look like some fly-by-night kidnapping either. In those cases the ransom demand is usually made with the first contact. They have no time to waste.”

  “This business of letting us hear Susanna’s voice,” said Montalbano, “is it normal? I don’t think—”

  “You’re right,” said Minutolo. “It never happens. You only see it in movies. What usually occurs is that if you don’t want to pay up, they wait a bit and then have the victim write a couple of lines to persuade you. Or they might send you a piece of his ear. That’s usually the only kind of contact they allow between victim and family.”

  “Did you notice how they spoke?”

  “How did they speak?”

  “In perfect Italian, with no regional inflection.”

  “You’re right.”

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “What do you want me to do? I’m going to call the commissioner and tell him the news.”

  “That phone call has got me confused,” said Montalbano in conclusion.

  “Me, too,” Minutolo agreed.

  “Tell me something. Why did you let Mistretta talk to a newsman?”

  “To jump-start things, speed up the tempo. I don’t like the idea of a girl so pretty being at the mercy of people like that for very long.”

  “Are you going to tell the media about this phone call?”

  “Not even in my dreams.”

  That was all, for the moment. The inspector went up to Fazio, who had fallen back asleep, and shook his shoulder.

  “Wake up, I’ll take you home.”

  Fazio put up a feeble resistance.

  “Come on. At any rate, they’re not going to call back until day after tomorrow. They told you themselves, didn’t they?”

  After dropping Fazio off, he headed home. Entering without a sound, he went into the bathroom and then got ready to lie down on the sofa. He was too tired even to curse the saints. As he was taking off his shirt, he noticed, in the dark, that the bedroom door was ajar. Apparently Livia was sorry for having banished him. He went back in the bathroom, finished undressing, tiptoed into the bedroom, and lay down. A short spell later, he stretched out close to Livia, who was in a deep sleep. The minute he closed his eyes he was in dreamland. Then suddenly, clack. Time’s spring jammed. Without looking at the clock, he knew it was three-twenty-seven and forty seconds. How long had he slept? Luckily he fell back asleep almost at once.

  Livia woke up around seven the next morning. Montalbano, too. And they made peace.

  Francesco Lipari, Susanna’s boyfriend, was waiting for him in front of the station. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed his agitation and sleepless nights.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but early this morning I called Susanna’s father and he told me about the phone call, so—”

  “What?! I thought Minutolo didn’t want anyone to know!”

  The kid shrugged.

  “All right, come inside. But don’t tell anyone at all about that phone call.”

  As he went in, the inspector told Catarella he didn’t want to be disturbed.

  “Is there something you have to tell me?” he asked the young man.

  “Nothing in particular. But it occurred to me there was something I forgot to tell you the last time I saw you. I don’t know how important it is…”

  “In this case, everything is potentially important.”

  “When I discovered Susanna’s motorbike, I didn’t go straight to her house to tell her father. I took the dirt road all the way back to Vigàta, then turned around and went back to where I’d started.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. At first it was sort of instinctive. I thought she might have fainted or fallen and lost her memory, so I decided to look for her along that road. Then, on the way back, it wasn’t her I was looking for anymore, but—”

  “—The helmet she always wore,” said Montalbano.

  The boy looked at him, wide-eyed with surprise.


  6

  “You thought of it, too?”

  “Me? Well, when I arrived at the scene, my men had already been there for a while. And when Susanna’s father told them she always wore a helmet, they looked for it everywhere, not only along the road but also in the fields beyond the walls.”

  “I just can’t imagine the kidnappers forcing Susanna in the car with her struggling and screaming with her helmet on.”

  “Me neither, as far as that goes.”

  “But do you really have no idea how things went?” asked Francesco, torn between incredulity and hope.

  The kids of today! thought the inspector. They put their faith in us so readily, and we do everything we can to disappoint them!

  To prevent Francesco from seeing his emotion (but was this not perhaps a first sign of senility and not an effect of his injury?), he bent down to look at some papers inside a drawer. He didn’t answer until he was sure he could speak in a steady voice.

  “There are still too many things we can’t explain. The first is: Why did Susanna take a road she’d never taken before to come home?”

  “Maybe there’s somebody around there—”

  “Nobody knows her. And nobody even saw her pass by on her motorbike. Of course it’s possible one of them’s not telling the truth. In that case, the person not telling the truth is an accessory to the kidnapping, maybe only as a coordinator. Maybe he was the only one who knew that on that specific day, at that specific hour, Susanna would come driving down that road. Do you follow?”

  “Yes.”

  “But if Susanna took that road for no particular reason, then the kidnapping must have resulted from an entirely chance encounter. But that can’t be how it went.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the kidnappers are showing that they planned the job in advance and are therefore at least minimally organized. We know from the phone call that this was not a rush job. They seem in no hurry to get rid of Susanna. This means they’re keeping her in a safe place. And it’s unlikely they found such a place in a matter of hours.”