“What were you doing?”
“I was going to bed. It was past midnight. I’d been watching TV . . .”
“What were you watching?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you remember the channel?”
“No. But . . . ”
“Go on, go on.”
“I’m sorry, Inspector, but I’ve already told the whole story to the local police, the fire chief, the insurance people . . . What’s this got to do with you?”
“I and my colleague Fazio are part of a special new team appointed by the commissioner. Very special. We deal in cases of arson that can be attributed to failure to pay the protection racket.”
The inspector then stood up and started yelling.
“We can’t go on this way! Honest businessmen like yourself must never again be subjected to the Caudine Forks imposed by the Mafia! We’ve waited forty years, and that’s enough!”
He sat down, congratulating himself for both the Caudine Forks and the quotation of Mussolini. Fazio looked at him in admiration.
Costantino Morabito, shaken first by the smelling, then by the yelling, swallowed the lie like fresh water and became much more nervous.
“I . . . I would rule that out.”
“You would rule what out?”
“The f-failure to pay . . .”
“You pay the racket regularly?”
“No . . . it’s got nothing to do with paying or not paying. I am certain that the cause of the fire is not what you think.”
“It’s not? And what do you think is the cause?”
“I don’t think it was arson.”
“So what was it, then?”
“Maybe a short circuit.”
“Before summoning you here, I went and had a long talk with Engineer Ragusano of the Fire Brigade. He’s ruled out any short circuits.”
“Why?”
“Because the point where the fire started has been located, and there’s nothing there that has anything to do with electricity.”
“Then it must have been spontaneous combustion.”
“Ragusano rules that out, too, because of the temperature. And he has some questions.”
“He didn’t ask me any.”
“He hasn’t yet, but he will.”
The moment called for a slightly sinister chortle, which the inspector executed to perfection. This elicited another admiring glance from Fazio and a disconcerted stare from Morabito.
“Oh, will he ever!” he continued, following with another Mephistophelian chortle. “Want to hear one?”
“All right, let’s hear one,” said Morabito, wiping the glistening sweat from his brow.
“The fire started in a specific spot, at the foot of the internal staircase. Where there should not have been any inflammable material. But the firemen indeed found some right there. Ragusano told me these materials had been piled up, in fact, as if to form a little pyre. Who put them there?”
“How should I know?” replied Morabito. “When I closed the store, there wasn’t anything at the foot of the stairs.”
“Care to venture a guess?”
“What do you want me to say? They were probably put there by whoever started the fire.”
“Right. But that raises another question: How did the arsonist get in there?”
“How should I know?”
“The store’s two rolling metal shutters had not been forced. The windows were all found closed. How did he get inside?”
The handkerchief with which Morabito was wiping his brow was soaked.
“He might’ve used some kind of timing device,” he said. “Something he left at the foot of the stairs before the store closed.”
“Did you close up the store from the outside?”
“No. Why would I do that? I closed it up the way I’ve always done.”
“Which is?”
“From the inside.”
“And how did you return to your apartment?”
“How else? I went up the inside stairs.”
“In the dark?”
Morabito’s sweat had now soaked through his jacket as well. He had two dark stains under the armpits.
“Whattya mean, in the dark? I turned on the light.”
“Come on! If you turned on the light, you would have to have seen the timing device. Didn’t you see it?”
“Of course I didn’t see it!”
“So I shall make a note that you admit—”
Morabito lurched so severely in his chair that he nearly fell.
“What . . . what do I admit? I haven’t admitted anything!”
“I’m sorry. Let’s proceed in an orderly fashion. At first you maintained that the fire might have been started by a short circuit or spontaneous combustion. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“But if you now come out with this idea that it was a timing device, it means you’re admitting that arson is a possibility, after all. Makes sense, no?”
Morabito didn’t answer. An ever so slight tremor began to run through his body.
“Listen, Morabito, I’ll meet you halfway. I can see you’re having trouble. Shall we set aside this idea of a timing device, since, in any case, no trace of one was ever found?”
Morabito nodded, to say yes. Apparently he was unable to utter a word.
“Very well. Nix the timing device. According to Ragusano,” Montalbano continued, “that little sort of pyre created for the purpose was generously doused in gasoline, after which, all it took was one match . . . You must admit, it’s very strange!”
“What’s very strange?”
“That the firebug didn’t catch fire himself! Ha ha! That’s a good one! Ah, so good! You know, like the Lumière brothers’ l’arroseur arrosé, or the doctor who gets a taste of his own medicine!”
And he laughed, stamping his feet on the floor and slapping the desktop loudly.
Morabito stared at him, frightened and bug-eyed. Perhaps he was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t dealing with an imbecile or a raving lunatic. What the hell was the guy talking about?
“Unless . . .”
Sudden change of expression. Brow furrowed, eyes pensive, mouth slightly twisted.
“Unless?” Morabito asked almost breathlessly.
“Unless the firebug wasn’t already on the stairs. He makes the little pile, goes up the stairs, and throws the lighted match, or whatever it was, down from above, since by now he’s beyond the reach of the flames. But in that case . . .”
Suspense. Pause. Squinty facial expression because an idea was taking form in his brain.
“. . . in that case?” Morabito exhaled.
“In that case, to get out of harm’s way, the firebug had no other choice but to enter your apartment. Did you see him?”
“Who?” asked Morabito, completely at a loss.
“The firebug.”
“How on earth—?!”
“Are you sure?”
“If I say—”
Montalbano raised his hand.
“Stop!”
And he started staring at the upper left-hand corner of the room. Then he whispered to himself:
“Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . .”
He looked back down at Morabito:
“Do you know I’m starting to have an idea?”
“An idea . . . of what?”
“That you not only saw the arsonist, but you even recognized him and you don’t want to tell us.”
“Wh-why wouldn’t . . .”
“Because you’re afraid. And you’re afraid because the arsonist was one of the Stellino brothers, the mafiosi who control your neighborhood.”
Morabito stood straight up, staggered, and had to sit back down.
“For heaven’s sake! For the love of God! The Stellinos had nothing to do with this! I swear it!”
“That’s what you say. And since you say it . . . You know what? I’m starting to have another idea.”
Morabito threw up his hands, resigned
.
“Do you have enemies?”
“Enemies, me? No.”
“And yet one would think that somebody wanted to . . . what’s the expression? It’s not coming to me . . . Fazio, help me out.”
“To do him a bad turn?” Fazio offered.
“Yes, that’s it! Or we could even say they wanted to set you up! Don’t you think, Mr. Morabito?”
“I . . . I . . . don’t understand . . .”
“But it’s all so simple! Somebody who wants to harm you sets fire to your store so that the blame will fall on the Stellino brothers.”
“Could be,” said Morabito, grasping at Montalbano’s words.
“Think so? I’m so happy that you agree, you know! Really happy! Because, you see, there’s somebody else who thinks it was arson: Mr. Locascio, the insurance assessor.”
“Well, I’m not surprised! Those people are always looking for excuses not to pay!” said Morabito, a bit revived.
“Locascio, however, doesn’t think it has to do with protection money.”
“No? And what’s he think?”
“You want me to tell you? You really want me to? He thinks it was you yourself who set the fire, so you could collect on the insurance.”
“That goddamn son of a bitch! Why would I need any insurance money? My business is doing great! Go and ask the banks, why don’t you!”
“But my colleague Inspector Di Nardo, who interrogated you, thinks differently.”
“Differently from who?”
“From Locascio, naturally. He firmly believes it was about failure to pay the racket. And that was why he asked us to help out. He wants to pin this fire on the Stellino family, who control the area your store is in. Try to be brave, Mr. Morabito. One word from you, and we can put the Stellinos behind bars!”
“We’re back to the Stellinos? But they’ve got nothing do with this!”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. And anyway, even if they did, one word from me, and they’ll kill me!”
“Especially if they had nothing to do with the fire, as you have repeatedly stated.”
“Listen, Inspector, you keep talking and talking and I don’t understand anything anymore!”
“Are you getting tired? Shall we take a break?”
“Yes.”
“You going to report me?”
“Me, report you? Wh-why would I do that?”
“If I smoke a cigarette, I mean. It’s not allowed in here.”
Morabito shrugged his shoulders.
15
The inspector took his time smoking the cigarette, and since he saw no ashtrays anywhere, he snuffed it out against the heel of one shoe and put the butt in his jacket pocket. After all, he already had a nice hole in it, and one hole more or less wasn’t going to make any difference.
For the whole time of his smoke, nobody said a word. Morabito sat there with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Fazio pretended he was writing down the proceedings. Only after putting out the butt did Montalbano notice.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“I was making notes of the interrogation.”
“What interrogation? We’re having an informal conversation among friends. Otherwise Mr. Morabito would have every right to demand that a lawyer witness the proceedings, and we would have to call one for him. Speaking of which, do you want one?”
“One what?”
“A lawyer.”
“Why would I want a lawyer?”
“You never know. But if you’re so certain about everything that you think you don’t need one, so much the better. Do remember, however, that I made you this offer. Feel a little better now?”
Morabito shrugged again, without even looking at him.
“Then we’ll resume. I believe we came to a full stop—that is, the fact that we have to set aside the Stellinos, at least for this go-round. Do you agree?”
“I agree, I agree.”
“So you’ve always paid your protection money on time?”
Morabito didn’t answer.
“Listen, if you admit paying the racket, the whole matter will remain between the three of us. It’ll never leave this room. But if you deny it, and I later find out that you paid, I might get pissed off. And that would be so much the worse for you, ’cause when I get pissed off . . . well, you tell him, Fazio.”
“You’re better off dead,” Fazio said darkly.
“Got that? So think it over carefully. Let me ask you again. Do you pay your protection money regularly?”
“Y-yes.”
“So you’ve got nothing to worry about, from that angle.”
“Yes.”
“However . . .”
“However?”
“That would no longer be the case if I, say, went and told the Stellino brothers that you had accused them. Don’t you think they would take it badly and immediately come and demand an explanation from you?”
Costantino Morabito leapt so far out of his chair that he nearly fell to the floor.
“B-but wh-why would you go and do something so stupid as that? I thought we agreed that the Stellinos had no part in this!”
“Then start talkin’ and tell me who and what’s got a part in this!” the inspector suddenly yelled, slamming his open hand on the desk and making even Fazio jump.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Morabito yelled in turn.
And he started crying bitterly. All of a sudden. Like a small, frightened child.
Montalbano noticed a packet of paper tissues on the table, pulled one out, and handed it to him. With Morabito’s own handkerchief one could have mopped the floor by this point.
“Mr. Morabito, why are you acting this way? I’m surprised at you! You seem like such a sensible man. Is it my fault? Is it something I said? Fazio, help me out a minute. What did I say?”
“He might’ve got upset ’cause you raised your voice,” said Fazio, poker-faced.
“Ah, I didn’t realize it, I’m so sorry. Sometimes it just happens, I can’t help it.”
Morabito wouldn’t stop crying. Montalbano stood up halfway, leaned towards him, and shouted:
“What’s seven times eight? Six times seven? Eight times six? Answer me quick, for chrissake!”
Morabito, still lost in his tears, was so surprised by the questions that he turned and gawked at the inspector.
“You see? He’s calmed down! I’ve always said it: in moments of crisis, all you gotta do is review your multiplication tables, and it’ll all blow over!”
He sat back down, a satisfied expression on his face.
“Listen, can I get you anything?”
“A little . . . a little water.”
“Let’s get him some water,” the inspector said to Fazio. Then, turning around to Morabito: “We’ll be right back.”
They went out into the corridor.
“One more push and he’ll cave in,” said Montalbano.
“Was it him who set fire to the store?”
“I no longer have any doubt. And he’s scared that the Stellinos will get blamed for it. I almost feel sorry for the guy: He’s like a rat being pursued by two starving cats: the Mafia and the law!”
“But why would he do it?”
“Remember that film I told you about? To hide something that could have really big consequences.”
“Such as?”
“What if he was the one who shot and killed the girl?”
“That’s possible, too. But earlier, you mentioned an empty shell. What if Morabito happened to use a revolver?”
“I’ll ask him straightaway. Go get him his water; we don’t want to leave him any time to think. And don’t forget: Be ready to step in, ’cause I’m about to play my aces.”
Morabito downed the whole glass in one gulp. His throat must have been parched, scorched worse than his store.
“Tell me something. Do you own a firearm?” the inspector resumed.
Morabito, not expecting the sud
den change of subject, gave a start. The effort he had to make to reply was plain to see. Montalbano realized he was on the right track.
“Yes.”
“Rifle? Carbine? Pistol? Revolver?”
“Revolver.”
“Registered?”
“Yes.”
“What caliber?”
“I dunno. But it’s big.”
“Where do you keep it?”
“At home. In the drawer of my nightstand.”
“After we’ve finished here, we’re gonna go to your place.”
“Why?”
“I want to see your revolver.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve got to stop this constantly asking why, why, why.”
Morabito’s sweat had soaked through the front of his shirt.
“You feel hot? Want another Kleenex?”
“Yes.”
“Have you used your revolver recently?” asked Fazio, who had suddenly grasped the inspector’s intentions.
“No. Why should I have used it?”
“How should we know? You’re the one’s supposed to tell us. Anyway, we’ll know immediately whether you fired it recently or not.”
The tissue in Morabito’s hands ripped.
“H-how?”
“There are so many ways. Listen, anybody ever try to rob your place?”
“Well, yes. Every now and then, somebody comes into the store—”
“That’s shoplifting, not robbery.”
“I don’t—”
“I was referring to robbery at your home.”
“N-no.”
“Never?” Montalbano cut in, having taken a break.
“Never.”
“Do you keep a lot of money at home?”
“The day’s receipts, which I deposit at the bank the following day.”
“Why not deposit it in a night safe?”
“Because one night two shop owners were assaulted on the way to making a deposit.”
“So you don’t deposit your Friday and Saturday receipts till Monday morning?”
“R-right.”
“Therefore one can assume that on Saturday evenings there’s always a large sum of money in your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you usually keep the money? Do you have a safe?”
“No, I keep it in a desk drawer.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Who does your housekeeping for you?”
“Well . . . you see . . . since I have a cleaning company come do the store, we made an agreement . . .”
The Wings of the Sphinx Page 15