Patience of the Spider

by Andrea Camilleri

  “I speak on behalf of my client, Engineer Antonio Peruzzo, who finds himself forced to emerge from his dutiful silence to stem the rising tide of lies and iniquities that have been un-leashed against him. Mr. Peruzzo wants everyone to know that, being well aware of the difficult economic conditions of the Mistretta family, he put himself at the full disposal of Susanna Mistretta’s abductors the day after her kidnapping. Unfortunately, however, and inexplicably, Mr. Peruzzo’s readiness to cooperate has not been returned in kind by the kidnappers.

  This being the case, Mr. Peruzzo can only reaffirm the commitment he has already made, not only with the abductors, but with his own conscience.”

  Everyone gathered at the bar burst out laughing, drowning out the statement that followed.

  “If the engineer’s made a commitment with his conscience, the girl’s screwed!” one of them shouted, saying what everyone was thinking.

  Things were so bad that if Peruzzo himself went on TV

  to announce to everyone that he had decided to pay the ransom, everyone would think he was paying with counterfeit bills.

  The inspector went back to the office and rang Minutolo.

  “The judge just called and said he’d also seen the lawyer’s statement. He wants me to go see Luna and get some clarifi-cations. What you might call an informal visit. And respectful.

  In short, we need to put on kid gloves. I’ve already phoned Luna, who knows me. He said he’s available. Does he know you?”

  “Dunno. He knows who I am.”

  “You want to come, too?”

  “Sure. Give me the address.”

  o o o

  Minutolo was waiting for him at the front door. He’d come in his own car, like Montalbano. A wise precaution, since many of Luna’s clients would probably have a heart attack if they saw a police car parked in front of their lawyer’s place. The house was heavily and luxuriously furnished. A housekeeper dressed like a housekeeper showed them into the same study they’d seen on television. She gestured for them to make themselves comfortable.

  “Mr. Luna will be right with you.”

  Minutolo and Montalbano sat down in two armchairs in a sort of sitting room that had been set up in a corner. They nearly disappeared inside their respective, enormous easy chairs, custom-made for elephants and Mr. Luna. The wall behind the desk was entirely covered by photographs of vary-ing size, all duly framed. There must have been at least fifty.

  They looked like ex-votos hung to commemorate and thank some miracle-working saint. The lighting in the room made it impossible to tell who the people in the photos were. Maybe they were clients saved from the nation’s prisons by that blend of oratory, cunning, corruption, and survival instinct that was Mr. Luna. Given, however, that the host was late in arriving, the inspector couldn’t resist, and he got up and went over to look at the photos. They were all of politicians: senators, deputies of the chamber, ministers, former or current undersecretaries. All signed and dedicated to the “dear” or “dearest” Mr. Luna. Montalbano sat back down. He now understood why the commissioner had advised them to proceed with caution.

  “My dear friends!” said the lawyer upon entering the room. “Please don’t get up! Can I get you anything? I have whatever you want.”

  “No, thank you,” said Minutolo.

  “Yes, please, I’d like a daiquiri,” said Montalbano.

  The lawyer gave him a befuddled look.

  “Actually, I don’t—”

  “Never mind,” the inspector conceded, gesturing as if brushing away a fly.

  As the lawyer was easing himself onto the sofa, Minutolo shot a dirty look at Montalbano, as if to tell him to stop clown-ing around.

  “So, shall I speak first, or do you want to ask questions?”

  “You speak first,” said Minutolo.

  “All right if I take notes?” asked Montalbano, sticking his hand in his jacket pocket, which contained nothing whatsoever.

  “No! Why do you need to do that?” Luna burst out.

  Minutolo’s eyes implored Montalbano to stop making trouble.

  “Okay, okay,” said the inspector, conciliatory.

  “Where were we?” asked the lawyer, confused.

  “We hadn’t started yet,” said Montalbano.

  Luna surely noticed the mockery, but pretended not to.

  Montalbano understood that the lawyer understood, and so decided to knock it off.

  “Oh, yes. Well, around ten a.m. on the day after the abduction, my client received an anonymous phone call.”

  “When?!” Minutolo and Montalbano asked in unison.

  “Around ten a.m. on the day after the abduction.”

  “You mean barely fourteen hours after?” asked Minutolo, still bewildered.

  “Exactly,” the lawyer continued. “A man’s voice informed him that, since the abductors were aware that the Mistrettas were not in a position to pay the ransom, for all intents and purposes they considered him the only person who could satisfy their demands. They said they would call back at three in the afternoon. My client . . .” (Every time he said “my client” he made the kind of face a nurse might make when wiping the sweat off her moribund patient’s forehead) “. . . rushed here to see me. We quickly came to the conclusion that my client had been skillfully cornered. And that the kidnappers were holding all the cards. If they wanted to drag him into this, there wasn’t much we could do about it. Shirking his responsibility to the girl would gravely damage his reputation, which had already been harmed by a few unpleasant episodes. And it might ir-reparably compromise his political ambitions. Which I think has already happened, unfortunately. He was supposed to be on the ticket in the next elections, in a district where he would have been a shoo-in.” “No point in asking with what party,” said Montalbano, looking up at a photo of Berlusconi in a jogging outfit.

  “Yes, no point indeed,” the lawyer said sternly, then continued. “I gave him some suggestions. The kidnappers called back at three. When asked, at my suggestion, for proof that the girl was alive, they replied that this would soon be broadcast on TeleVigàta. Which in fact is exactly what happened. They asked for six billion lire. They wanted my client to buy a new cell phone and go immediately to Palermo, without telling anyone, except his bankers. One hour later they called back for the cell phone number. My client had no choice but to obey, and withdrew the six billion in record time. On the evening of the following day, they called again, and he told them he was ready to pay. But since then, inexplicably, he has received no further instruction, as I said on TV.” “Why didn’t Peruzzo authorize you to make that statement any earlier than this evening?”

  “Because the kidnappers had warned him against any such action. He was not to grant any interviews or make any statement at all, but to disappear for a few days.”

  “And did they withdraw the warning?”

  “No. My client decided to take the initiative himself, which is extremely risky .. . But he can’t stand it any longer . . . especially after that cowardly attack on his wife, and after his trucks were torched.” “Do you know where Peruzzo is now?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know his cell phone number—the new one?”

  “No.”

  “How do you stay in touch?”

  “He calls me. From a public phone.”

  “Does he have email?”

  “Yes, but he left his computer at home. That’s what they told him to do, and he has obeyed.”

  “In short, are you telling us that any freeze of his assets would be useless at this point, since Peruzzo’s already got the ransom money on him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think he’ll phone you the moment he knows where and when he’s supposed to deliver the ransom?”

  “What for?”

  “Are you aware that if he did, you would be legally obligated to inform us at once?”

  “Of course I am. And I’m ready to do as required. Except that my client won’t be calling me, or at l
east not until it’s all been taken care of.”

  Minutolo had asked all the questions. This time Montalbano decided to speak.

  “What size?”

  “I don’t understand,” said the lawyer.

  “What size bills did they want?”

  “Ah, yes. Five-hundred euros.”

  Strange. Big bills. Easier to carry around, but much harder to spend.

  “Do you know if your client . . .” (the lawyer made the nurse-face) “. . . managed to write down the serial numbers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The lawyer looked at his gold Rolex and grimaced.

  “And there you have it,” he said, standing up.

  o o o

  They stopped to chat a moment outside the lawyer’s house.

  “Poor Peruzzo,” the inspector said by way of comment.

  “He tried to cover his ass immediately. He’d pinned his hopes on a quick kidnapping, so people wouldn’t find out, whereas—”

  “That’s one thing that has me worried,” said Minutolo.

  And he began to clarify: “From what the lawyer said, if the kidnappers immediately contacted Peruzzo—”

  “—almost twelve hours before they made their first phone contact with us,” Montalbano cut in, “then they played us like puppets at the puppet theater. Because those guys were playact-ing with us. They knew from the very first moment whom they wanted to force to pay the ransom. They’ve made the two of us waste a lot of time, and they’ve made Fazio lose sleep.

  They’re smart. In the final analysis, the messages they sent to the Mistretta home were scenes from an old script, more than anything else. They showed us what we wanted to see, told us what we expected to hear.” “Based on what the lawyer said,” Minutolo resumed, “the kidnappers theoretically had the situation under control less than twenty-four hours after the abduction. One call to Peruzzo, and he would turn over the money. Except that they never got back to him. Why? Had they run into trouble?

  Maybe the men we have out scouring the countryside are hampering their freedom of movement? Maybe we should let up a little?”

  “What are you afraid of, exactly?”

  “That if those guys feel threatened, they’ll do something stupid.”

  “You’re forgetting one basic thing.”

  “What?”

  “That the kidnappers have remained in contact with the television stations.”

  “So why won’t they get in touch with Peruzzo?”

  “Because they want him to stew in his own juices first,” said the inspector.

  “But the more time passes, the greater their risk!”

  “They’re well aware of that. And I think they also know they’ve played out the string as far as it’ll go. I’m convinced it’s only a matter of hours before Susanna goes home.” Minutolo looked befuddled.

  “What! This morning you didn’t seem at all—”

  “This morning the lawyer hadn’t yet spoken on television and hadn’t yet used an adverb he repeated when speaking to us. He was shrewd. He indirectly told the kidnappers to stop playing games.” “Excuse me,” said Minutolo, completely confused, “but what adverb did he use?”

  “Inexplicably.”

  “And what does it mean?”

  “It means that he, the lawyer, knew the explanation perfectly well.”

  “I haven’t understood a goddamned thing.”

  “Forget it. What are you going to do now?”

  “Report to the judge.”

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  13

  Livia wasn’t at home. The table was set for two people, and beside her plate was a note.

  I’ve gone to the movies with my friend. Wait for me to eat dinner.

  He went and took a shower, then sat down in front of the television. The Free Channel was showing a debate on Susanna’s abduction, with Nicolò as moderator. Taking part in the discussion were a monsignor, three lawyers, a retired judge, and a journalist. Half an hour into the program, the debate openly turned into a kind of trial of Antonio Peruzzo.

  Or, more than a trial, an out-and-out lynching. When all was said and done, nobody believed what Luna the lawyer had said. None of those present seemed convinced by the story that Peruzzo had the money ready and was only waiting to hear from the suddenly silent kidnappers. Logically speaking, it was in their interest to get their hands on the money as quickly as possible, free the girl, and disappear. The more time they wasted, the greater the risk. And so? It seemed natural to think that the person responsible for the delay in Susanna’s liberation was none other than Peruzzo himself, who—as the monsignor insinuated—was dragging things out trying to extract some miserable little discount on the ransom. The way he was acting, would he get any discount when he appeared before God on Judgment Day? In conclusion, it seemed clear that, once the girl was freed, a change of scene was Peruzzo’s only option.

  Talk about political ambitions gone up in smoke! He wasn’t even welcome anymore in Montelusa, Vigàta, or environs.

  o o o

  This time the clack at three twenty-seven and forty seconds woke him up. He realized his brain was clear and functioning perfectly, and took advantage of this to review the entire kidnapping case, starting from Catarella’s first phone call. He stopped thinking around five-thirty, when he suddenly began to feel sleepy. As he was sinking into unconsciousness, the telephone rang and, luckily, Livia didn’t hear it. The clock said five forty-seven. It was Fazio, who was very excited.

  “Susanna’s been freed.”

  “Oh, really? How is she?”

  “Fine.”

  “See you later,” Montalbano concluded.

  And he went back to bed.

  He told Livia the news the moment she began to move in bed, showing the first signs of waking up. She leapt out of bed and onto her feet, as if she’d seen a spider between the sheets.

  “When did you find out?”

  “Fazio called. It was around six.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

  “Was I supposed to wake you up?”

  “Yes. You know how anxiously I’ve been following this whole ordeal. You let me keep sleeping on purpose!”

  “If that’s the way you want to see it, fine, I admit my guilt, end of subject. Now calm down.”

  But Livia felt like making trouble. She eyed him with disdain.

  “And I don’t understand how you can lie there in bed, instead of going to see Minutolo to get more information, to find out—”

  “To find out what? If you want more information, turn on the TV.”

  “Sometimes your indifference drives me crazy!” She went and turned on the television. Montalbano, for his part, locked himself in the bathroom and took his time.

  Obviously to get on his nerves, Livia kept the volume high. As he was drinking his coffee in the kitchen, he could hear angry voices, sirens, screeching tires. He could barely hear the telephone when it rang. He went into the dining room. Everything was vibrating from the infernal noise emanating from the set.

  “Livia, would you please turn that down?” Muttering to herself, Livia obeyed. The inspector picked up the receiver.

  “Montalbano? What’s wrong, aren’t you coming?” It was Minutolo.

  “What for?”

  Minutolo seemed stunned.

  “Er . . . I dunno . . . I thought you’d be pleased . . .”

  “Anyway, I have the impression you’re under siege.”

  “That’s true. There are dozens of journalists, photographers, and cameramen outside the gate . . . I had to call in reinforcements. The judge and the commissioner should be here soon. It’s a mess.” “How’s Susanna doing?”

  “A bit the worse for wear, but basically all right. Her uncle examined her and found her in good physical condition.”

  “How was she treated?”

  “She said they never once made a violent gesture. On the contrary.”

  “How many were there?”
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  “She saw only two hooded men. Obviously peasants.”

  “How did they release her?”

  “She said that last night, when she was sleeping, they woke her up, made her put on a hood, tied her hands behind her back, took her out of the vat, and made her get in the trunk of a car. They drove for over two hours, she said. Then the car stopped. They made her get out, had her walk for half an hour, then loosened the knots around her wrists and made her sit down. Then they left.” “And they never spoke to her at any point during all this?”

  “Never. It took her a while to free her hands and remove the hood. It was pitch-black outside. She hadn’t the slightest idea where she was, but she didn’t lose heart. She managed to get her bearings and headed in the direction of Vigàta. At some point she realized she was near La Cucca, you know, that village—” “Yeah, I know. Go on.”

  “It’s a little over two miles from her villa. She walked the distance, arrived at the gate, rang the bell, and Fazio went and let her in.”

  “All according to script, in other words.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they keep enacting the same drama that we’ve become accustomed to seeing. A sham performance. The real show they put on for one spectator alone, Antonio Peruzzo, and they asked him to join in. Then there was a third show aimed at the general public. How was Peruzzo? Did he play his part well?” “Frankly, Montalbano, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “Have you succeeded in getting in touch with Peruzzo?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “The judge is going to hear Susanna’s story, then this afternoon there’ll be a press conference. Aren’t you going to come?”

  “Not even if you put a gun to my head.”

  o o o

  He was barely in the doorway to his office when the phone rang.

  “Chief? There’s some jinnelman onna line says he’s the moon. So, tinkin he’s makin some kinda joke, I says I’m the sun. He got pissed off. I tink he’s insane.”

  “Put him on.”

  What did the devoted nurse want from him?

  “Inspector Montalbano? Good morning. This is Francesco Luna, the lawyer.”