The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  Then he heard her voice again.

  “Listen, Salvo, I really wouldn’t have thought you could ever be so stupid as to—”

  “Wait a second, Livia. I meant it.”

  From the tone of his voice she could tell he meant it.

  “Oh, my God! So it’s true?”

  “Unfortunately, all too true. She was found murdered in her shop.”

  He heard Livia start crying.

  “I’m so sorry, Livia. I’ll call you back this evening,” said Montalbano.

  And now came the hardest part. The bird of ill omen had to perform its task again. But maybe its flight could be made a little gentler. So he rang Meriam.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “So-so. Do you want me to go to Teresa’s?”

  “Yes. But I’m told she has children. Are they still small? Do they go to school?”

  “Yes, she takes them there herself every morning.”

  “Then she goes to work?”

  “Yes. But she works out of her home.”

  “How would you feel if we went there around nine o’clock?”

  “That’s fine,” said Meriam. “If you like, I can come to you at the station. I don’t think I can stand to wait here at home any longer.”

  “All right.”

  * * *

  The last thing he expected was to see Mimì Augello appear before him.

  “Weren’t you dying from lack of sleep? What happened? Did it pass?”

  “Yeah, it passed.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Two reasons. First of all because I realized that if you throw yourself whole hog into this investigation, dragging Fazio along behind you, it means I’m left alone, like an idiot, to handle the inevitable landings at the port every night. Is that fair?”

  “No, Mimì, it’s not fair. But does it seem fair to you to kill a defenseless woman with a pair of scissors?”

  “No. And that’s the second reason, which we’ll get to in a minute.”

  “Then tell me now how we should resolve this situation.”

  “Call the commissioner and tell him we simply cannot work this way any longer. It’s impossible.”

  Montalbano thought this was a good idea.

  He picked up the receiver and said to Catarella:

  “Get me Hizzoner the C’mishner, Cat, and put him through as soon as you’ve got him on the line.”

  The call came through at once.

  The commissioner normally went to his office early in the morning, and this was a good time of day to catch him still in a conciliatory mood towards the outside world. Montalbano turned on the speakerphone.

  The commissioner’s first question was:

  “Montalbano, how are you?”

  “Well, thank you, and yourself?”

  “I can’t complain. I’ve just been told about last night’s murder.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, sir. I don’t think it’s going to be an easy case. As you were probably informed, initial tests seem to show that the killer left no trace of himself whatsoever. Inspector Fazio and I are going to have our hands full with this investigation.”

  “And so?” asked the commissioner.

  “And so that leaves Inspector Augello alone to deal with the migrant landings. You do realize that, if the situation before was intolerable, then now . . . In theory, Augello’s supposed to be present every night at the docks for the disembarkations, and then be at the office again the following day.”

  “And so?” the commissioner asked again.

  “And so I’m calling you to ask if we can be relieved of that particular duty.”

  “It’s not possible,” the commissioner said decisively.

  “But, Mr. Commissioner, Augello is a human being, not a robot . . .”

  “Just do as Sileci does, Montalbano.”

  “And what does Sileci do?”

  “He’s been relieved of his daytime duties. Submit a request to me concerning Augello, and I’ll sign it.”

  “Thank you, sir. Have a good day.”

  “You’re welcome, Inspector. I’ll be hearing from you, then,” said the commissioner, hanging up.

  Mimì seemed to have his knickers in a knot.

  “So, what am I, anyway? Some kind of night watchman? And, besides, I can’t help it, but I’m simply unable to sleep during the day. It’s just the way I am.”

  “Mimì, what can I say? It just means you won’t sleep either in the day or at night.”

  “You’re just a son of a bitch. You know what I say? That, starting this evening, if you want to tell me anything, you can find me after midnight on the dock,” said Mimì, after which he got up and headed for the door.

  Montalbano stopped him.

  “Wait, before you go, tell me what was the second reason you couldn’t fall asleep.”

  “I was thinking about Elena’s murder. She was a woman who had a gift for being liked by everyone. She’d given work to so many people in town. She wasn’t a home-wrecker, didn’t make married women jealous, or bust anyone’s chops. And yet, it’s also clear that this was a crime of passion. And I, if you don’t mind, am the person in the best position to judge how these sorts of things go. I know more about these kinds of love affairs than anyone. Of course, that’s all over for me. So I guess I’ll go and be a night watchman. Good-bye.”

  Montalbano didn’t stop him this time.

  Mimì opened the door and went out into the hallway.

  Less than two minutes later, the door opened again and Mimì reappeared, arm linked with a man the inspector didn’t know.

  “It is my honor to introduce to you the illustrious Salvo Montalbano,” said Augello. “Inspector, this is my dear friend Diego Trupia.”

  But Diego Trupia didn’t smile. He just stood in the doorway without moving.

  Augello let go of the man’s arm and looked at him.

  “But what are you doing here, anyway, Diego?”

  Trupia, a tall man with all his hair and sporting a short, well-groomed beard, looked about forty, perhaps less. Dressed like a young person and clearly in excellent physical condition, he replied in a faint voice.

  “I need to speak to the inspector.”

  “Why on earth, Decù? What happened? Did you kill someone?”

  “No, I didn’t. But someone killed my Elena.”

  9

  Upon hearing these words, Augello sidestepped like a horse. Then he sort of whinnied and looked at his friend with saucer eyes:

  “What do you mean, your Elena?” he asked.

  “I mean just that.”

  Montalbano immediately realized that Trupia had no desire to talk in front of Augello. And so he said:

  “Mimì, do me a favor and let me speak with Signor Trupia alone.”

  Augello cast a scornful glance at Trupia and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Trupia sat down. He looked neither nervous nor afraid. He probably felt terribly uneasy, and in fact he looked Montalbano in the eye and said:

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Then I’ll begin,” said the inspector. “How did you learn what happened?”

  “Inspector, I live alone and am in the habit of having my breakfast in a bar next door, and when I was there this morning I heard two people saying that Elena had been murdered. I very nearly fainted. Then, after mustering up the courage, I raced over to Via Garibaldi and saw the seals outside her door. So I raced back home. I needed to be alone for a while, to think, to figure out the best way to . . .”

  He stopped, unable to continue.

  “To come here and tell us your situation?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you and Elena were a couple?”

  “Yes.”

>   “Since when?”

  “A little less than two years. It wasn’t something that was out in the open, but I figured it was best if I came here on my own, since sooner or later my name would have turned up.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “I want to declare straightaway that I did not kill Elena.”

  “Did the people in the bar say how she was killed?”

  “No.”

  “Stabbed to death with a pair of scissors.”

  Trupia gave a start. He made a pained, troubled face, then brought a hand to his mouth but said nothing.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” asked Montalbano.

  “Three days ago, Inspector. I didn’t hear from her or see her after that,” replied the man, trying to regain his composure.

  “Why not?”

  “We’d had a quarrel.”

  “What about?”

  “I asked her to marry me.”

  “And Elena said no?”

  “Not only. She was very angry, and felt offended. And she said that if I kept insisting, our relationship would end right then and there.”

  “Did she give you any explanation for refusing?”

  “No, she only said she’d been married once and that was enough for her.”

  “So when you said that your affair was not out in the open, did you mean that Elena wanted to keep it a secret?”

  “No, actually, I myself had no problem with the arrangement. When I first met her I wasn’t with anyone else, and she wasn’t, either, or at least I hope she wasn’t. We enjoyed spending time together, and we always made sure that our encounters were something special. We were both worried about falling into a routine and taking things for granted.”

  “So then why did you ask her to marry you?” queried Montalbano, who knew that kind of fear well.

  “Now, this will sound ridiculous, but at first I didn’t want to get married. Lately, though, on several occasions, I sort of sensed that our fleeting nighttime encounters were no longer enough for Elena. I felt that she needed, well, a constant, committed presence, a sense of protection, reassurance. She was an extremely generous woman who never asked anyone for anything; she was always ready to give freely without expecting anything in return. But she was tired. I sensed that she could no longer bear the burden of life all alone, and so it seemed right to me to ask her to share this burden. Believe me, my marriage proposal came from what I perceived to be a need of hers, and not from any desire of my own to settle down.”

  “Perhaps you were wrong, considering Elena’s refusal.”

  “Inspector, I don’t want to seem presumptuous, but I believe her refusal was prompted by her inability to open herself up entirely. That was why she threw me out of her house so brusquely, and that was why I made a point of not calling her on the phone. But I don’t think I could have held out much longer. Already this morning when I woke up, she was very much on my mind. But never would I have imagined that that thought was so strong because she was dead.”

  Montalbano liked the way this man reasoned.

  At first he looked a bit like a gussied-up rich kid, but in fact he had a heart and a brain, and both seemed to work well.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I have a small publishing house. My grandfather left me a lot of money, and I’d just finished university with a degree in literature. I could have traveled round the world, and in fact I could have lived on that inheritance without ever having to work, but instead I put into practice what my grandfather had taught me: share everything with everyone. So, since he’d been a tremendous reader, and I a great admirer of contemporary literature, I decided to make books. A limited number, of very high quality, and fine editions. It’s not as if they bring in much money, but my hope is that they’ll give pleasure to those who buy them.”

  Montalbano’s esteem of Trupia rose vertiginously. But there was still one gray area:

  “I’m sorry, but how is it you’re friends with Augello?”

  “I feel like I’ve known Mimì all my life. Just think, he even helped me distribute my first publications among the relatively limited number of Sicilian bookshops.”

  “To get back to the subject,” said Montalbano, “unfortunately, I have to ask you a routine question.”

  “You want to know where I was last night?” Trupia cut in.

  “Yes, please tell me.”

  “It’s a bit of a problem. Yesterday evening I went to eat at my usual restaurant. It was probably around nine. I came out at ten-thirty and went home to watch TV. Were you able to determine at what time Elena was murdered?”

  Up to this point, the man had been cool and calm, but when he pronounced Elena’s name, tears welled up in his eyes.

  Montalbano got up, went to get some water, filled up the glass, handed it to him, and said: “No later than midnight.”

  Trupia drank the water. Setting the glass down, he threw up his hands.

  “Then I have no alibi,” he said.

  The telephone rang.

  “Chief, Chief, the signura Marianna Ucrìa’d a happen a be—”

  “All right, show her in.”

  “Chief, I can’t show ’er in t’yiz insomuch as she in’t onna premisses but onna line.”

  “Then put her on.”

  Montalbano turned to Trupia, excusing himself for the interruption.

  Then he heard Meriam’s voice.

  “Inspector, I just got a call from Stefano, Teresa’s husband, asking me to come immediately to his house because he needs help.”

  “Why, what happened?” Montalbano asked in alarm.

  “Teresa went to the market after driving the kids to school and found out everything . . .”

  Montalbano felt very bad that Teresa had learned of her sister-in-law’s death in such a fashion, but, deep down, he thanked fate for having spared him just this once the need to play the bird of ill omen.

  “When do you think I could see her?”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I get to their place.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait for your call.”

  Montalbano set down the receiver and said:

  “Back to us. Had Elena been particularly agitated lately?”

  “No. But as I said, I didn’t see her during her last three days. But up to that point she’d seemed normal, the way she always was.”

  “Do you know whether she’d quarreled with anyone or had some unpleasant disagreement?”

  “To my knowledge, no. Elena was extremely reserved, Inspector. Did you ever get a chance to meet her?”

  “Yes. I think I was her very last customer,” said Montalbano.

  “Then you probably noticed that she was very sociable and immediately friendly. But, in spite of this apparent openness, she was quite discreet and had trouble forming intimate relationships. She never really confided even in me.”

  “Strange. I had the opposite impression.”

  “It was probably just a façade. The apparent sociability was her way of protecting her real nature, which was solitary and bashful.”

  “I’ve been told she had a close relationship with her sister-in-law, Teresa. Do you know her?”

  “Yes, I do, I saw her a number of times at dinner parties with other friends, but I don’t think Teresa knew about my relationship with Elena.”

  “Could you tell me the names of these friends of Elena?”

  “Of course, Inspector. I don’t think they’ll know any more than me, but I can give you some names.”

  “Did Elena ever talk to you about her marriage? Her family? Or her husband’s death?”

  “Would you believe I only learned about her husband a few months ago?”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Very little. She said they were two young fashion designers
in the Veneto, if I recall. Who met at the Accademia della Moda, got married almost immediately, and then the husband died shortly thereafter. Maybe an illness. I didn’t have the courage to ask her, Inspector. She already seemed rather shaken for having told me the little she did.”

  “Thank you,” said Montalbano. “For me, that’s enough for now.”

  He stood up, went over to the door, said something, then sat back down.

  Fazio immediately appeared.

  “Signor Trupia, please go with Inspector Fazio, who will take down everything you have just said. And give him also the names and addresses of Elena’s friends, and tell him how and when you met her. Also, I would like you please to remain reachable at any moment, and therefore not to leave Vigàta for any reason.”

  He held out his hand; Trupia shook it and then turned and followed Fazio.

  The moment the door closed, the inspector felt overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of weariness.

  A dark, dense cloud descended inside his head, which he laid down on his folded arms on the desk.

  Closing his eyes, he began to slip slowly into a kind of tube stuffed full of jet-black cotton. Soon all movement ceased. He’d sunk into the Great Nothing . . .

  Then, out of the silence of that Nothing, faint echoes began to reach his ears, first distant, then closer and closer, human sounds that little by little became fragments of words.

  “. . . ief . . . ief! . . . ’oo? . . . Jesus! . . . alp! . . . ief . . . ief . . . wha’ss goin’ on?”

  Montalbano realized that someone was violently shaking his shoulders. Finally, after repeated shakes, he managed with effort to resurface from the darkness.

  One shake even more violent than the others made him strike his head on the wooden desktop.

  He cursed the saints, opened his eyes, sat up, and saw Catarella standing beside him, pale and terrified.

  “Cool it, Cat!” he managed to say.

  “So you’s alive! My Gah! Whatta scare! My legs is all tremmlin’. I tought you was dead, Chief!”

  “What the hell is going on?” said Montalbano. “All I did was doze off, Cat. What happened? What did you want?”

  “Well, insomuch as the signura Marianna Ucrìa called onna tiliphone line ann’en I called yiz an’ ya din’t anser, I tol’ Signura Ucrìa to call later. So I came to yer premisses an’ when ya din’t anser me, I started shakin’ yiz all over an’ ya still wou’n’t anser. Jesus, I’s so scared!”