The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Yes.”

  “Mimì, ‘probably’ never sends a person to prison.”

  “Well, I hate to tell you this, but that’s not Tommaseo’s opinion. I’ve just been given orders to seize Trupia and bring him to the prosecutor in Montelusa. And I am certain, since Tommaseo’s already told me, that the bastard will not be spending tonight in his own bed.”

  “Have a pleasant journey,” said Montalbano.

  And he turned, went back into his office, and sat down.

  “Sorry about that,” he said to Meriam. “Are you up to telling me a little more about Trupia?”

  “I haven’t got much more to add, Inspector.”

  “Then tell me something: Did Lillo Scotto know about Elena and Trupia?”

  “Yes, and he even hung the phone up on him several times. Lillo lived inside a bubble of his own creation and seemed unable to get out of it.”

  “Do you know how he reacted to the news of Elena’s death?”

  “Yes, he called me on the phone but was unable to get a single word out. He was sobbing like a child and ended up passing the phone to his mother. I should call him back to find out how he’s doing.”

  “One last thing. When Lillo Scotto found out he was going to be fired, did he lose any of his self-control?”

  “Actually, Nicola and I were both present when Elena fired him. Lillo turned pale and dashed out of the room. I ran after him. Luckily there were no clients around. He went and shut himself up in the fitting room, where I found him lying on the floor, trembling all over, in the throes of an epileptic fit. That was his initial reaction. But the strange thing is that with Elena he kept on acting as if nothing had happened. He didn’t try in any way to save his job and get Elena to change her mind . . .”

  Montalbano sat there for a moment in silence, thinking about what Meriam had just said.

  Something odd was happening: Whenever a possible culprit emerged who had some cause for conflict with Elena, immediately that same suspect was exonerated as someone incapable of committing violence.

  He didn’t think Trupia killed Elena, in the same way that Meriam didn’t think Lillo did, either. Osman was out of the question.

  And so?

  Maybe they should be looking for someone outside Elena’s daily world.

  This last thought led to his next, rather specific question for Meriam.

  “I’ve learned from Dr. Osman that when they were together, Elena would sometimes get phone calls that left her shaken and upset. When Osman, who was naturally curious, asked her about it, she hadn’t wanted to answer. Nicola told me that on the day she was killed, Elena hadn’t received any personal phone calls. Can you confirm that?”

  “Now that you mention it . . . Of course, there was no way Nicola could have known . . . Before lunch, Elena asked me to accompany her to the bank. She had to make some withdrawals and didn’t want to go alone. When she came back out of the branch office, her cell phone rang, and when she saw who was calling, she stepped away from me. Which she normally never did. She didn’t want me to hear that phone call.”

  “But were you able to hear something anyway?”

  “I just remember her saying: ‘Okay, we’ll talk later.’ Or something similar. But I’m not sure. But maybe she did seem a little upset. Then, after the fitting, she sent us all home. But I don’t think there was any connection between that phone call and her chasing us out.”

  “And what about before that? During all the years you spent working with her, did you ever see her upset after getting a phone call?”

  Meriam closed her eyes and wrinkled her brow, searching her memory.

  Then, weighing each word, she said:

  “I don’t know if I’m being influenced by what happened to Elena and by what you’re asking me, but I remember a kind of situation that was repeated several times over the years but to which I’d never granted any importance until now.”

  She closed her eyes again, as if to concentrate better, then resumed speaking.

  “It would happen every three or four months, almost on schedule, as if prearranged. Around eleven in the morning Elena would get a call and then hastily ask them to call back in the evening. There wouldn’t be any exchange of greetings or friendly remarks. Anyway, after receiving these calls, Elena would seem distracted and nervous for a while. But I wouldn’t say upset. Of that I can assure you.”

  “Therefore should I rule out that those were work-related calls?”

  Meriam opened her eyes wide.

  “I would rule that out completely.”

  “You’ve told me that over the past few months, it was Lillo Scotto who often answered the phone at work. Did Lillo ever call out to Elena and tell her who was on the phone?”

  “Of course, Inspector, but those were work-related calls. Whereas the ones we’re talking about—and I forgot to tell you this, sorry—were always on her cell phone.”

  Montalbano had an idea.

  It was something, yet again, that he should have done long before.

  13

  He picked up the receiver and rang Fazio.

  “Have you got the keys to Elena’s store?”

  “Yeah, Chief.”

  “Did you remember to remove the seals?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then give the keys to Catarella. Oh, and another thing: Summon Lillo Scotto to my office for nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” replied Fazio.

  Montalbano set down the receiver and looked at Meriam without saying anything. The amazing thing was that there was no need to open his mouth, because Meriam did so first:

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Would you feel up to coming with me to Elena’s shop?”

  The woman’s face suddenly changed, assuming an expression bordering on fear, and she quickly replied:

  “No, no, no . . .”

  “I understand perfectly,” Montalbano said, standing up. “I’ll see you again soon.”

  He shook her hand by way of good-bye.

  Meriam tried to justify herself.

  “You must understand, Inspector. For me, going back there . . .”

  “It’s not a problem,” said Montalbano, cutting her off.

  Meriam squeezed his hand, headed for the door, opened it, went out, and closed it behind her.

  The inspector sat there staring at the door.

  Naturally, Meriam would have been of help to him, but he could also manage without her.

  Somebody knocked lightly.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The door opened and Meriam reappeared.

  “I think I can come with you,” she said.

  Without saying a word, Montalbano put on his jacket. When passing Catarella’s station, he asked him for the keys to Elena’s shop.

  “Am I coming in your car?” asked Meriam.

  “No,” said Montalbano. “It’s better for each of us to take his own car, because I think I’m going to stay there a while.”

  There was one parking spot in Via Garibaldi, and Montalbano signaled to her to take it. He drove on a little farther and finally found another spot for himself.

  Backtracking, he caught up with Meriam and together they walked the remaining ten or so steps to Elena’s front door.

  But then Montalbano froze, as still as a statue, to the point that Meriam, who was a step behind him, crashed into his back.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Look,” the inspector said under his breath.

  On the stair before the front door, sitting motionless on its haunches with forelegs perfectly straight like some Egyptian statue, was a white cat.

  “Rinaldo!” Meriam said in astonishment.

  The animal must have escaped from wherever Catarella had put him and had known the way home,
following that mysterious trail of scents that cats leave.

  When Montalbano drew near to him, Rinaldo didn’t shy even one millimeter away. The inspector bent down, stroked his head, and moved him slightly to the side. Then he slipped the key in the lock and had no sooner pushed the door open a crack than the cat vanished fast into the gap. Entering, Montalbano and Meriam saw him already positioned outside the door of the apartment, and when this was opened, Rinaldo was again the first to go in, disappearing who-knew-where.

  What most struck both Meriam and Montalbano was an unbearable smell of rot. As the woman dug through her purse for a handkerchief to put over her nose, the inspector ran into the kitchen and opened the window wide. Forensics had looked inside the garbage pail but hadn’t emptied it.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” said the inspector. “There’s nothing to see here.” As they were descending the stairs, Montalbano asked:

  “Where did Elena keep her computer?”

  “Let me show you,” said the young woman.

  She took three steps and pointed to a small table pushed up against the wall in the hallway with a telephone on it.

  “She had one in the desk in her bedroom, and another, smaller one here, inside this drawer. She also had a strongbox in which she would put money for payments she needed to make, or for receipts from the business.”

  Montalbano made a mental note to have a look at it later.

  When they entered the large workroom their noses were assailed by yet another odor: the sickly-sweet smell of blood. Meriam made another expression of disgust, but luckily didn’t realize what she was smelling. But then she blanched and staggered when she saw the dark stains beside the silhouette outlined on the floor in chalk.

  Montalbano held her up, led her to one of the armchairs, and set her down in it. He sat down in the other.

  He let a little time go by for Meriam to get hold of herself. Then he asked her:

  “Feel like answering a question?”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  “Look carefully around this room, especially the area around the table and the shelves. Do you see anything different from the way you left it?”

  Meriam scanned the room carefully with her eyes and said:

  “There was a large pair of scissors on the table, but nothing else.”

  “Are you sure that piece of cloth wasn’t there?” Montalbano asked.

  “I’d put everything away before leaving.”

  “Would you do me a favor? Could you go and look at that piece of cloth closely without touching it?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know whether it’s a scrap from the fabrics that came in the day before yesterday.”

  The woman stood up and went over to the table, on the side opposite to where the outline of the corpse was. Montalbano came up beside her.

  Meriam looked at the piece of cloth for a few moments and then said:

  “Could I take something off the shelf?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Meriam turned, took the longest route to the stacks of fabric to avoid stepping on the chalk silhouette, and, leaning forward, stuck a hand into one of the shelves, pulled out a bolt, and came back to the table.

  “Here, look. This is the one most like that scrap, but it’s not the same. They’re both blue but very different in tone.”

  Montalbano noticed that the first part of the bolt had been torn.

  “Meriam, why is this fabric ripped?”

  “Signora Elena did that. I told you she was very upset that afternoon and tore up some of the new rolls with her hands. But I can assure you, Inspector, this scrap wasn’t from any of the new orders. I can even add that this piece of fabric is, well, already worn out. In fact, it looks old to me.”

  “Thank you,” said Montalbano. “That’ll be enough for today.”

  Meriam put the bolt back on the shelf, and as soon as she’d laid it down she burst out crying so desperately she could barely stand up.

  Montalbano embraced her and, almost by force, led her out of the room. Holding her by the waist, he had her climb the stairs, guided her into the living room, and sat her down. Running into the kitchen, he poured a glass of water, ran back, and gave it to her. Meriam drank it as if she was dying of thirst.

  “I’ll be okay in a second,” she said.

  “I’m in no hurry,” replied Montalbano, taking the glass.

  When he returned from the kitchen, Meriam was on her feet.

  “If you don’t need me anymore . . .”

  “I’ll see you out,” said Montalbano. “You’ve no idea what a big help you’ve been to me.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “One last thing, Meriam: Where will the funeral be held?”

  “At the Chiesa Matrice, tomorrow morning at eleven.”

  Montalbano followed her with his eyes as she descended the stairs, and stood outside the door to the apartment until he heard the front door close downstairs.

  Then, walking slowly, he made his way back into the big room and sat down in the usual armchair, eyes fixed on the piece of cloth.

  Some questions started to come to mind. Where did that scrap come from, if it wasn’t part of the new deliveries? And the follow-up: Why had it been pulled out and left on the table?

  He stood up, went over to the large table, and opened the two large drawers located under the top. There he found all manner of scissors, needles, threads, shoulder pads, and measuring tapes, but no scraps of fabric.

  Then he went back out into the corridor, stopping at the little table. He opened the drawer. He immediately noticed that the computer was gone, whereas to one side was the small strongbox, which had not been opened. Apparently the killer wasn’t interested in money.

  At that point he heard a sound coming from the apartment, pulling him out of his thoughts. It was a soft, muffled sound, but constant. Then it suddenly stopped, and he distinctly heard a plaintive meow.

  It was surely Rinaldo. But what was he doing?

  Montalbano sprang to his feet and went upstairs into the apartment.

  The cat was outside the closed door to Elena’s bedroom, scratching the wood and complaining.

  He wanted to go inside.

  Montalbano opened the door. Rinaldo scampered quickly across the room, jumped up onto the bed, and remained standing there, as though inviting the inspector to come in.

  Montalbano took a few steps forward, until he was standing in the middle of the room.

  The cat was now looking in another direction.

  The inspector followed the animal’s gaze and his eyes landed on the blue desk. The surface was completely empty.

  He grabbed a chair, sat down, and opened the first drawer on the left. It was full of receipts, payments, notes, invoices, packing slips: all business-related stuff.

  He closed the first drawer and opened the second: the same things, except that these were documents from the previous year, gathered together in so many folders.

  He opened the third and last drawer on the left: more work-related documents. He went over to the right side. The first and uppermost drawer contained an assortment, this time, of personal documents: expired passports, ID cards, health-care cards, old checkbooks, bank withdrawal slips, and so on.

  He closed it and opened the second. He rummaged a bit through the papers, these ones also personal. Postcards, letters, a few photos, and above all two large envelopes shut with rubber bands. He opened them and found a sort of detailed documentation of Elena and Osman’s love affair. Feeling almost ashamed, Montalbano cast a quick, superficial glance at it all, as if he had no right to pry into the private life, not so much of the victim—since he would have only been doing his duty—but of Dr. Osman.

  He opened the third and last drawer.

  It was completely empty. No computer here,
either.

  He then pulled the drawer entirely out of the desk, slid the chair back a bit, and rested the drawer on his lap.

  Elena had covered the bottom with a piece of wrapping paper. He lifted this. Underneath he found only a tiny triangle of thick paper. He picked this up and looked at it closely. It was clearly photographic paper. But he couldn’t quite make out the image. Looking harder, he became convinced that what he was seeing was a child’s shoe with its little foot inside. He put it back in its place, laid the paper back on top, slipped the drawer back into its slot, and sat there thinking.

  He came to a conclusion, but one which had nothing to support it. Namely, that that same drawer had also contained personal papers and photos of Elena’s, which, if he was right, had been taken away by the killer.

  He was about to stand up when Rinaldo suddenly leapt into his lap, as if to tell him it was too early for him to leave that spot.

  And so Montalbano picked up the cat and set him down on the desktop, then crouched back down and pulled the empty drawer entirely out again. He stood up, knelt down, and looked deep inside the hollow left behind by the drawer. Way down at the bottom there was something whitish.

  He bent farther down, reached out with one arm, felt around, grabbed the piece of paper with two fingers, and pulled it out. The small scrap was rolled up from the opening and closing of the drawer. It looked like part of a letter. There were a few words written on it: The fever is gone now. The pediatrician says that . . .

  It was clearly a woman’s handwriting.

  He stuck the piece of paper into his jacket pocket, then put everything back in place and sat down to think.

  How could there not be any trace of Elena’s prior life anywhere in that apartment? He had to keep searching.

  He stood up and went over and opened the big armoire. It was stuffed full of clothes. Beneath them, however, were six large drawers. He opened them one by one. All he found in them was intimate apparel, stockings, socks, camisoles. Nothing else.

  A strange sort of frenzy came over him. He grabbed a chair, pushed it up against the armoire, climbed onto it, and felt around on top of the armoire, but his fingers encountered only dust.