The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

“How’s it going?” he asked the crab staring at him from under the rock.

  The crab seemed not to appreciate the question. Not only did it not reply, it disappeared underwater.

  Montalbano felt as if he’d drunk an extra glass of wine.

  Knowing he was just a few steps away from solving the case made his blood flow faster than usual through his veins. He observed that if the murderess hadn’t made the biggest mistake of her life—that is, forgetting on the table the scrap of scarf she’d used to clean the scissors—the investigation would still be lost at sea.

  That scarf was the key to everything.

  But if it had also been the motive for the murder, this meant that the unknown woman—or rather, the woman named Nevia Sirch—had had something to do with the death of Franco Guida.

  This second hypothesis had yet to be verified.

  He therefore had no choice but to take the route he’d already told Fazio he would take: to go to Friuli and talk to Nevia.

  He didn’t feel one bit pleased about this choice; but it was his duty to make it.

  He decided to smoke a second cigarette. It was a nice day, and he filled his lungs with sea air thinking—and already feeling melancholy about it—that where he was going there wasn’t so much as a hint of sea air.

  He started telling himself that if he ran into even the slightest wisp of fog he would be lost. The two or three times in his life that he’d found himself inside a fog bank he’d actually gone into a panic, feeling as if he was the only survivor left on the face of the earth.

  A short while later, he sighed long and deep, stood up, and headed back to the office.

  “I’ve got all the schedules, Chief,” said Fazio. “As I said, there’s a morning flight, at ten, from Trapani to Trieste, and then the same plane flies back to Trapani in the afternoon.”

  “Do you know how long it takes to drive from Trieste to Bellosguardo?”

  “About two hours, Chief, if there’s no fog.”

  The mere mention of the word “fog” elicited a long sigh from Montalbano.

  “So I’m going to have to rent a car at the Trieste airport?” he asked dejectedly.

  “Of course,” said Fazio.

  Montalbano imagined the scene: him inside a car that stank of car deodorant, lost, with no chance of finding his way, in a secluded mountain pass, maybe even the same one where they’d found Őtzi, the iceman.

  “With a driver,” said the inspector.

  “What?”

  “The car. I want a driver for it. I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket, if I have to.”

  “I’ll arrange everything,” said Fazio. “I’ll call some of our colleagues in Trapani. When do you want to leave?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll go to the commissioner’s right now and explain everything. See you back here in about two hours.”

  * * *

  “Please be brief,” Bonetti-Alderighi said brusquely. “I haven’t got much time.”

  “I’ll be telegraphic,” said Montalbano. “Found likely killer Elena Biasini. Stop. Request authoriz—”

  “Knock it off, Montalbano,” the commissioner snapped, as though bitten by a viper. “This is no time for jokes.”

  “But I wasn’t joking, sir. I really didn’t want to waste any of your time . . .”

  “Stop being a wise guy and tell me everything in full detail.”

  And so the inspector began telling the whole story.

  The commissioner sat there without interrupting him even once. When Montalbano had finished, Bonetti said:

  “Now go and report all that to the prosecutor.”

  “No,” said Montalbano, “I don’t think it’s time for that yet.”

  “What do you intend to do, then?”

  “I would like authorization to go and talk personally with the suspect in the province of Udine. In the fog.”

  “Eh?” said the commissioner, not understanding. “What’s this about fog?”

  “Er, nothing, sir. I was speaking metaphorically.”

  The commissioner thought about this for a moment, to the point that Montalbano felt he had to prod him a little.

  “Is there some problem with that?”

  “My good man, the whole thing is starting to look like a violation of territorial jurisdiction. If I don’t have in hand a written and confirmed request based on some minimum of evidence, I can’t ask for a reimbursement of your expenses for travel, accommodation, car rental . . .”

  “Tell you what,” said the inspector. “I’ll pay for everything myself, and that’ll be that.”

  “I cannot allow you to do that,” the commissioner said firmly.

  “Then I request two days’ leave,” the inspector replied with equal firmness.

  “I’ll grant you your two days, Montalbano. But you should proceed very carefully. If you need to make an arrest, you’ll have to call the local authorities into action to do it for you.”

  “All right,” said the inspector.

  * * *

  “I’ve done everything,” said Fazio. “The people in Trapani already have your reservations. If you give me the authorization from the prosecutor’s office, I’ll pass that on to them right away.”

  “No, Fazio. There’s no authorization. I’m going for my own amusement. I just suddenly felt like having a coffee in the central piazza of Bellosguardo.”

  “So should I buy you the ticket?”

  “Right you are, Fazio. Just one way. ’Cause I might find a good trattoria there and decide to move to Bellosguardo.”

  “Okay. Gallo’ll come and pick you up tomorrow morning at seven-thirty.”

  Fazio was about to go out, but Montalbano stopped him.

  “Everything arranged with the driver?”

  “Yes. They even asked whether I wanted a man or a woman.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “A woman, Chief.”

  “Well done.”

  On top of everything else, Triestine women were famous for being beautiful, so that if and when he got lost in the fog with her, it would be a pleasant experience.

  Fazio wouldn’t let him leave the station until he’d signed some urgent documents.

  * * *

  When he got home it was eight p.m.

  He decided to call Livia and tell her he had to leave Vigàta for two days to go to Palermo, for a meeting of law enforcement functionaries.

  “So you would rule out any chance of coming to see me?”

  “Livia, it breaks my heart, but I don’t see how I could manage . . .”

  “All right, then, have a pleasant journey and a good night,” Livia said snarkily, hanging up.

  The feast he’d eaten late on his lunch break didn’t prevent him from having a peek at what Adelina had made for him.

  Luckily he found a rather light dish. For once, his housekeeper had turned her back to the sea and gone into the countryside: a pitaggio of fava beans, peas, and artichokes.

  To judge from the aroma, Adelina had outdone herself!

  Later, when bringing the first bite to his lips, he awarded Adelina a gold medal for the dish.

  When he’d finished eating, he went down to the beach and started walking along the water’s edge.

  For an hour he tried to plan his first meeting with the murderess. Was it better to accuse her right off the bat, or to let her stew in her own juices before moving on to direct questioning?

  He decided in the end that he would make his moves depending on how the woman reacted once she learned that he was Inspector Montalbano of the Vigàta Police.

  At this point he stopped in his tracks, assailed by a very real concern: What if, upon arriving in Bellosguardo—assuming of course that he managed to get there—the woman wasn’t there? Maybe she’d taken a few days’ vacation, and it was anybod
y’s guess where she’d gone . . . Or maybe she worked somewhere outside of town . . .

  The best thing would be to ask around for information. And to find out, first of all, if there was a police or carabinieri station there.

  He went back home and sat down in front of the telephone, and the first thing that came to hand was Elena’s little red address book.

  Without realizing what he was doing, he dialed the number for Nevia Sirch.

  “Hello, who is this?”

  He immediately recognized the same voice as the last time.

  “Am I speaking with Signora Nevia Sirch?”

  “Yes, but who is this?”

  “This is Inspector Montalbano. I’m calling from Vigàta.”

  He stopped, waiting for her reaction.

  “Vigàta? I have a very dear friend in Vigàta,” said the woman, showing no surprise whatsoever.

  “That’s precisely why I’m calling. I wanted to talk about her.”

  “Why? Has something happened?”

  “Unfortunately I have some very bad news.”

  “Oh, my God!” said the woman.

  “Elena Biasini has been murdered.”

  It was as though the person at the other end of the line had vanished into nothingness. No matter how hard he tried to prick up his ears, Montalbano couldn’t hear any breathing. He became convinced they’d been cut off.

  “Hello!” he said. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” the woman replied, practically whispering. Then she immediately said: “Excuse me for just a second.”

  Montalbano started counting. He’d reached twenty-five when she returned, and she asked only one question.

  “Who did it?”

  “We don’t know yet. That’s why I’m calling. The killer seems not to have had any plausible motive.”

  “But how . . . how . . . how was she killed?”

  “Stabbed to death with a pair of scissors.”

  The woman started crying. Audibly, this time.

  “You must try to be brave,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but it’s such a terrible blow. I can barely stand up. Please wait a second while I get a chair.”

  She returned a few moments later.

  “And what do you want from me?”

  “I’ve been hearing what all the people who were close to Elena have to say, and so I—”

  “I’m sorry, but who gave you my phone number?”

  “I found it in an old address book of Elena’s . . .”

  “Ah . . .” said the woman, adding nothing more.

  “I wanted to know if we could meet tomorrow in Bellosguardo, in the afternoon. At three. Would that work for you?”

  “I’ll be waiting for you at Via Orta, number 3. But now you’ll have to excuse me, I’m unable to speak anymore,” said the woman, hanging up.

  Her behavior seemed perfectly normal. To the point that Montalbano began to wonder whether he’d got it all wrong.

  18

  Before going to bed, he prepared a small suitcase, packing just a shirt, a pair of underpants, and a pair of socks, since he was expecting to be away for only a day. He set his alarm clock for half past six.

  He slept soundly and deeply, and when he woke he felt in perfect shape. Opening the window, he noticed something strange: The air was rather milky and sort of damp. He went and made his customary pot of coffee, drank it down, took a shower, shaved, put on the first pair of trousers that came to hand, and instead of donning a sports coat he grabbed a heavier zip-jacket. Then he took his toothbrush, comb, and everything else he needed and put them in a plastic bag, which he packed into the suitcase together with a spy novel that would help him sleep, since, as always happened when he watched spy movies on television, he never understood what was going on.

  Gallo arrived exactly on time and then, as soon as Montalbano was in the car, took off again in his usual fashion, as though he were on the track at Indianapolis. But the inspector had no time to protest before they’d gone from the State of Indiana and into a kind of Dantesque limbo. Taken by surprise, he didn’t understand why they could no longer see a thing beyond the windshield.

  “Goddammit!” said Gallo.

  “What is happening?”

  “We’re in the middle of a fog bank,” Gallo replied, slowing down. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen that around here.”

  He’d asked for it!

  Montalbano remembered a line of verse that went: A joyous start is the best of guides . . . And he immediately wanted to tell Gallo to turn back. If the fog had come all the way to his front door to find him, he could only imagine what would be waiting to welcome him up north.

  They slowed down to a crawl. Even a horse-drawn carriage would have gone faster.

  At one point Gallo nearly came to a stop.

  “You have to do me a favor, Chief,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You need to get out of the car and walk in front of me, because I can’t read the road signs, which means that I might end up taking us to Palermo instead of Trapani.”

  Cursing the saints wildly in his head, Montalbano got out, walked over to the front of the car, and the slow procession began.

  Then, as if by magic spell, the fog suddenly vanished, the sun appeared in triumph, and Gallo was finally able to find the track at Indianapolis again.

  When they got to Trapani airport the loudspeaker was already announcing the boarding of his flight.

  Once the plane was in the air, the passengers were told not to undo their seat belts because of turbulence. The usual stewardess started making the usual strange gestures, pointing first to the right, then to the left, while a metallic voice gave instructions on what people should do in case of an emergency, which was merely a nice way to say in case of certain death. In a kind of superstitious desire to ward off disaster, Montalbano memorized the plasticized sheet with little drawings that showed how to don the life jacket should the plane fall into the sea, as if all you had to do was whistle and help would soon be on the way; how to administer oxygen to oneself when the last thing you think of doing, when you can no longer breathe, is to put on a mask; and how one should remove high-heeled shoes and throw oneself onto the escape chute and into the sea where the sharks were surely waiting with mouths open wide.

  And he got so scared that when he heard the announcement that the plane had begun its descent into Trieste, he seized his armrests forcefully and closed his eyes, expecting the worst.

  But in fact it was a smooth landing.

  * * *

  He went to the car rental desk and, after signing about twenty papers, was given the keys to the car.

  “There seems to have been a misunderstanding. I asked for a car with a driver.”

  “Ah, yes, sorry about that,” said the woman, reaching under the counter and pulling out a strange metal gizmo. “Here’s your GPS.”

  “GP what? I was told I could have a woman driver!”

  “That’s not a problem. I can program it for a woman’s voice. Where do you have to drive to?”

  “To Bellosguardo. In Udine province,” the inspector said dejectedly.

  The woman started fussing with the little machine.

  “Okay, it’s all set. All you have to do is follow Esther’s instructions, and she will take you to your destination.”

  Confused and unconvinced, he went into the parking lot, looked for post number J44, and got into the car, which stank of car deodorant.

  He took the GPS and set it up on the dashboard.

  “Go straight until you reach the roundabout,” said the gizmo.

  He had to admit it, the woman’s voice was pleasant. And that wasn’t all. She was also extremely precise in her instructions, to the point that more than once Montalbano found himself saying:

 
“Thank you, Esther.”

  Of fog he saw nary a wisp. To make up for it, everything was a lush green, with high mountains in the distance, glistening with snow.

  Suddenly Esther told him to turn right, and, as if by magic, the name Bellosguardo appeared on the road sign.

  She really was very good, this Esther.

  * * *

  When he parked in the main and perhaps only square in town, he felt as if he’d entered a poem by Palazzeschi:

  Three little houses with pointed roofs,

  a small green lawn

  and a slender torrent

  He glanced at his watch. It was time to eat. Even if Palazzeschi made no mention of it, there had to be a trattoria somewhere nearby. And indeed he needed merely to take a look around to read: Al Leon d’Oro—At the Golden Lion. The name was reassuring. He went in. It was a homey restaurant, with few tables, all of them vacant. As soon as he sat down a waiter appeared.

  “Today we have jota e frico,” he said.

  “Eh?” said Montalbano, feeling lost.

  “Jota e frico,” the man repeated.

  Since he had no choice, the inspector told the waiter to bring him both.

  With great satisfaction he scarfed down a concoction of onions, butter, potatoes, and sauerkraut in the silence of the restaurant, where he remained the sole customer.

  He paid the bill, which was very little, then asked the waiter if Via Orta was anywhere nearby.

  “It’s a ten-minute walk. Go out and take a right, keep walking straight, and it’s the second street on the left,” the young man replied.

  The inspector went out and, before going where he had to go, stopped at a bar and asked for a triple espresso to put some order among all the ingredients wreaking havoc in his stomach.

  He found Via Orta easily. Number 3 corresponded to an old four-story building.

  The front door was locked, and so he went up to the intercom and buzzed the button next to the name Sirch. There was no reply. He tried again. Nothing.