Game of Mirrors

by Andrea Camilleri

  At eight o’clock the following morning, as he drove past the Lombardos’ house, he noticed that the shutters over the bedroom window were still closed. No doubt Liliana was taking advantage of her day off from work to sleep later than usual.

  He parked in the station’s lot, and in the building’s entrance nearly collided with Fazio, who was coming out.

  “Where you going?”

  “I’m going out to see if I can gather any information on the Via Pisacane bomb.”

  “Are you in a hurry?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then come with me, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  Fazio followed him into the office and sat down.

  “Last night I got what seems like some important information. It was Adelina’s son who told me.”

  He told Fazio what Pasquale had said.

  “So the bomb was supposedly intended for Tallarita?” Fazio said when he’d finished. “And it was supposed to mean: watch out, if you cooperate we’ll kill one of your family?”

  “That’s right.”

  Fazio made a doubtful face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just wondering why the Narcotics guys, who certainly must have learned about the bomb, haven’t put the family under protection yet.”

  “Are you sure that’s the case?”

  “Chief, I drove by their front door yesterday and saw nothing there. No men, no cars.”

  “Yes, but we should find out whether the Tallarita family is still there; they may have been taken somewhere else.”

  “No, they’re still there, Chief. I’m positive.”

  Montalbano made a snap decision.

  “What did you say his wife’s name was?”

  “Francesca Calcedonio.”

  “I’m going to go and talk to her.”

  “And what should I do?”

  “Try to find out from Narcotics exactly what the situation is with Tallarita.”

  The young man who opened the door was quite good-looking, tall with dark curly hair, an athletic build, and sparkling ebony eyes. Though in shirtsleeves and trousers, he still looked elegant.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano, police.”

  In an instinctive reflex, the youth made as if to shut the door in his face, then thought better of it and asked:

  “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to talk to Signora Tallarita.”

  Was it just his impression, or did the youth seem slightly relieved?

  “My mother’s not in. She’s out shopping.”

  “Are you Arturo?”

  The kid looked alarmed again.

  “Yes.”

  “Will she be long?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Since the inspector wasn’t moving, he added, somewhat reluctantly:

  “If you’d like to come in and wait . . .”

  He showed him into the dining room, which was modest but clean. In one corner were a small sofa, two armchairs, and the inevitable television set.

  “Did something happen to my father?” Arturo asked.

  “No, not as far as I know. Why, are you worried about him?”

  The kid seemed truly flustered.

  “No, why should I be worried about him? I just asked because I have no idea why . . .”

  “Why I’m here?”

  “That’s right.”

  Arturo got nervous again. The inspector decided to toy with him a little. He made an enigmatic face.

  “Can’t you imagine?”

  Arturo turned visibly pale. It wasn’t the reaction of someone who has nothing to hide.

  “No . . . I can’t . . .”

  The front door opened and closed.

  “Artù, I’m back,” a woman called.

  “Excuse me for just a minute,” the kid said, taking advantage of the situation and rushing out of the room.

  Montalbano heard them whispering animatedly in the entrance hall, and then the mother came in alone.

  She looked older than her age, and was fat and panting. She sat down heavily in an armchair and heaved a long sigh of fatigue.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I have heart disease.”

  “I’ll take only a few minutes of your time.”

  “It’s a good thing Arturo’s store was closed today and he didn’t have to go to work, or you wouldna found nobody home ’cause my daughter Stella’s in Palermo. What can I do for you?”

  “Signora, is your husband currently in Montelusa prison serving a sentence for drug dealing?”

  “Yes, an’ it’s not the first time.”

  “And you live here with your two children?”

  “Yes, I do. But the only one who really lives here with me is Arturo, ’cause for the past two years Stella’s been going back and forth to Palermo, where she studies at the university.”

  “Well, what I want to know is whether you or either of your children have recently received any threats.”

  Signora Tallarita’s eyes popped open.

  “Wha’d you say?!”

  Montalbano patiently started again.

  “I want to know whether—”

  But Signora Tallarita had heard perfectly well.

  “Threats? Us? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, phone calls, anonymous letters . . .”

  “What do you want me to say? I swear to you, in this house I never received no threats or anything else.”

  She thought about this for a second, then suddenly called out so loudly that Montalbano gave a start.

  “Artù!”

  The kid arrived instantly. Perhaps he’d been outside the door, listening.

  “What is it, Ma?”

  “At your store in Montelusa, have you received any threats, like phone calls or anonymous letters?”

  Arturo was also taken aback.

  “Me?! Never! Why would anyone want to do that?”

  Mother and son both looked questioningly at the inspector. Who had already prepared an answer.

  “We’ve received some information that the father of an overdose victim is apparently seeking revenge.”

  The two said nothing. Arturo turned pale.

  “Of course I’ll inform my colleagues in Narcotics, but in the meantime I would advise some discreet police protection. Therefore I’ll need Stella’s Palermo address and the name and address of the store where you work, Arturo.”

  He wrote down the information as they dictated it to him, then said good-bye and left.

  He had, however, achieved several results.

  For example, it had never even crossed the minds of Signora Francesca and Arturo that the bomb might have been intended for them. And Narcotics had not been in touch with them.

  More importantly, why was young Arturo so obviously nervous? Montalbano would have to think about this a little.

  “I got lucky,” said Fazio. “Five minutes after you left, Aloisi from Narcotics was passing through and came in to say hello.”

  “Did you ask him about the Tallaritas?”

  “Of course. He was totally in the dark.”

  “He didn’t know anything?”

  “Nothing. According to him there are no negotiations ongoing with Tallarita.”

  “Are you sure it’s not one of those supersecret operations that Narcotics lov—”

  “Nah, he would have given some indication of that.”

  “So what Pasquale told me is just bullshit?”

  “I don’t think he lied to you on purpose,” said Fazio. “It’s possible that somebody who knew about Pasquale’s connection to you told him, knowing he would pass the information on to you sooner or later. To
throw you off the trail.”

  “That must be what happened. The Tallaritas meanwhile have no protection and think there’s no way that bomb was intended for them.”

  “You see? It makes sense.”

  “Yes, but I’m not totally convinced by Arturo, the son.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In my opinion he’s hiding something.”

  “Want me to see if I can dig anything up?”

  “Yes.”

  The inspector took out the piece of paper with the address and looked at it.

  “The clothing store in Montelusa where he works is called All’ultima moda, and it’s on Via Atenea, number 104.”

  “I know the place,” said Fazio.

  Could you imagine him not knowing?

  5

  “While you were telling me about Aloisi,” the inspector continued, “I was becoming more and more convinced of something.”

  Fazio pricked up his ears.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Some time ago I happened to see a film by Orson Welles in which there’s a scene that takes place in a room entirely made up of mirrors, where the person can no longer tell where he is and becomes completely disoriented, thinking he’s talking to someone in front of him when the guy is actually behind him. I think these people are trying to play the same game with us, to lead us into a hall of mirrors.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re trying to disorient us. They’re doing everything in their power to keep us from understanding who the bomb was really intended for. To be as clear as possible, I no longer think the bomb was pushed aside towards Arnone’s warehouse by chance; I’m convinced the bomb was purposely placed where we found it.”

  “I’m beginning to understand.”

  “So they send an anonymous letter to Arnone and at the same time spread the rumor about Tallarita cooperating with Narcotics, with the result that we’re always back to square one. We’re being led around by their moves, like dogs on a leash. We have to take the initiative ourselves, starting now.”

  “And how are we going to do that?”

  “I’ll explain. When I told you to go and have a look at who lives at number twenty-six, Via Pisacane, all you told me was that Carlo Nicotra and two ex-cons live there. And that was because, to your eyes, as a policeman, they were the only three persons of interest. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there we probably made a big mistake.”

  “How?”

  “In stopping at those three. What if the bomb was intended for a different tenant, one with no record? Someone above suspicion? Someone we know nothing about yet? And what if they’re doing everything humanly possible to prevent us from getting at him?”

  Fazio absorbed the blow.

  “You’re right,” he admitted.

  “How many families live at number twenty-six?”

  “Nine. Three per floor.”

  “And we stopped at a third of the tenants. So . . .”

  “I’ll get on it right away.”

  As soon as Fazio left, the inspector started opening the mail. The first letter was addressed directly to him and had the word PERSONAL written on the envelope.

  He opened it and immediately realized that it was an anonymous letter, even though it wasn’t handwritten in block letters but typed at a computer.

  Cecè Giannino is an unlucky thief. He stole what he shouldn’t have and doesn’t want to give it back to its rightful owner.

  He started laughing. It was the casting out nines of what he’d just finished saying to Fazio. He rang him and told him to come to his office. And when Fazio got there, he handed him the letter.

  “Here, read this. They’ve added another mirror to the mix.”

  Fazio smiled, too.

  When he got to the trattoria, he was the only customer. It was still too early. Enzo was watching television, tuned in to TeleVigàta. Talking on-screen was the station’s top newsman, Pippo Ragonese, who didn’t like the inspector, and whose feelings were amply returned in kind.

  . . . to return to the bomb that exploded in Via Pisacane, it has come to our attention, through confidential channels, that some willing citizens have indicated a number of possible leads to Inspector Montalbano of Vigàta police, all of which have been shunted aside by the inscrutable public servant. And so, several days after the incident, the brilliant result is that we still don’t know who was behind the explosion. Will we have to wait for another bomb to go off before the good inspector wakes up from his long sleep?

  “I’ll turn it off before that asshole ruins your appetite,” said Enzo.

  “That’s unlikely,” said Montalbano. “What’ve you got?”

  He ended up eating a double serving of seafood antipasto in Ragonese’s face.

  Afterwards he took his stroll along the jetty, but didn’t remain seated on the flat rock for very long.

  He’d had another idea.

  Back in his office, he rang Nicolò Zito, his friend and editor in chief of the Free Channel news department.

  “Hey, Nicolò, all well with the family?”

  “All’s well. What is it?”

  “I happened to hear Ragonese’s editorial on TeleVigàta’s midday report.”

  “Me, too. You must be used to it by now, no? Do you want to respond to him?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  “As soon as it takes me to drive there.”

  Just outside Vigàta, he came up against a long queue of stationary cars. He stuck his head out the window. There was a checkpoint of carabinieri up ahead. He cursed a great many of the saints in heaven. It was anybody’s guess how much of his time would be wasted. After a few minutes he decided not to wait any longer. He pulled out of the queue to present himself to the carabinieri. He was nearly at the front of the line when an officer came running towards his car.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  “Pull over to the left.”

  “But . . .”

  “Pull over to the left and get out of the car!”

  The guy wouldn’t listen to reason, was pissed off, and was holding a machine gun to boot. Better not make him even angrier.

  Montalbano pulled over, got out of the car, and at that moment all hell broke loose.

  A big car drove up at a thousand miles an hour, determined to crash through the roadblock. Before throwing himself nimbly on the ground, Montalbano was able to see someone with his arm out the speeding car’s window, shooting a revolver or small machine gun at the carabinieri.

  He heard the car race past, followed by some bursts of machine-gun fire. The military cops were responding.

  Then, after a pandemonium of cars starting and tires screeching and sirens blaring, there was total silence.

  He got up. The roadblock was gone. The carabinieri had dashed off in pursuit.

  He had the presence of mind to get quickly in his car, start it up, and leave. The other cars were still not moving. The drivers were frozen in fear from what had just happened.

  And so he wasn’t late for his appointment with Nicolò, whom he found in a rather agitated state.

  “I just got a call saying there was an exchange of fire at a carabinieri checkpoint right outside of Vigàta. Do you know anything about this?”

  The inspector donned an expression of surprise.

  “Really? I didn’t see any checkpoint.”

  If he told the truth, Nicolò was liable to interview him immediately as a witness.

  “Let’s do this interview right away,” the newsman said. “That way I can broadcast it on the seven o’clock edition, then replay it at eight and at midnight. Is that all right with yo
u?”

  “That’s perfectly fine with me.”

  “Inspector, first of all let me thank you for having so kindly agreed to grant us this interview. The bomb that exploded yesterday in Vigàta destroyed the metal shutter of an empty warehouse, and therefore did little damage. The danger, however, is that it will do more damage to the reputation of the police.”

  “How?”

  “Apparently on this occasion—contrary to usual practice—a number of witnesses have sent you testimonies that haven’t been followed up on. Therefore—”

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but I need to set something straight. I haven’t received a single testimony—not one—because there weren’t any witnesses.”

  “And what about the letters that were sent to you?”

  “I would like to point out that these are anonymous letters. So, you can talk about dutiful citizens if you like, but only up to a point. And they have no proof to back up their assertions. Just as there’s been no confirmation of the rumors that have been cleverly put into circulation.”

  “Could you tell us what the letters say?”

  “They contain assumptions or, perhaps more precisely, conjectures as to whom the bomb might have been intended for.”

  “I don’t understand for what purpose they were written.”

  “Easy: to throw us off the trail. They present a number of possible leads in order to confuse us. And this flurry of activity just confirms my opinion.”

  “Can you tell us what that is?”

  “I’ve no problem telling you. I think there’s something really big behind this bomb. It’s not the usual failure-to-pay-the-protection racket, even though they wanted us to think this in the early going. Nor is it an attempt to silence anyone who might be thinking of talking. And the theory that the bomb was to persuade a thief to return what he’d stolen is just laughable.”

  “In conclusion?”

  “The investigation is continuing. But I felt it was my duty to reassure our citizens as to the supposed inaction of local law enforcement.”