Game of Mirrors

by Andrea Camilleri

  The young woman waited for him to finish smoking it, then said:

  “It’s late. I’m going home.”

  “Look, if you want to stay a little longer, I’m not . . .”

  Liliana looked at her watch and gave a start.

  “I didn’t realize it was so late! Oh my God, thanks, but I can’t stay; I really have to run!”

  Why was she suddenly in such a hurry?

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  “No.”

  That “no” was so sharp that Montalbano said nothing. Liliana went into the house, followed by the inspector. Standing inside the still-closed front door, she turned and held out her hand.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, for the arancini, and for being so patient with me.”

  “Tomorrow morning at eight?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble . . .”

  Then all at once she threw her arms around him, kissed him on the lips, opened the door, went out, and closed it behind her.

  Montalbano went back out to the veranda and sat down.

  Dear, beautiful Liliana hadn’t told him the whole truth. She’d sung only half the Mass. Which, however, was enough for him to explain Arturo’s agitation when he’d shown up at the Tallarita home. Apparently the kid was thinking Liliana had changed her mind and decided to report him for damaging her car. The inspector had to tell Fazio to stop investigating Arturo. It was all clear now.

  What remained in total darkness, however, was the way Liliana had behaved with him. She had performed—quite well, he had to admit—the opening moves of a textbook seduction. Tactically perfect. But perhaps it was still too early to try and figure out the reason. He had to wait for another little tête-à-tête before he could see clear on this. At any rate, it was obvious that Liliana wanted him on her side, as an ally.

  But against whom?

  What was the other half of the Mass?

  He made a bet with himself. And having done so, he started laughing.

  But before he found out whether he’d won or lost, perhaps it was best to wait a little longer.

  And so he poured himself three fingers’ worth of whisky and sipped it slowly, taking his time.

  Then he went into the house and opened the front door without bothering to turn out the light in the vestibule.

  He started walking down the road. When he came within sight of the gate to the Lombardos’ house, he felt deeply disappointed. He’d been completely mistaken.

  He turned around and headed back home. But after taking three steps, he changed his mind and resumed walking towards the Lombardos’ house.

  When he got to the gate, he could see the green Volvo parked in the little yard.

  Light was filtering through the bedroom shutters.

  He’d won the bet.

  He slept poorly. It was a mistake not to have taken a nice long walk after eating the arancini.

  He woke up at six thirty but needed an entire mug of espresso before he felt in any condition to get as far as the bathroom.

  As he was about to enter the shower, he heard the phone ring. It was Fazio.

  “Sorry to bother you, Chief, but I wanted to let you know that another bomb went off this morning.”

  He cursed the saints. Were these people acquiring a taste for it?

  “In front of a shop or apartment building?”

  “No, in front of a warehouse.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “A passerby was injured. He was taken to Montelusa Hospital.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “Nah.”

  “Is Augello with you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Then there’s no point in me coming. I’ll see you later at the station.”

  Liliana was waiting at the gate. Fresh, well rested, and scented, beaming a big smile brighter than the sun. She wasn’t in slacks and blouse, but wearing one of her little home-wrecking dresses.

  “Ciao.”

  As soon as she got in the car, she turned towards Montalbano and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  “Not too badly; how about you?”

  “I slept great. Like a log, despite the arancini.”

  One could see that it did her good. At least this time she didn’t mention babies.

  “Shall I leave you at the bus stop?”

  “Yes, but first, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go for a minute to the Caffè Castiglione. I want to buy some cannoli for a salesgirl. It’s her birthday today.”

  When they got there, she said:

  “You come in, too. I’ll treat you to a coffee.”

  One should never refuse a coffee. The café was packed with people eating breakfast, a few of whom greeted the inspector. Liliana ordered ten cannoli at the bar and, as they were drinking their coffee, came so close to him that her hip grazed his.

  Then she went over to the cash register to pay while the inspector stayed behind, talking to someone he knew.

  “Salvo, do you have two euros by any chance?” Liliana called out loudly to him.

  Montalbano said good-bye to his acquaintance, went over to the cash register, gave Liliana two euros, and they got back in the car.

  After he’d dropped her off at the bus stop and was heading for the office, all Montalbano could do was smile.

  How skillful Liliana had been in showing everyone in the café that she and the inspector were close friends! And perhaps even more than friends.

  He would have bet the family jewels that her purse was full of coins, and she’d done what she did just so she could call him by name in front of everyone.

  Little by little, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place.

  “Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief!”

  This was the special litany that Catarella intoned whenever there’d been a call from Mr. C’mishner.

  “Did the commissioner call?”

  “Yessir, ’e did, not ten minutes ago. ’E wannit a talk t’yiz or Isspector Augello, an’ seein’ as how ya wasn’t onna premisses yet, I put the call true to Isspector Augello, ’oo was hisself onna premisses, afore ’e left immidiotly after talkin’ to him, him bein’ him, meanin’ the same one, hizzoner the c’mishner.”

  Entering his office, the inspector found Fazio already there.

  “Do you know what the commissioner wanted?”

  “No.”

  “So, tell me about this bomb.”

  “Well, Chief, it was exactly the same as the one in Via Pisacane. Stuck inside a cardboard box, which they put in front of the metal shutter of a warehouse in Via Palermo.”

  “What kind of warehouse?”

  “That’s just it. It was another empty warehouse.”

  “Really?!”

  “It’s been unlet for three months.”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “It used to belong to a retiree by the name of Agostino Cicarello, a postal employee. He died last month. I talked to his wife. It was his only possession.”

  “So we have to rule out the protection racket?”

  “Of course. And I would add that there’s really no chance of a mistake in this case, because the warehouse is isolated. There are no other houses or apartment blocks nearby.”

  “But what are they trying to prove?”

  “No idea,” said Fazio, standing up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Montelusa to take the bullet to my friend in Forensics, like you said.”

  “Ah yes, thanks. And listen, you needn’t bother with Arturo Tallarita anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I found out why he was so nervous when I met him. He was the guy who busted up Signora Lombardo’s car.”

  “And how did you
find that out?”

  “Signora Lombardo told me herself, last night.”

  “Ah,” said Fazio.

  And he didn’t budge.

  “What is it?”

  “When you first spoke to me about Arturo, I thought he might be nervous for another reason.”

  “Namely?”

  “That he knew about the rumor about his father wanting to collaborate with the authorities, and he was scared.”

  “By the bomb?”

  “No, not by the bomb, but by Carlo Nicotra, who lives in the same building.”

  “What’s Nicotra got to do with it?”

  “Tallarita senior was dealing for Nicotra.”

  Montalbano thought about this for a minute.

  “Then keep working on Arturo and the other tenants.”

  7

  Midmorning Catarella rang him. It took some effort to pick up the receiver, as his arm had gone stiff, worn out from signing too many papers.

  “Chief, ’at’d be summon ’ass not onna line in so much as ’e’s onna premisses, a Signor McKennick, an’ ’e wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”

  “Wha’d you say his name was, McKennick?”

  Catarella didn’t answer.

  “Have you lost your voice, Cat?”

  “Nossir, I c’n talk, but ya gotta unnastan’, Chief, I dunno what ’is name is, bu’ if ya want, I c’n ask ’im.”

  “So why’d you say McKennick?”

  “’Cuz ’ass what ’e is, a mckennic.”

  Now the inspector understood. It must be Todaro, the body shop mechanic working on his car.

  “Show him in.”

  Todaro was a tall, big man with red hair, and Montalbano liked him. Despite his bulk, he was rather shy.

  The inspector shook his hand and sat him down.

  “Tell me everything, Todà.”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but isn’t Fazio around?”

  “No, he just went out.”

  Todaro twisted up his mouth.

  “Too bad; it woulda been better if he was here.”

  “Why?”

  “So he could confirm what I think he said when he brought me the car.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That the hole was made onna afternoon of the same day when you got stuck inna middle of a shoot-out wit’ the carabinieri and a getaway car.”

  He decided not to tell him that he hadn’t the slightest idea what had really gone down.

  “That’s correct.”

  Todaro looked like he didn’t know what to do next.

  “Well, then, if you confirm it yisself . . . ,” he said after a pause, by way of conclusion, and started to get up.

  “Wait,” said Montalbano. “What did you want to tell me?”

  “But now I dunno if iss really true or not.”

  “Don’t worry. Is there something that doesn’t add up for you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t wanna stick my nose where it don’t belong . . . When you or Fazio says somethin’, for me iss the Gospel truth.”

  The inspector fell prey again to the same doubts that had assailed him after Vannutelli had ruled out the possibility that the rifle shots could have been fired from one of the cars stuck in traffic. Maybe the mechanic had discovered something that might help to explain the mystery.

  “Forget about the Gospel and tell me straight.”

  “Sorry if I ask a quession first . . . Can I?”

  Shit, what a pain!

  “Go ahead.”

  “After the shoot-out, did you drive the car a long ways on some country road or unpaved track?”

  “Not a chance! I went to Montelusa, parked in a paved lot, and then came back here.”

  “Ah,” said Todaro.

  “But what is it you’re not convinced about?”

  “In my opinion the hole was made earlier.”

  Montalbano pricked up his ears.

  “Are you sure?”

  Todaro squirmed in his chair.

  “Well, it don’t really matter to me one way or another, and iss not like I’m just curious or somethin’, but I figgered it was my duty . . .”

  “Okay, okay, but tell me please how you arrived at that conclusion.”

  “The same evening Fazio brought me the car, I got down to work right away and noticed what I just said. I din’t tell you sooner ’cause I thought it wasn’t none o’ my business, but then I made up my mind. An’ so I tried to call you last night at the station, but they said you went home, and so I tried you at home, but there was no answer.”

  The inspector was starting to lose patience.

  “All right, but what exactly did you notice?”

  “Well, the hole where the bullet entered lifted up a little of the paint all around, but not enough to make it fall. It formed sort of a little pocket. You know what I mean?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “An’ so, inside this little pocket, I found a lotta dust, more than coulda accumulated in just half a day.”

  He had a sharp eye, this mechanic.

  “And there’s somethin’ else,” he continued.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ve worked on a lotta police cars that got shot up by guns and machine guns an’ so on . . . Some bullets, when they pass through a sheet o’ metal, they produce a kind of rust on the inside of the hole. But you only start to notice this at least twenty-four hours later. It can’t happen in just half a day. And in fact, now you can see it on your car, but it wasn’t there when Fazio brought it in to me.”

  The inspector gave him an admiring look.

  “Why don’t you get yourself hired as a consultant for the Forensics lab? You’re better than a lot of them.”

  “Thanks. But I think I’m even better workin’ in a body shop.”

  After Todaro had left, Montalbano lingered another half hour in his office, racking his brain over the problem at hand.

  It wasn’t remotely possible that he was inside the car when the shot was fired. He would necessarily have noticed it; there was no getting around this fact. Unless he had fainted. And he hadn’t fainted.

  Therefore, according to logic, the shot was fired at his car when he wasn’t there.

  But when was it fired, then? And where?

  Certainly not when the car was parked outside the Free Channel studios. Nor when it was parked outside his house in Marinella. The shot would have woken him up, even in the middle of the night.

  Over the past few days he had done nothing but drive back and forth between Vigàta and Marinella, with one excursion to Montelusa.

  Where had he parked the car for an extended period of time? Ah yes, outside the front door to Adelina’s building.

  Could they possibly have shot at the car then?

  “May I?” Mimì Augello called from the doorway.

  “Come in and sit down. What did the commissioner want?”

  “Apparently the unions are organizing a demonstration.”

  “You call that news?”

  “I’m talking about our unions, the police unions. It’s going to be a national demonstration, outside of Parliament, to protest the cuts.”

  “So what’s Mr. Commissioner got to do with any of it? Does it bother him? Does he want to prevent it?”

  “He just wanted to know what the situation was in our department.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I said I didn’t know. Which is the truth.”

  “You did the right thing. But please do me a favor and try to find out a little more about the situation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want us to make a bad impression. I want us to be well represented at the demonstration. Got that?”

  “Got it,” said Mi
mì.

  Fazio came back late, when Montalbano was already thinking about going to eat.

  He had an expression fit for a grand occasion.

  “Find anything out?”

  “I’ve got something big.”

  “Talk.”

  “My friend in Forensics says the bullet is from an unusual kind of shell used with high-precision rifles, the kind with a telescope.”

  “Like the one used to kill Kennedy?”

  “More or less. But he couldn’t tell me any more than that.”

  “Now I’ve got something to tell you.”

  And he told him what Todaro, the mechanic, had said.

  “The only possible explanation,” said Fazio, “is that they shot at your car when you weren’t around.”

  “I came to the same conclusion,” the inspector agreed.

  “Nor can it be considered a threat or an attempt to intimidate you,” Fazio went on. “If I hadn’t told you myself, you might never even have noticed the hole. If they’d wanted to send you a clear warning, one that you would be sure to receive, they would have fired a burst from an automatic weapon all along the side of the car.”

  “And in conclusion?”

  “In my opinion, it was a stray shot. Somebody taking target practice. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “What? So how did it happen? And when?”

  Fazio threw up his hands.

  “Let’s change the subject,” the inspector said abruptly. “Didn’t you say you had something big?”

  “Ah, so I did. Since I was already in Montelusa, I dropped in at the clothing store. No harm in that, since nobody knows me there.”

  “Not even Arturo Tallarita?”

  “I don’t think the kid knows me. Anyway, even if he did recognize me, so much the better. That would make him even more nervous. And when people are nervous they say and do stupid things.”

  “Go on.”

  “The store is really big. Takes up three floors. Well stocked, too. It has fancy clothes as well as cheap clothes. Very convenient. You should probably have a look there yourself.”

  The inspector gave him a puzzled look.

  “Are they paying you to advertise?” he asked.