“Yes, coffee and tobacco plantations, and a very large share in extractive concerns.”
“Extractive concerns? And what does that mean?”
“Mining, I think.”
“Find out anything else?”
“No. We’re going to meet again at five this evening to work out the terms of the contract. Maybe they’ll tell me more then. But what do you think? Should I go back on board or not? If the case is no longer ours . . .”
“Lemme think for a minute. And what happened during the night?”
“You want details about what Livia wanted me to do?”
“I told you not to call her Livia! No, I only want to know whether anything happened that—”
“Wait. Yes, something did happen. Around midnight the captain knocked on the cabin door. Luckily we were taking a break. Liv—Giovannini went to open the door, completely naked. They talked quietly for a minute, with him standing outside and her inside, and then she closed the door, went to the rather large safe she has in her cabin, opened it, took out a folder, put on her dressing gown, and went out. I immediately got up and took a quick look at what was inside the safe, but without touching anything.”
“And what was there?”
“A lot of money: euros, dollars, yen . . . And files and folders, all with titles. And five or six registers. And there was a big fat binder with the name Kimberley Process written on it.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Dunno. Listen, what tack should I take now?”
“Theoretically, you should bail out. Your back’s no longer covered. If you go back on board, it’ll be without authorization.”
“But it would be a shame to leave the whole thing hanging.”
“I agree. What do you want to do?”
“I’d like to go to the five o’clock meeting just the same. I’m certain they’re going to tell me something that’ll help us screw them.”
“And how will you extract yourself afterwards? You can’t just say, ‘Look I’ve changed my mind, I’ve decided not to come with you.’”
“Of course not! They’d kill me!”
“I’ve got it!” Montalbano said all at once.
“You’ve got what?”
“I know how to get you out of there. The Shaikiri method.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ll arrest you!”
“Come on! I think it’s a little early in the morning for you.”
“Mimì, believe me, it’s the only way. You’ll call me when you’re about to go aboard the Vanna. Fazio and Gallo will pretend to be on duty at the port. If you have any important news, you’ll blow your nose as you’re descending the gangway. A minute later you’ll be in handcuffs. You’ll react angrily, make a big row, so that everyone on the Vanna and the Ace of Hearts knows what’s going on, and that way, you’ll make your exit and tell me everything you’ve learned once you return to the station. If you don’t blow your nose, it’ll mean you have nothing new to tell us, and we won’t arrest you. Got that? You look doubtful. What’s wrong?”
“I hope I remember to bring a handkerchief. I always forget.”
Augello left and Montalbano went over to his bookcase and pulled out the calendar-atlas he’d already looked at. His ignorance of geography was disgraceful, to the point where he was capable of mistaking the locations of the five continents.
The first thing he did was to see what it said about South Africa.
And immediately he came across Kimberley, which was where the biggest diamond deposits were located. So big, in fact, that the place had become a sort of national monument. There were also platinum mines, not to mention iron, cobalt, and a great many other things that the inspector knew nothing whatsoever about.
And they produced tobacco but not coffee.
The coffee plantations, for their part, were in Sierra Leone, along with other tobacco farms. And there were enough diamonds, cobalt, and other minerals for everyone to have a merry old time. Enough, that is, for a merry old time to be had by the owners of the mines, which all belonged to foreign companies, whereas, according to the calendar-atlas, the life expectancy for the native populations was thirty-seven years for males, and thirty-nine years for females.
At any rate, what La Giovannini had told Augello matched up with this reality.
But in the inspector’s brain, an annoying sort of bell had started ringing.
Hoping to make it stop, he reread everything from the beginning.
But this only made the bell start ringing louder, so loud, in fact, that he began worrying that something might be happening to his brain.
Then he realized that it was the telephone.
At first he decided not to answer, but then he thought it might be Laura and started running.
“Chief, ya gotta ’scuse me fer ’sturbin’ yiz at home in yer own home.”
“What is it, Cat?”
“Dacter Micca called juss now.”
Never heard of him. The only Micca he knew of was the famous Pietro, the Piedmontese soldier he’d read about in history books.
“Did he tell you his first name?”
“Yessir, Chief. ’Is firss name’s Jerry.”
“You mean as in Jerry Lewis?”
“Yessir, ’ass azackly right, Chief.”
Jerry Micca. Geremicca!
“And what did he say?”
“’E axed yiz to go an’ see ’im.”
“Listen, Cat, since I have to go to Montelusa, you have to do me a favor.”
“Yessir, Chief!”
The inspector was certain that Catarella had stood at attention when saying this.
“I want you to do an Internet search for the name Kimberley Process.”
“No problem, Chief. Ya jess gotta tell me how iss writ.”
“I’ll try. The first letter is a K.”
A good three minutes passed without Catarella saying anything. Maybe he’d gone to look for a pen.
“Cat?”
“I’m here, Chief.”
“Did you write down the K?”
“Not yet, Chief.”
“Why not?”
“I’s wunnerin’ if iss a K witt or wittout the O.”
“Without, Cat.”
“So how you write a K wittout the O?”
At this rate, it was going to take them a week. Because once they got past the stumbling block of the K, there was still the Y at the end.
“Listen, Cat, tell you what. I’ll write it down on a piece of paper and drop it off at the station for you before going to Montelusa, okay?”
As he was on his way to Vigàta, the inspector realized that Geremicca’s call had come at absolutely the right moment. If he wanted to see Montalbano, then he must have received news from his French colleague, which meant that the investigation was about to be enriched with new elements, and the inspector could throw himself into it body and soul. He didn’t give a flying fuck that the commissioner had taken him off the case; he would carry on just the same. The investigation was more vital to him than bread itself, and for one simple reason: it would not allow him any time to think about Laura.
He pulled up in front of the station, didn’t bother to park, got out of the car, leaving the door wide open, went inside, gave the piece of paper with the name Kimberley Process written on it to Catarella, and said:
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Wait, Chief.”
“What is it?”
Catarella clearly felt awkward, as he kept looking at his shoe tops and opening and closing his hands in a fist.
“Well?” the inspector prodded him.
“Y’see, Chief, I gots somethin’ I oughter tell yiz but I ain’t ’ad the pleasure a tell yiz cuz I dunno whither I oughter tell yiz or no.”
“All right, then, when you decide what’s best, you can send me a telegram.”
“Chief, this in’t no jokin’ matter!”
“Then out with it, for Christ’s sake!”
“P
lease, Chief, le’ss go in yer office.”
If this was Catarella’s way of not wasting his time, well then . . . Catarella followed him down the hallway. The door to the inspector’s office was closed. Montalbano opened it and went inside.
Fazio was there, sitting in front of the desk with his back to them. Hearing someone come in, he turned around. At that moment the inspector noticed a mortuary pillow of white flowers in the middle of his desk, the kind that one lays down on coffins.
He turned pale, suddenly remembering the dream he’d had about his own funeral.
“What . . . what . . .”
He was unable to speak. He looked at Fazio, who was wearing a gloomy, worried expression.
“What else could it be, Chief? This is a classic Mafia warning.”
It was true. Montalbano went over to the filing cabinet atop which he always kept a bottle of water, and drank a glass of it as his brain whirred at high speed.
There was only one explanation possible for this threat. The Mafia must definitely be involved in the activities of the Vanna and the Ace of Hearts. That flower pillow was meant to tell him that if he didn’t back off, they would kill him. Never before had the Cuffaros or Sinagras gone to such lengths with him. Maybe the dream he’d had would even come true.
Montalbano said nothing. He batted the pillow with his hand in frustration, knocking it onto the floor.
“Catarella, grab that thing and throw it into the garbage.”
Catarella bent down, picked up the pillow, and was about to leave the room when Montalbano asked him:
“When did they deliver it?”
“Juss five minutes afore ya got here.”
“Did you see who brought it?”
“Yiss. Ciccino Pànzica, the floriss.”
“Fazio, I want this Pànzica here in front of me in five minutes.”
He had to admit it, he felt a bit scared. Normally he wouldn’t, if not for that damned dream he’d had.
Ciccino Pànzica was about sixty years old, with skin as pink as a pig’s.
“You must excuse me if I—”
“I’ll ask the questions around here.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Who ordered that pillow from you?”
“The person didn’t say who he was. They ordered it over the phone.”
Fazio intervened.
“How did you arrange for the payment?”
“They were going to send someone by.”
“And did this person come?”
“Yessir, yesterday evening.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“If I saw him, yes. He was in uniform.”
Montalbano and Fazio looked at each other, puzzled.
“What kind of uniform?” Fazio asked.
“Yours.”
A mafioso disguised as a policeman! This was becoming more and more troubling.
“Can I say something I wanted to say from the start?” the florist asked.
“Go ahead,” said Montalbano.
“The policeman also gave me a little card, which I forgot to deliver with the pillow.”
Normally, however, these kinds of threats never contained any written messages, Montalbano thought.
“Let’s see it.”
The florist handed it to him. It was a calling card in an envelope. Montalbano opened it. On the back of the card were the words: Sincerest condolences. Lattes.
16
As Montalbano was entering Geremicca’s office, he had no idea that in a few minutes, inside those four walls, a word would be uttered, only one, but that word alone would suffice to put him on the right track.
Upon seeing Montalbano, Geremicca stood up smiling and rotated his right hand in the air, as if to say that something really big had happened.
“Montalbano! You’ve landed a big one!”
“Me? What’d I do?”
“I e-mailed my French colleague a photocopy of the passport you gave me. And I told him that you’d told me that the name on the passport was the same as that of a character in a Simenon novel, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right. And so?”
“And so he started telling me that a month ago they’d arrested an expert forger, a real master, but the guy refused to name his clients. They had, however, managed to confiscate two passports ready for use, among other things. Your passport, together with these, made three. And thanks to the clue we’d given them, my friend discovered that the forger was in the habit of using fictional names of characters from French literature. Imagine that!”
“I guess the guy liked to read.”
“And there’s more. The names the forger chose always had some sort of connection with something the client did in real life.”
“Can you give me a little more detail?”
“Sure. Just to give you an idea, my colleague said this Émile Lannec, the fictional character, owns a small steamboat in the novel. Is that true?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, thanks to some other information, and despite the mangled face, my colleague was able to identify the man on the passport. His name is Jean-Pierre David. He has a clean record, but the police have had their eye on him for a while.”
“And what’s the thing connected to his real life?”
“His father used to own a small steamboat that eventually sank. And so the clue you gave them helped lead the French to the true identities of the other two whose passports were ready for use. They convey their heartfelt thanks to you.”
“And why were they keeping an eye on this David?”
“Apparently he was part of a large organization involved in some heavy traffic.”
“What kind of traffic?”
“Diamonds.”
Montalbano gave a start. For a moment he couldn’t see a thing. The lightning that had flashed through his brain was so bright, it had blinded him.
What to do next?
It should have been his duty to go at once, without wasting another minute, to the office of Mezzamore, no, Mozzamore, or whatever the hell his name was, and tell him point by point everything he had learned. Should have been, mind you. Because, according to the commissioner’s orders, the inspector shouldn’t even have gone to see Geremicca that morning. He should have told him, over the phone: “Thank you, my friend, but you should pass all information on to my colleague Mizzamore, since he’s the one handling the case henceforth.”
Instead, he’d gone. Thus committing an act of insubordination. Now if he went to Mozzamore and told him that the dead man had been identified, the commissioner could accuse him of insubordination or worse . . .
“But aren’t you ashamed to be pulling out such lame excuses?” the voice of his conscience reproached him. “The truth of the matter is that you’re such an egotist, such a selfish wretch that you don’t want to share anything with anyone . . .”
“Would you just let me think for a second?” Montalbano replied.
To report or not to report. That was the question.
In the end, his conscience won out. He walked around the building, entered through the main door, and asked where Inspector Muzzamore’s office was.
“You mean Mazzamore?” the person at the reception desk, who knew Montalbano, corrected him. “It’s right next door to Dr. Lattes’s office.”
Alas. Alas, alack, and wailaway. He had to proceed with extreme caution.
Instead of taking the elevator, he climbed the stairs. When he’d reached the right floor, he stopped. There was a whole corridor to cross. He stuck his head out and saw none other than Lattes, standing right in the middle of the hallway, talking to someone.
No, he just couldn’t go on any longer with this farce about the nonexistent little boy who died.
He turned tail and left. He would give Mazzamore a ring. But later, whenever he happened to. There was no hurry.
“Pretty good excuse you came up with there!” his conscience needled him.
He told his conscience where to go, to the same place he probably too often sent it. Actually, there was no “probably” about it.
“Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief!”
Montalbano knew what this plaintive litany meant.
“Did the commissioner call?”
“Yessir, ’e did, jess now, by tiliphone.”
“What did he want?”
“’E said as how ya gotta go rilly rilly emergently t’ see ’im, ’im being Mr. C’mishner hisself.”
Utterly and totally out of the question! No way could he risk running into Lattes. At the very least he would be forced to thank him for the funerary pillow.
“Tell Fazio to come to my office at once. And, by the way, did you find anything about Kimberley Process?”
“Yessir, I did, Chief, I’ll prinn it up straightaways.”
Going into his office, the inspector noticed that one of the flowers that had come detached from the wreath when he’d knocked it to the floor had remained there. He bent down, picked it up, and threw it out the window. He didn’t want to see anything that might remind him of the dream he’d had of his own funeral.
“What is it, Chief?” asked Fazio, coming in.
“You have to do me a favor. I want you to call the commissioner.”
Fazio looked puzzled.
“Me?!”
“Why not? Do you find it offensive? Embarrassing?”
“No, Chief, but . . .”
“No buts. I want you to tell him a lie.”
“About what?”
“He wants to see me right now, but for reasons of my own, I really can’t go there just now.”
“And what am I supposed to tell him?”
“Tell him that as I was driving to work somebody bumped into me, and you had to take me to the emergency room and then home.”
“Would you like to tell me, in case he asks, exactly what happened to you in the accident? Was it serious or minor?”
“Since I’ve already given him some other bullshit, just tell him I reinjured the same ankle I’d already sprained.”
“And how did you get this sprain?”
“The same way I got bumped into.”
“I see.”
“And now I’d better get on home fast, in case he phones me there.”
The Age of Doubt Page 16