Rounding the Mark

by Andrea Camilleri

  “No.”

  “It’s possible that the little boy, caught by surprise at the side of the road, was deliberately run over just for fun, or in a fit of racism, by some goddamned son of a bitch, some nameless bastard who had nothing to do with the kid’s arrival here.”

  Montalbano let out a deep sigh.

  “I wish! If that were really what happened, I would feel less guilty. Unfortunately, I’m pretty convinced the whole affair has a precise logic of its own.”

  Agata Militello was a well-groomed woman of about forty, good-looking but tending dangerously towards plumpness. She was a garrulous sort and in fact did almost all the talking during the hour she spent with the inspector. She said she was in a bad mood that morning because her son, a university student (“You know, Inspector, I had the bad luck to fall in love at age seventeen with a rascal who left me as soon as he learned I was expecting”), wanted to get married (“But I say, can’t you wait? What’s the hurry? Meanwhile you can do whatever you want, and then we’ll see”). She also said that the hospital management were cynical bastards who took advantage of her, knowing she would come running every time they asked her to work off-hours because she had a heart of gold.

  “It happened here,” she said suddenly, coming to a halt.

  They were on a short street with no residences or shops, practically only the backs of two large buildings.

  “But there’s not a single house here,” said Montalbano.

  “You’re right. We’re behind the hospital, which is this building here on the right. I always take this route, because that way I can enter through the emergency room, which is the first door on the right once you turn this corner.”

  “So the woman with the three children must have exited emergency, turned left, taken this street, and then was greeted by that car.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you notice whether the car was coming from the direction of the emergency ward or from the opposite direction?”

  “No, I couldn’t tell.”

  “When the car stopped, could you see how many people were inside?”

  “Before the woman and her children got in?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was only the driver.”

  “Did you notice anything in particular about the man driving?”

  “How could I, Inspector? He stayed in the car the whole time! But he wasn’t black, if that’s what you mean.”

  “He wasn’t? He was one of us?”

  “Yes, but can you tell the difference between a Sicilian and a Tunisian? You know, one time, I—”

  “How many ambulances does the hospital have?” the inspector interrupted.

  “Four, but they’re not enough. And there’s no money to buy even one more.”

  “How many men are there in an ambulance when it’s on duty?”

  “Two. We have a shortage of personnel. One medic and a driver, who helps out.”

  “Do you know them all?”

  “Of course.”

  He wanted to ask her about the gaunt medic with the mustache but didn’t. The woman talked too much. She was liable to run to the man afterwards and tell him the inspector had asked about him.

  “Shall we go have a coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you, Inspector. Even though I’m not supposed to. You know, one time I had four coffees in a row, and . . .”

  Fazio was waiting for him at headquarters, impatient to resume his search for information on the dead man he’d found in the sea. Fazio was like a dog that, once he picked up a scent, didn’t relent until he’d flushed out his quarry.

  “Chief, the ambulance worker’s name is Gaetano Marzilla.”

  He stopped.

  “Yeah? Is that all?” asked Montalbano, surprised.

  “Chief, can we make a deal?”

  “A deal?”

  “Let me indulge a little in my records office complex, as you call it, and afterwards I’ll tell you what I found out about him.”

  “It’s a deal,” the inspector said, resigned.

  Fazio’s eyes sparkled with contentment. He pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket and began reading.

  “Gaetano Marzilla, born in Montelusa on October 6, 1960, son of the late Stefano Marzilla and Antonia née Diblasi, resident of Montelusa, Via Francesco Crispi 18. Married Elisabetta Cappuccino, born at Ribera on February 14, 1963, daughter of Emanuele Cappuccino and Eugenia née Ricottilli, who—”

  “Stop right there or I’ll shoot,” said Montalbano.

  “Okay, okay. I’m satisfied,” said Fazio, putting the piece of paper back in his pocket.

  “So, do we want to talk about serious matters now?”

  “Sure. This Marzilla’s been working at the hospital ever since getting his nursing degree. His wife came with a modest gift shop in her dowry, but the shop burned down three years ago.”

  “Arson?”

  “Yes, but the place wasn’t insured. Rumor has it that it was burned down because Marzilla got tired of paying the protection money. And you know what Marzilla did?”

  “Fazio, those kinds of questions only piss me off. I don’t know a goddamned thing! You’re the one who’s supposed to be filling me in!”

  “Marzilla learned his lesson and started coughing up the protection money. Feeling safe, he bought a warehouse adjacent to the shop and expanded and renovated everything. To make a long story short, he got covered in debt, and since business is bad, the loan sharks have him by the throat now, according to the gossip. Lately the poor guy’s so desperate he’s looking left and right for any spare change he can get his hands on.”

  “I absolutely must speak with this man,” said Montalbano, after remaining silent a few moments. “And as soon as possible.”

  “What are we going to do? We certainly can’t arrest the guy,” said Fazio.

  “No. Who ever said anything about arresting him? On the other hand . . .”

  “On the other hand?”

  “If he got wind . . .”

  “Of what?”

  “Nothing, I just thought of something. You know the address of his shop?”

  “Of course, Chief. Via Palermo 34.”

  “Thanks. Now go pound the pavement some more.”

  9

  After Fazio left, he sat and pondered his course of action until he had it all clear in his mind. He called in Galluzzo.

  “Listen, I want you to go to the Bulone printworks and have them make a bunch of calling cards for you.”

  “With my name?” asked Galluzzo, perplexed.

  “Come on, Gallù, are you acting like Catarella now? With my name.”

  “And what should I tell them to write?”

  “The essential. Salvo Montalbano and, underneath, Chief Inspector, Vigàta Police. On the bottom left, have them put our telephone number. Ten or so will be enough.”

  “While we’re at it, Chief—”

  “You want me to order a thousand? So I can wallpaper my bathroom with ’em? Ten’ll be more than enough. And I want them on my desk by four o’clock this afternoon. No excuses. Now hurry, before they close for lunch.”

  It was time to eat. Since most people were at home, he might as well try. He picked up the phone.

  “Hallo? Who tokin?” said the voice of a woman who must have come from at least as far away as Burkhina Faso.

  “This is Inspector Montalbano. Is Signora Ingrid there?”

  “You wait.”

  By now it was tradition. Whenever he called up Ingrid, a housekeeper from a country nowhere to be found on the map always answered.

  “Hi, Salvo? What’s up?”

  “I’m going to need a little help from you. Are you free this afternoon?”

  “Yes. I have an engagement around six.”

  “That should be more than enough time. Can we meet in Montelusa, in front of the Vittoria Café at four-thirty?”

  “Sure. See you later.”

  At home he found a casserole of tender, mischievous pasta ’nc
asciata (he suffered from improper use of adjectives and couldn’t define it any better than this) in the oven and feasted on it. Then he changed, putting on a grey double-breasted suit, a pale blue shirt, and a red tie. He wanted to look like a cross between white-collar and shady. Afterwards, he sat out on the veranda and sipped a coffee while smoking a cigarette.

  Before going out, he looked for a greenish, vaguely Tyrolean-style hat he hardly ever wore and a pair of glasses with plain lenses that he’d used once but couldn’t remember why. At four o’clock he returned to the office and found a small box with calling cards on his desk. He took three and put them in his wallet. He went back outside, opened the trunk to his car, where he kept a Humphrey Bogart-style trench coat, put this on, along with the hat and glasses, and drove off.

  Seeing him appear before her in that getup, Ingrid began laughing so hard that tears started running down her cheeks and she had to dash into the café and lock herself in the bathroom.

  When she came out, however, the giggles got the better of her again. Montalbano was stone-faced.

  “Get in the car, I’ve got no time to waste.”

  Ingrid obeyed, making a tremendous effort to refrain from laughing.

  “Do you know that gift shop at number 34, Via Palermo?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because that’s where we’re going.”

  “What for?”

  “To select a gift for a girlfriend of yours who’s getting married. And I want you to call me Emilio.”

  Ingrid literally exploded. Her laughter burst out uncontrollably. She put her head in her hands, and he couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.

  “Okay, I’m taking you home,” the inspector said in a huff.

  “No, wait a minute, come on.”

  She blew her nose twice, wiped away her tears.

  “Tell me what I’m supposed to do, Emilio.”

  Montalbano explained.

  The shop’s sign said: Cappuccino, in big letters, and below, in smaller characters, Silverware, Gifts, Bridal Registries. The undoubtedly fancy display windows featured an array of glittering objects of questionable taste. Montalbano tried to open the door, but it was locked. Fear of robberies, apparently. He pushed a button, and somebody opened the door from within. Inside there was only a fortyish woman, petite and well-dressed, but clearly nervous and on the defensive.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, but without the welcoming smile usually reserved for clients. “What can I do for you?”

  Montalbano was certain she was not an employee but Signora Cappuccino in person.

  “Good afternoon,” Ingrid replied. “A friend of ours is getting married, and Emilio and I would like to give her a silver platter as a present. Could I see what you have?”

  “Certainly,” said Signora Cappuccino, and she began taking silver platters off the shelves, each one more vulgar than the last, and setting them down on the counter. Montalbano, meanwhile, was looking around “in a clearly suspicious manner,” as the newspapers and police reports like to say. Finally Ingrid called him over.

  “Come, Emilio.”

  Montalbano approached and Ingrid showed him two platters.

  “I can’t decide between these two. Which do you prefer?”

  While pretending to waver, the inspector noticed that Signora Cappuccino was stealing glances at him whenever she could. Maybe she’d recognized him, as he was hoping.

  “Come on, Emilio, make up your mind,” Ingrid egged him on.

  At last Montalbano made up his mind. As Signora Cappuccino was wrapping the platter, Ingrid had a brilliant idea of her own.

  “Emilio, look, what a beautiful bowl! Wouldn’t that look good in our dining room?”

  Montalbano shot a withering glance at her and muttered something incomprehensible.

  “Come on, Emilio, please let’s buy it. I just love it!” Ingrid insisted, her eyes sparkling with amusement from the joke she was playing on him.

  “Do you want it?” Signora Cappuccino asked him.

  “Some other time,” the inspector said firmly.

  Signora Cappuccino then moved over to the cash register and rang up the purchase. When Montalbano reached into the back pocket of his trousers to extract his wallet, it got stuck and all its contents fell to the floor. The inspector bent down to pick up the various bills, cards, and slips of paper.

  Then he stood up and with his right foot slid a calling card he’d purposely left on the floor closer to the table supporting the cash register. The sham had been a perfect success. They left.

  “You were so mean, Emilio, not to buy me that bowl!” Ingrid said, pretending to be upset when they got in the car. Then, changing her tone: “Was I good?”

  “You were great.”

  “What are we going to do with the platter?”

  “You can keep it.”

  “I’m not going to let you off so easily. Tonight we’re eating out. I’m taking you to a place where the fish is out of this world.”

  Not a good idea. Montalbano was certain their playacting would yield immediate results, and he preferred to wait in his office.

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  “All right.”

  “Ahh, Chief, Chief!” shrieked Catarella the moment Montalbano entered the office.

  “What is it?”

  “I been true the whole archive, Chief. I can’t see no more, I got spots in front o’ my eyeses. There in’t nobody otherwise that looks like the dead swimmer looks. Only Errera. Chief, in’t it possible it’s possibly Errera hisself?”

  “Cat, the people in Cosenza told us Errera’s dead and buried!”

  “Okay, Chief, but in’t it possible ’e came back to life and then went back to death in the water?”

  “Are you trying to give me a headache, Cat?”

  “Perish the tot, Chief! What’m I sposta do wit’ dese photos?”

  “Leave ’em here on the desk. We’ll give ’em to Fazio later.”

  After two hours of fruitless waiting, an irresistible wave of somnolence came over him. He cleared a space amidst the papers, crossed his arms on the desk, laid his head down on them, and in the twinkling of an eye he was asleep. So deeply, in fact, that when the telephone rang and he reopened his eyes, for a few seconds he didn’t know where he was.

  “H’lo, Chief. There’s somebody wants to talk to you poissonally in poisson.”

  “Who is it?”

  “That’s just it, Chief. He says he don’t wanna say what ’is name is.”

  “Put ’im on . . . Montalbano here. Who is this?”

  “Inspector, you came to my wife’s shop with a lady this afternoon.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, sir, you did.”

  “Excuse me, but would please tell me what your name is?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, goodbye.”

  He hung up. It was a dangerous move. It was possible that Marzilla had used up what courage he had and wouldn’t have the guts to call again. But apparently Marzilla had such a firm bite on the inspector’s bait that he needed to call back immediately.

  “Inspector, excuse me for that call a minute ago. But try to understand my position. You came into my wife’s shop, and she recognized you immediately, even though you were in disguise and went by the name of Emilio. On top of that, my wife found one of your calling cards, which had fallen on the floor. You must admit, it’s enough to make a guy nervous!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s obvious you’re investigating something to do with me.”

  “If that’s what you’re worried about, you can relax. The preliminary investigation is over.”

  “And I can relax, you say?”

  “Absolutely. Until tomorrow, at least.”

  He could hear Marzilla’s breath stop short.

  “What . . . what do you mean?”

  “I mean that tomorrow I move on to the next phase. The operative phase.”

  “And . . . what’s t
hat mean?”

  “You know how these things work, don’t you? Arrests, subpoenas, interrogations, prosecutors, reporters ...”

  “But I have nothing to do with any of it!”

  “With any of what?”

  “But . . . but . . . but . . . I dunno, whatever you’re investigating . . . But then why did you come to the shop?”

  “Oh, that? To buy a wedding present.”

  “But why were you calling yourself Emilio?”

  “The lady I was with likes to call me that. Listen, Marzilla, it’s late. I want to go home. See you tomorrow.”

  He hung up. Was it possible to be any meaner? He would have bet his cojones that within the hour Marzilla would come knocking on his door. He could easily find the address by looking him up in the phone book. As he’d suspected, the ambulance man was up to his neck in what happened on the wharf. Somebody must have ordered him to find a way to get the woman and her three kids into the ambulance and then drop them off outside the hospital’s emergency ward. And he’d obeyed.

  He got in the car and drove off with all the windows open. He needed to feel some cool, nocturnal sea air on his face.

  An hour later, as he had lucidly foreseen, a car pulled up in front of his house. A car door slammed, then the doorbell rang. Opening the door, he was greeted by a different Marzilla from the one he’d seen in the hospital parking lot. Unshaven and haggard, he had a sickly air about him.

  “I’m sorry if I—”