It was three o’clock in the afternoon and Montalbano, who hadn’t had time to eat, was in the throes of a gut-twisting hunger. He went to the Trattoria San Calogero and sat down.
“Is there anything left to eat?”
“For you, sir, there’s always something.”
At that exact moment he remembered about Livia. She’d completely slipped his mind. He rushed to the phone, trying feverishly to think of an excuse. Livia had said she’d be there by lunchtime. She was probably furious.
“Livia, darling.”
“I just got here, Salvo. The flight left two hours late, with no explanation. Were you worried, darling?”
“Of course I was worried,” Montalbano lied shamelessly, realizing the winds were favorable. “I’ve been phoning home every fifteen minutes without any answer. A little while ago I decided to call the airport, and they told me the flight was two hours late. That finally set my mind at rest.”
“Sorry, love, but it wasn’t my fault. When are you coming home?”
“Unfortunately I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of a meeting in Montelusa; I’ll be at least another hour I’m sure. Then I’ll come running. Oh, and listen: tonight we’re going to the commissioner’s for dinner.”
“But I didn’t bring anything to wear!”
“You can go in jeans. Have a look in the fridge, Adelina must have cooked something.”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll wait for you, we can eat together.”
“I’ve already made do with a sandwich. I’m not hungry. See you soon.”
He sat back down at his table, where a pound of mullet awaited him, fried to a delicate crisp.
A little weary from her journey, Livia had gone to bed. Montalbano got undressed and lay down beside her. They kissed. Suddenly Livia pulled away and started sniffing him.
“You smell like fried food.”
“Of course I do. I just spent an hour interrogating some guy in a fried-food shop.”
They made love calmly, knowing they had all the time in the world. Then they sat up in bed, pillows behind their heads, and Montalbano told her the story of Lapècora’s murder. Thinking he was amusing her, he told her how he’d had Mrs. Piccirillo and her daughter, who set such great store by their honor, brought in to the station. He also told her he’d had Fazio buy a bottle of wine for Mr. Culicchia, who’d lost his when it rolled next to the corpse. Instead of laughing, as Montalbano expected, Livia looked at him coldly.
“Asshole,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” Montalbano asked with the aplomb of an English lord.
“You’re an asshole and a sexist. First you disgrace those two wretched women, and then you buy a bottle of wine for the guy who had no qualms about riding up and down in the elevator with a corpse. Now tell me that’s not acting like a jerk.”
“Come on, Livia, don’t look at it that way.”
Unfortunately Livia insisted on looking at it that way. It was six o’clock before he managed to appease her. To distract her he told her the story of the little boy who was stealing other children’s late-morning snacks.
But Livia didn’t laugh this time, either. In fact, she seemed to turn melancholy.
“What’s wrong? What did I say? Did I do something wrong again?”
“No, I was just thinking of that poor little boy.”
“The one who got beat up?”
“No, the other one. He must be really famished and desperate. You say he didn’t speak Italian? He’s probably the child of some immigrants who can’t even put food on the table. Or maybe he was abandoned.”
“Jesus Christ!” cried Montalbano, thunderstruck by the revelation, yelling so loudly that Livia gave a start.
“What’s got into you?”
“Jesus Christ!” the inspector repeated, eyes bulging out of his head.
“What on earth did I say?” Livia asked, concerned.
Without answering, Montalbano dashed to the phone, completely naked.
“Catarella, get the fuck off the line and pass me Fazio on the double. Fazio? In one hour, at the latest, I want you all at the office. Got that? All of you. If anybody’s missing, I’m going to go nuts.”
He hung up, then dialed another number.
“Commissioner? Montalbano here. I’m embarrassed to say, but I can’t make it to dinner tonight. No, it’s not because of Livia. It’s got to do with work. I’ll explain everything. Lunch tomorrow? By all means. And please give your wife my apologies.”
Livia had got out of bed, trying to understand how her words could have provoked such a frantic reaction.
Montalbano’s only answer was to throw himself on the bed, dragging her along with him. His intentions were perfectly clear.
“But didn’t you say you’d be at the office in an hour?”
“Fifteen minutes more or less, what’s the difference?”
Crammed into Montalbano’s office, which was certainly not spacious, were Augello, Fazio, Tortorella, Gallo, Germanà, Galluzzo, and Grasso, who had begun working at the station less than a month ago. Catarella stood leaning against the door frame, an ear to the switchboard. Montalbano had brought along a reluctant Livia.
“But what am I going to do there?”
“Believe me, you might be very useful.”
But he hadn’t given her a single word of explanation.
In utter silence, he drew a rough but sufficiently precise street map of Villaseta, which he then showed to all present.
“This is a little house on Via Garibaldi in Villaseta. No one is living there at the moment. Here behind it is a garden . . .”
He went on to illustrate every detail, the neighboring houses, the street intersections, the smaller cross streets. He had committed everything to memory the previous afternoon, when alone in Karima’s room. With the exception of Catarella, who would remain on duty at headquarters, they were all to have a part in the operation. Using the map, the inspector pointed out the position that each was to take up. He ordered them to arrive at the scene one by one: no sirens, no uniforms—in fact, no police cars at all. They were to remain absolutely inconspicuous. If anybody wanted to bring his own car, he must leave it at least half a kilometer away from the house. They could bring along whatever they wanted, sandwiches, coffee, beer, because it was probably going to take a long time. They might have to lie in wait all night, and there wasn’t even any guarantee of success. Most likely the person they were looking for wouldn’t show up. When the streetlights came on, that would signal the start of the operation.
“Weapons?” asked Augello.
“Weapons? What weapons?” Montalbano muttered, momentarily bewildered.
“I don’t know, but since it seemed like something serious, I thought—”
“Who is it we’re looking to capture?” Fazio cut in.
“A snack thief.”
Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing. Beads of sweat appeared on Augello’s forehead.
I’ve been telling him for the last year he should have his head examined, he thought.
It was a clear, moonlit night, windless and still. It had only one flaw, in Montalbano’s eyes. It seemed as if time didn’t want to pass. Every minute was mysteriously expanding, dilating into five more.
By the light of a cigarette lighter, Livia had put the gutted mattress back on the bedspring, lain down, and gradually fallen asleep. She was now sleeping in earnest.
The inspector, seated in a chair beside the window that looked out the back, had a clear view of the garden and the surrounding countryside. Fazio and Grasso were supposed to be in that area, but no matter how hard he squinted, he could see no trace of them. They were probably hidden among the almond trees. He felt pleased with his men’s professionalism; they’d embraced the assignment wholeheartedly after he told them the little boy was probably François, Karima’s son. He took a pull on his fortieth cigarette and glanced at his watch by the faint glow. He decided to wait another half hour, after which he would tell his men to go back
home. At this exact moment he noticed a very slight movement at the point where the garden ended and the countryside began; but, more than a movement, it was a momentary break in the reflection of the moon on the straw and yellow scrub. It couldn’t have been Fazio or Grasso. He had purposely wanted to leave that area unguarded, as if to favor, even suggest, that approach. The movement, or whatever it was, repeated itself, and this time Montalbano could make out a small, dark shape coming slowly forward. It was the kid, no doubt about it.
He moved slowly toward Livia, guided by her breath.
“Wake up, he’s coming.”
He returned to the window and was joined at once by Livia. Montalbano spoke into her ear:
“As soon as they catch him, I want you to go immediately downstairs. He’s going to be terrified, but when he sees a woman he might feel reassured. Stroke him, kiss him, tell him whatever you can think of.”
The little boy was right next to the house now.They could see him clearly as he raised his head and looked up towards the window. Suddenly a man’s shape appeared, descended on the boy and grabbed him. It was Fazio.
Livia flew down the stairs. François, kicking, let out a long, heartrending wail, like an animal caught in a trap. Montalbano turned on the light and leaned out the window.
“Bring him upstairs.You, Grasso, go round up the others.”
Meanwhile the child’s wailing had stopped and turned into sobbing. Livia was holding him in her arms, talking to him.
He was still very tense but had stopped crying. Eyes glistening and ardent, he studied the faces around him, slowly regaining confidence. He was sitting at the same table where, only a few days before, he had sat with his mother beside him. This, perhaps, was why he clung to Livia’s hand and didn’t want her to leave him.
Mimì Augello, who had briefly absented himself, returned with a bag in his hand. Everyone immediately realized he’d been the only one with the right idea. Inside were some ham sandwiches, bananas, cookies, and two cans of Coca-Cola. As a reward, Mimì received an emotional glance from Livia, which naturally irritated Montalbano. The deputy inspector stammered:
“I had somebody prepare it last night . . . I thought that, if we were dealing with a hungry little boy . . .”
As he was eating, François gave in to fatigue and fell asleep. He didn’t manage to finish the cookies. All at once his head fell forward onto the table, as if someone had turned off a switch inside him.
“So where do we take him now?” asked Fazio.
“To our house,” Livia said decisively.
Montalbano was struck by that “our.” And as he was gathering up a pair of jeans and a T-shirt for the little boy, he couldn’t tell whether he should be pleased or upset.
The kid didn’t open his eyes once during the ride back to Marinella, or when Livia undressed him after making up a bed for him on the living room sofa.
“What if he wakes up and runs away while we’re asleep?” asked the inspector.
“I don’t think he will,” Livia reassured him.
Montalbano, in any case, wasn’t taking any chances. He closed the window, lowered the shutters, and gave the front-door key two turns.
They too went to bed. But despite how tired they were, it took them a long time to fall asleep. The presence of François, whom they could hear breathing in the next room, made them both inexplicably uneasy.
Around nine o’clock the next morning, very late for him, the inspector woke up, got quietly out of bed so as not to disturb Livia, and went to check on François. The kid wasn’t there. Not on the couch, nor in the bathroom. He’d escaped, just as the inspector had feared. But how the hell did he do it, with the front door locked and the shutters still down? He started looking everywhere the kid might be hiding. Nothing. Vanished. He had to wake Livia and tell her what had happened, get her advice. He reached out and at that moment saw the child’s head resting against his woman’s breast. They were sleeping in each other’s arms.
9
“Inspector? Sorry to bother you at home. Could we meet this morning? I’d like to give you my report.”
“Certainly. I’ll come to Montelusa.”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll come down to Vigàta. Shall we meet in an hour at the office in Salita Granet?”
“Yes, thanks, Laganà.”
He went into the bathroom, trying to make as little noise as possible. Also to avoid disturbing Livia and François, he put on his clothes from the previous day, which were additionally rumpled from the nightlong stakeout. He left a note: there was a lot of stuff in the fridge, he’d be back by lunchtime. As soon as he’d written it, he remembered that the commissioner had invited them for lunch. That was out of the question now, with François there. He decided to phone at once, otherwise he might forget. He knew that the commissioner spent Sunday mornings at home, except in extraordinary circumstances.
“Montalbano? Don’t tell me you’re not coming for lunch!”
“Unfortunately I can’t, Mr. Commissioner, I’m sorry.”
“Is it something serious?”
“Quite. The fact is, early this morning, I became—I don’t know how to put this—sort of a father.”
“Congratulations!” was the commissioner’s reply. “So, Miss Livia . . . I can’t wait to tell my wife, she’ll be so happy. But I don’t understand how this would prevent you from coming. Ah, I get it: the event is imminent.”
Flummoxed by his superior’s misapprehension, Montalbano recklessly proceeded to entangle himself in a long, tortuous, stammering explanation that jumbled together murder victims and children’s snacks, Volupté perfume and the Mulone printing works. The commissioner gave up.
“All right, all right, you can explain it all later. Listen, when is Miss Livia leaving?”
“Tonight.”
“So we won’t have the pleasure of meeting her. Too bad. It’ll have to wait till next time. Tell you what, Montalbano: when you think you’ll have a couple of free hours, give me a ring.”
Before going out, he went to take a last look at Livia and François, who were still asleep. Who would ever break their embrace? He frowned, gripped by a dark premonition.
The inspector was astonished to find everything in Lapècora’s office exactly as he had left it. Not one sheet of paper out of place, not a single clip where he hadn’t seen it last time. Laganà had understood.
“It wasn’t a search, Inspector. There was no need to turn the place upside down.”
“So, what can you tell me?”
“Well, the business was founded by Aurelio Lapècora in 1965. He’d worked as a clerk before that. The business was involved in importing tropical fruit and had a warehouse in ViaVittorio Emanuele Orlando, near the port, equipped with cold-storage rooms. They exported cereals, chickpeas, fava beans, pistachios, things of that sort. The volume of business was decent, at least until the second half of the eighties. Then things went steadily downhill. To make a long story short, in January of 1990, Lapècora was forced to liquidate, but it was all aboveboard. He even sold the warehouse and made a tidy profit. His papers are all on file. An orderly man, this Lapècora. If I’d had to do an inspection here, I wouldn’t have found anything wrong. Four years later, also in January, he obtained authorization to reopen the business, which was still incorporated. But he never bought another depository or warehouse, nothing whatsoever. And you know what?”
“I think I already know. You found no trace of any business transaction from 1994 to the present.”
“Right. If Lapècora only wanted to come and spend a few hours at the office—I’m referring to what I saw in the next room—what need was there to reconstitute the business?”
“Find any recent mail?”
“No, sir. All the mail’s at least four years old.”
Montalbano picked up a yellowed envelope that had been lying on the desk and showed it to the sergeant.
“Did you find any envelopes like this, but new, with the words ‘Import-Export’ in the ret
urn address?”
“Not a single one.”
“Listen, Sergeant. Last month a local print shop sent Lapècora a package of stationery at this office. Since you found no trace of it, do you think it’s possible the whole stock got used up in four weeks?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Even when things were going well, he couldn’t have written that many letters.”
“Did you find any letters from a foreign firm called Aslanidis, which exports dates?”
“Nothing.”
“And yet, according to the mailman, some were delivered here.”
“Did you search Lapècora’s home, Inspector?”
“Yes. There’s nothing related to his new business there. You want to know something else? According to a very reliable witness, on certain nights, when Lapècora wasn’t here, this place was buzzing with activity.”
He proceeded to tell him about Karima and the dark young man posing as a nephew, who used to make and receive phone calls and write letters, but only on his own portable typewriter.
“I get it,” said Laganà. “Don’t you?”
“I do, but I’d like to hear your idea first.”
“The business was a cover, a front, the receiving end of some kind of illegal trafficking. It certainly wasn’t used to import dates.”
“I agree,” said Montalbano. “And when they killed Lapècora, or the night before, they came here and got rid of everything.”
He dropped in at headquarters. Catarella was at the switchboard, working on a crossword puzzle.
“Tell me something, Cat. How long does it take you to solve a puzzle?”
“Ah, they’re hard, Chief, really hard. I been workin’ on this one for a month and I still can’t get it.”
“Any news?”
“Nothing serious, Chief. Somebody arsoned Sebastiano Lo Monaco’s parking garage by setting fire to it. The firemen went and put it out. Five motor vehicles got roasted. Then somebody shot at somebody by the name of Filippo Quarantino but they missed and got the window of the house where Mrs. Saveria Pizzuto lives and she got so scared she had to go to the merchancy room. Then there was another fire, an arson fire for sure. But just little shit, Chief, kid stuff, nothin’ important.”
IM03 - The Snack Thief Page 9