Angelica's Smile

by Andrea Camilleri

  He went out onto the street, turned the corner, turned another corner, and came out in front of the gate.

  Upon seeing him, Livia gave a light toot of the horn.

  Montalbano smiled and got into the car.

  “Been waiting long?”

  “Barely five minutes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Do you mind if we go home first? I want to take a shower.”

  While Livia was in the bathroom, Montalbano sat out on the veranda, enjoying the evening and smoking a cigarette.

  Livia then appeared, ready to go out.

  “Where do you want to go?” Montalbano asked.

  “You decide.”

  “I’d like to go to a place where I’ve never been before. It’s by the sea, past Montereale. Enzo told me the food’s really good.”

  “Well, if Enzo says so . . .”

  Someone who knew the way would have made it there in about twenty minutes. Montalbano, who took four wrong turns, took exactly an hour.

  To top things off, he had a heated argument with Livia, who had actually suggested the right way to go.

  It was a proper restaurant with waiters in uniform and pictures of soccer players and pop singers on the walls.

  To get away from it all, they got a table on the terrace over the sea.

  The place was packed with British tourists already half drunk on sea air.

  Salvo and Livia had to wait a good fifteen minutes before a waiter showed up at their table, wearing a green nameplate on his jacket lapel with CARLO spelled out in black letters.

  The hair on the inspector’s arms stood up as straight as an angry cat’s fur.

  He made a lightning-fast decision.

  “Could you come back in five minutes?” he asked the waiter.

  “Of course, sir, as you wish.”

  Livia gave him a puzzled look.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to run to the bathroom.”

  He stood up and dashed off before Livia’s stunned eyes.

  “Where’s the manager?” he asked a waiter.

  “At the cash register.”

  He went to the cash register. There was a man of about sixty with an Umbertine moustache and gold-rimmed glasses.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  “What a pleasure! My good friend Enzo—”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m in something of a hurry. The lady who’s with me lost her beloved brother ten days ago, whose name was Carlo. The waiter assigned to our table is also called Carlo, and I wouldn’t want . . . you understand . . .”

  “I certainly do understand, Inspector, I’ll send another waiter right away.”

  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  He went and sat back down, smiling at Livia.

  “Sorry. A sudden, urgent need.”

  A new waiter arrived. His name tag said GIORGIO.

  They ordered their antipasti.

  “Wasn’t the waiter before named Carlo?” Livia asked.

  “Was he? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I wonder why they changed.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Why should I mind?”

  “I dunno, you seem to regret it.”

  “What are you saying! He was just a little cuter.”

  “Cuter! Then maybe it’s better this way, no?”

  Livia looked at him, feeling more and more puzzled.

  “You mean better that they changed waiters?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because over sixty percent of the people named Carlo are criminals. It’s a statistical fact.”

  He realized he was talking pure bullshit, but his rage and jealousy prevented him from reasoning in any way. He couldn’t help himself.

  “Oh, come on!”

  “So don’t believe it, if you don’t want to. Do you know many men called Carlo?”

  “A few.”

  “And are they all criminals?”

  “What has gotten into you, Salvo?”

  “Into me? Into you, rather! You’re making such a big deal out of this Carlo! If you like, we can have your Carlo come back!”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “No, I haven’t lost my mind! It’s you who—”

  “And here are the antipasti,” said the waiter, suddenly appearing.

  Livia waited for him to leave to resume speaking.

  “Listen to me, Salvo. Yesterday I was the one acting like an asshole, but tonight you seem to be trying your hardest to outdo me. Now I’m telling you that I have no desire to spend my evenings here arguing with you. If you keep carrying on this way, I’m going to call a cab, go back to Marinella, pack my suitcase, and continue on to Palermo and catch the first plane heading north. You decide.”

  Montalbano, who already felt ashamed for the previous scene, said only:

  “Just try the antipasti. They look really good.”

  The first course was also good.

  And the second too.

  And two bottles of excellent wine did their part.

  They came out of the restaurant holding hands.

  That night, their reconciliation was long and perfect.

  At eight o’clock the next morning, he was ready to go out when the phone rang.

  It was Catarella.

  “Somebody get killed?”

  “Nobody’s killed, Chief, sorry ’bout that. But the c’mishner’s affice called askin’ yiz to drap in sayin’ iss pretty oijent.”

  “Who was it that called?”

  “’Ey din’t say, Chief. ’Ey jess say you’s asposta go tadda place where they keep the wine.”

  “What’s that supposed to be, a winery?”

  “Well, ’ass what they tol’ me, Chief.”

  “Did they really say ‘the place where they keep the wine,’ or did they use another word?”

  “A nutter woid, Chief.”

  “The cellar?”

  “’Ass it!”

  The cellar was what they called the basement area where they kept all the phone-tapping equipment.

  “If Fazio comes in, tell him to wait for me.”

  “Yessir, Chief.”

  He said good-bye to Livia and headed off for Montelusa.

  The door to the basement was armor plated and had a guard armed with a machine gun posted outside.

  “Are your orders to shoot all journalists on sight?”

  “Who are you?” asked the guard, who was in no mood for jokes.

  “Inspector Montalbano.”

  “Papers, please.”

  Montalbano showed him his ID, and the young man opened the door and said:

  “Box seven.”

  He knocked on the door of box 7, which was only slightly larger than a voting booth, and a voice inside told him to come in.

  Inside was a chief inspector sitting in front of a machine with a set of headphones around his neck.

  He stood up and introduced himself.

  “Guarnera.”

  “Montalbano.”

  “This morning at thirteen minutes after six, there was an interesting phone call to a subscriber named Carlo Macaluso. You should listen to it. Here, put on this headset.”

  He turned a knob, and Montalbano heard a sleepy voice, which must have been Macaluso’s, saying:

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “I’m the friend with the moustache,” a young-sounding voice replied decisively.

  “Oh, is something up?”

  “I got three brand-new packages.”

  “I’m interested. What do we do?”

  “The usual.
Tonight at midnight we’ll leave them in the usual place.”

  “All right, and I’ll leave the money there. The usual amount.”

  “No. This stuff’s brand new.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll give you the usual amount, and then make up the difference next time. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  4

  Montalbano took the headset off, thanked Guarnera, said good-bye, and headed back to the station.

  He’d been lucky. If nothing else, the cars would be returned to their rightful owners.

  He went straight to Fazio’s office.

  “Come with me.”

  Fazio got up and followed him.

  “Take a seat.”

  He told him what Pasquale had said, how he’d got the idea of looking into the car wreckers, and the phone conversation he’d just heard.

  “How should we proceed?” Fazio asked.

  “Obviously, starting this afternoon, we need to begin following Macaluso around.”

  “I’ll send Gallo, who can stay in touch with us via cell phone.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Maybe we ought to postpone tonight’s dinner.”

  “Why? If we start eating at eight-thirty, Gallo is sure not to call before ten-thirty, eleven. If anything comes up, Livia can stay with your wife, and when we’re done, I’ll come by and pick her up, even if it’s a bit late.”

  “Okay.”

  “But you should send three other men with Gallo.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Macaluso will surely have three men with him, to drive the other cars.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Now tell me if you’ve found out anything interesting about the Peritores’ friends.”

  “Chief, so far I’ve made it halfway down the list, and, aside from the names of Lojacono and Dr. Vaccaro, which you already noticed, I found number five rather interesting. Have a look at the list.”

  It was on the desk. Montalbano slid it over and looked at it. Number five was:

  Giancarlo De Martino, engineer.

  “So who is he?”

  “An outsider, born in Mantua.”

  “And what’s he doing here?”

  “He’s been living in Vigàta for four years. He’s in charge of the reconstruction of the port.”

  “So why do you say he’s interesting?”

  “Because he spent four years in jail.”

  Four years was no joke.

  “What’d he do?”

  “Aiding and abetting an armed band.”

  “Like the Red Brigades or something similar?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And how did he aid and abet them?”

  Fazio smiled.

  “He organized burglaries to finance the band.”

  “Shit!”

  “Precisely.”

  “But how old is he?”

  “Exactly sixty years old.”

  “What do people around town say about him?”

  “That he’s a respectable, mild-mannered man.”

  “As far as that goes, I’m sure that when we arrest the brains of the band we’ll found out that he, too, is a respectable, mild-mannered man.”

  “Sure, Chief, but De Martino has become a man of order. He votes for the governing party and does advertising for the PdL.”

  “Then we should keep a doubly close watch over him.”

  “Already taken care of, Chief. I’ve got Officer Caruana looking after him.”

  “All right then, but carry on with that list; it’s important. See you this evening, at your place.”

  He went off to Marinella to pick up Livia, but didn’t find her at home. Looking out from the veranda, he saw her lying on the beach in her bathing suit near the water’s edge. He walked down to greet her.

  “I’m sunbathing.”

  “I can see that. But get dressed now; we’re going out to eat.”

  “I don’t feel like getting dressed.”

  “Well, I happen to be a little hungry.”

  “I’ve seen to everything.”

  Montalbano turned pale. He was worn out.

  If Livia had cooked, he would have a stomachache for two days, guaranteed.

  “I called the rosticceria; they were very nice. What do you call that pizza you make around here?”

  Calling cuddriruni pizza was sheer blasphemy. Like calling arancini supplì.

  “Cuddriruni.”

  “I explained it to them, and they figured it out. And there’s roast chicken and French fries too. They delivered it. It’s all in the oven.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” the inspector said impulsively, energized by the narrow escape. “You go ahead and continue sunbathing.”

  He went into the house, put on his own bathing suit, set the table on the veranda, and dived into the sea. The water was cold but invigorating. He went back inside, dried himself off, and called Livia.

  After eating, they went back down to the beach and lay down.

  Since he’d dozed off and Livia hadn’t woken him up, he returned to the office a little late, around four-thirty.

  “Any news?” he asked Catarella.

  “Nuttin’, Chief.”

  “Get Fazio on the line and put him through to me.”

  He sat down behind his desk, which was covered by a mountain of papers to be signed.

  To sign or not to sign? That was the question.

  And what about Fazio? Why no news of him?

  He called Catarella.

  “Ah, Chief! Fazio musta toined hisself off insomuch as the attamatic young lady tol’ me attamatically ’at the poisson I’s tryin’ a reach’s available.”

  “You mean ‘unavailable.’”

  “Why, wha’d I say?”

  “Listen, as soon as he picks up, put him through to me.”

  After thinking it over, he decided to listen to his bureaucratic conscience and start signing his name a hundred or so times.

  About an hour later, the phone rang. It was Fazio.

  “Sorry, Chief, I was involved in a delicate discussion with someone to do with the list. I’ll tell you later.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “All in order. Gallo’s got Macaluso’s garage under surveillance, and at seven this evening he’ll be joined by Miccichè, Tantillo, and Vadalà.”

  “So, see you at eight-thirty, then.”

  He resumed signing papers, but after about fifteen minutes, he was interrupted by the phone again.

  “Ah, Chief, there’d be a jinnelman onna premises ’at wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”

  “What does he want?”

  “’E sez ’is home was buggerized.”

  Another burglary?

  Burglaries, at that moment, took absolute priority over everything else.

  “Send him to me at once.”

  There was a gentle knock at the door.

  “Come in!”

  “Hello, my name is Giosuè Incardona,” the man said as he walked in.

  Montalbano shot a quick glance at the list of the Peritores’ friends: no Incardona.

  “Please sit down.”

  The man looked about fifty, wore very thick glasses, hadn’t a single hair on his head, was quite thin, and wore clothes too big for him. Being in a police station clearly made him nervous.

  “I don’t mean to disturb, but . . .”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a small house in the country halfway to Montelusa. Now and then I go there with my wife and two grandchildren. Last time I went I forgot my reading glasses there, and so this afternoon I went there and found the front door broken in.”

  “What do you mean by �
��broken in’?”

  “It was off its hinges.”

  “Would it have been so difficult to pick the lock or use a skeleton key?”

  “No, sir, easy as pie. Apparently they didn’t want to waste any time.”

  “What did they steal?”

  “The brand-new television set, a computer we use to play films for our grandchildren, an eighteenth-century watch that used to belong to my great-grandfather, and that’s all. But they were looking for something else, if you ask me.”

  “What were they looking for?”

  “These.”

  He extracted a set of keys from his pocket and showed them to the inspector.

  “What are they for?”

  “They’re for my home here in Vigàta. The robbers must’ve known that I keep a set in the country. And I’m sure that if they’d found them, they’d’ve come and robbed our house here.”

  “And why didn’t they find them?”

  “Because the last time I was there, I put them in a different place. I put them in the water tank for the toilet. I’d just finished watching The Godfather. Remember the scene where the godfather’s son goes to kill the . . .”

  Montalbano picked up the list of names and handed it to Incardona.

  “Have a look at this list, if you don’t mind, and tell me if you know any of these individuals.”

  Incardona took it, looked at it, and handed it back to Montalbano.

  “Almost all of them.”

  Montalbano gave a start.

  “How is that?”

  “In all modesty, I’m the best plumber in town. And I also make perfect copies of keys.”

  “Listen, do you remember whether you advised any of these people to do as you do—that is, to keep an extra set of keys available at a different residence?”

  “Of course! It’s the surest way to—”

  “Excuse me for just a minute.”

  He called Catarella.

  “Please accompany this gentleman to Galluzzo’s desk and have Galluzzo draw up his report. Signor Incardona, if there are any new developments, you’ll be the first to know. Thank you so much.”

  There was something about this that didn’t make sense.

  This latest burglary was almost certainly a red herring intended to throw him off the scent.