In speaking with their friends, the Peritores must have mentioned that they’d given the police their names.
And the brains of the outfit, hoping to prevent Montalbano from reaching a certain conclusion, had created a diversion. Except that it had come too late.
And the three agents in the field had made the mistake of breaking in the door. Apparently they knew it was a job that wouldn’t net much, carried out just to throw up a smoke screen.
Another mistake was made by the brains himself, by choosing, as victim of the bogus burglary or whatever it was, someone who wasn’t on the list but was known by everyone on it.
This meant that the next real burglary would occur at the home of one of the sixteen people whose names were on the list.
The mastermind of the ring was showing that he had a brain that ran at very high speed and understood the way the inspector’s brain worked.
It was going to be a thrilling game of chess.
When he went to pick up Livia, he noticed she was wearing an outfit he hadn’t seen before.
A pleated skirt and elegant blouse, Thirties-style, with two sorts of flounces in front.
“Nice outfit,” he said.
“Do you like it? A friend of mine made it for me; he’s a tailor. He wanted to put some flounces hanging from behind, too, but to me it seemed a little excessive.”
It was not a flash, but a veritable lightning bolt, zigzagging through space, followed by a deafening thunderclap, that struck and nearly burned up the inspector’s brain, leaving him dazed and numb.
Livia got worried.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just a slight dizzy feeling. I must be tired. Tell me something: Is your tailor’s name Carlo?”
“Yes, and for your information, he’s not a criminal,” Livia replied defensively. “Actually he’s a wonderful, honest person,” she continued. “But how did you guess his name?”
“Guess? I didn’t guess anything. You told me yourself.”
“Really? I don’t remember. Shall we go?
The Rewards of Trust.
A novel for girls from good families with strict customs.
A man consumed by jealousy distorts the meaning of something his woman says in her sleep and torments himself for days, subjecting her to interrogations, quarrels, and traps. Only when his insane jealousy subsides does he reap his rewards. In fact, the woman by chance reveals the true and entirely innocent meaning of the words she said in her sleep. And as of that moment, the man’s love for the woman of his life increases manifold.
Not bad, eh? And instructive too.
Signora Fazio made simple but tasteful dishes. A fish soup and crispy fried mullets. And the cannoli Montalbano had brought were delicious.
In the presence of the two women, the inspector and Fazio did not talk about work.
At a quarter to eleven, Montalbano drove Livia back to Marinella with Fazio following behind, and then got into Fazio’s car.
At ten past eleven, Fazio’s cell phone rang. It was Gallo.
“Macaluso’s just left his home and taken the Vigàta road. He’s driving a yellow Mitsubishi. There are three other men with him. I’m following behind. Where are you guys?”
“In Marinella.”
“If you ask me, he’s headed for Montereale. If you stay where you are, we’ll drive right past you. If he changes direction, I’ll let you know.”
They positioned themselves at the end of Montalbano’s access road, with headlights off and the nose of the car just off the main road.
About ten minutes later they saw a yellow Mitsubishi drive by.
Then, two cars behind the Mitsubishi, a Volkswagen Polo.
“That’s Gallo’s car,” said Fazio.
And he pulled out behind him.
“We’re right behind you,” Fazio told him over the cell phone.
“I saw you.”
They passed Montereale, then Sicudiana, then Montallegro. At ten minutes to twelve, Macaluso’s car was still forging on.
Then they saw the Mitsubishi flash its right turn signal and go into a large sort of parking area.
As they drove past, Montalbano and Fazio noticed three other cars parked there.
“The other cars are already there,” said the inspector.
At that moment Gallo shouted through the cell phone:
“I’m going back! I’m gonna get them!”
A second later they saw his car coming toward them at an insane speed.
Fazio let him pass, then made a U-turn so fast that the car nearly flipped.
By the time they pulled into the parking area, Gallo already had the situation under control.
The three men had each managed to get into a car, but hadn’t had the time to turn the key. They all stood with their hands in the air, as Gallo and the two cops with him had their guns trained on them.
Macaluso, standing near a dumpster, also had his hands raised. In one hand he had a packet wrapped in newspaper and bound with a piece of string.
“I’ll take that,” Montalbano said to him.
Macaluso gave it to him.
“How much is there?”
“Fifteen thousand euros in bills of a hundred.”
To return to Vigàta, Montalbano had to drive Fazio’s car.
“Since you were caught like a fool with three stolen cars—in other words, red-handed—I get the feeling, my dear Macaluso, that this time you’re fucked,” said Fazio. “’Cause you’re also a repeat offender, with two prior convictions for receiving stolen goods.”
The three accomplices had been taken to holding cells.
Macaluso, for his part, was on the grill in Montalbano’s office.
“Could you take my handcuffs off?” asked Macaluso.
He was a great big man in overalls, a sort of walking armoire, red haired and red skinned.
“No,” said Montalbano.
Silence fell.
“I can wait all night, if it comes to that,” said Fazio.
Macaluso sighed and began to speak.
“Things ain’t what they look like,” he said.
“Chief, did you know our friend here was a philosopher?” said Fazio. “Then tell us what things are really like.”
“I got a call from a customer that tol’ me to go an’ pick up these three cars he left—”
“The customer’s name?” asked Fazio.
“I don’ remember.”
“And how’d you get the keys?”
“He said he left ’em in the trunk of the Daewoo, which was unlocked.”
“This detail may even be true, but I’m sure it was the thieves who left them there.”
“I assure you that—”
“Try to think up a better one, come on.”
“You know what I say?” Montalbano cut in. “It’s getting late. It’s two o’clock in the morning. And I’m sleepy.”
“Lemme go an’ we’ll all go to bed,” Macaluso suggested.
“Quiet. Keep your mouth shut and listen to me,” said the inspector. “Listen closely.”
And he started to recite from memory the intercepted phone conversation.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“I’m the friend with the moustache.”
“Oh, is something up?”
“I got three brand-new packages . . .”
He looked at Macaluso and asked:
“Is that enough, or should I go on?”
“Th’ass enough.”
“Want a cigarette?”
“Yeah.”
Montalbano handed it to Fazio, who stuck it between Macaluso’s lips and lit it for him.
“We can make a deal.”
“Le’ss hear it.”
“You tell us the name
of the guy on the phone, the one with the moustache, and I’ll tell the prosecutor to take your cooperation into consideration.”
“I wish I could make that deal, believe me.”
“Who’s preventing you?”
“Nobody. But this guy wit’ the moustache, I only seen ’im once, at night, real quick-like, three years ago, an’ I don’ even know ’is name.”
“How long have you been working with him?”
“Three years, like I said. They call, they tell me where they left the car, I put the money in the glove compartment, I leave, an’ th’ass it.”
He seemed sincere.
5
Montalbano exchanged a quick glance with Fazio and they both understood. Fazio was also of the opinion that Macaluso was telling the truth.
Carrying on would only mean losing sleep.
“Put him in a holding cell,” the inspector said to Fazio. “And tomorrow have them all taken to the prison, and send the report to Tommaseo. Good night.”
Montalbano wasn’t happy with the way things had gone.
“Wake up, lazybones!”
He slowly raised his eyelids, which seemed stuck together with glue. Through the open window a glorious sun beamed triumphant.
“Could you bring me a cup of coffee in bed?”
“No, but it’s all ready in the kitchen.”
To take one’s coffee lying down, God forbid!
A mortal sin worse than concupiscence!
He got up, cursing to himself, went into the kitchen, drank his coffee, and then locked himself in the bathroom.
When he came back out, it was ten o’clock.
At the station, Fazio was waiting for him.
“Chief, I’ve got a few things to tell you.”
“Me too. You go first.”
“Yesterday, when you were trying to reach me on the cell phone and found it turned off, I was in the middle of a discussion with Signora Agata Cannavò, the widow of Commendatore Gesmundo Cannavò, ex–director general of the port, ex-sponsor of Dockers’ Day, ex—”
“Fine, fine, but who’s Signora Cannavò?”
“The sixteenth name on the list.”
“Ah, right. And why did you go and talk to her?”
“I went to tell her that there was a possibility, however slim, that she would be robbed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, till now I’d been hearing about the people on the list from outsiders, and I was interested in finding out what somebody who was on the list thought about the whole thing.”
“Good idea! What did she say?”
“A whole slew of things. The widow is a busybody who knows everything about everyone. And she talks nonstop. She told me that Ragonier Tavella is drowning in debt because he spends all his time in illegal gambling dens. She told me that Signora Martorana, the wife of Antonio Martorana, the surveyor, is engineer De Martino’s mistress. And she told me in a whisper that the Peritores, in her opinion, have an ‘open’ marriage, even though they do everything to hide it. To the point of going to church every Sunday. And she even told me something funny.”
“What was that?”
“Apparently on the night the seaside house was robbed, there were four people sleeping there.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, according to the widow, Signora Peritore was in one bedroom with another man, while Signor Peritore was in a different bedroom with another woman.”
“But hadn’t they gone there to celebrate their wedding anniversary?”
“I guess everyone has their own way of celebrating,” Fazio said philosophically.
“Nice little social circle. Listen, what’s Peritore do for a living?”
“Officially speaking, he sells used cars.”
“And unofficially?”
“He lives off his wife, who’s filthy rich from an inheritance an aunt left to her.”
“So, to conclude, the widow didn’t tell you anything pertinent to the burglaries.”
“Nothing.”
“So we’re at a dead end.”
“’Fraid so.”
“I’m absolutely positive there’s going to be another robbery.”
“Me too. But we can’t very well put eleven apartments under surveillance here and another handful of villas and houses in the country or by the sea!”
“We’ll just have to wait. And hope that they make some kind of mistake next time.”
“That’s unlikely.”
“Not really. In the burglary that was supposed to throw us off, they made the mistake of breaking down the door.”
“What burglary was that, may I ask?”
“Ah, that’s right, you were never informed.”
And he told Fazio about the plumber Incardona’s visit and the burglary that, according to him, was just a red herring.
Fazio agreed.
When Fazio left, the inspector reached out with one hand, picked up the four letters addressed to him that he’d found on his desk, and started slowly studying the postmarks on them.
Two had been sent from Milan, another from Rome, and the last one from Montelusa.
In Milan he had no friends; in Rome he had a friend who had even put him up once, but he’d been recently transferred to Parma; and in Montelusa, of course, he knew a lot of people.
But the truth of the matter was that he hated to open his mail.
Nowadays he received all sorts of advertising pamphlets, invitations to cultural events, and occasionally a few meager lines from former schoolmates of his.
All things considered, given his age, he had to admit he hadn’t made many friends over the course of his life.
In a way he was happy about this, and in another way he wasn’t. Perhaps, with old age coming on faster than a rocket heading for outer space, it would have been better to have a few friends by his side.
But, deep down, weren’t Fazio, Mimi Augello, and even Catarella by now more friends than coworkers?
This was his consolation, if there was indeed any consolation in it.
He decided to open the letters.
Three of them were of no importance, but the fourth . . .
It was anonymous, and written in block capitals.
It went as follows:
MY DEAR INSPECTOR,
PLEASE CONSIDER THIS LETTER A SORT OF GAUNTLET THAT I AM THROWING DOWN.
AT ANY RATE YOU HAVE ALREADY ACCEPTED THE CHALLENGE BY TAKING ON THE INVESTIGATION PERSONALLY.
AND SO I HAVE THE PLEASURE OF INFORMING YOU THAT, UNFORTUNATELY FOR YOU, THERE WILL BE TWO MORE BURGLARIES.
AFTER WHICH I SHALL GO BACK TO DOING WHAT I HAVE ALWAYS DONE.
BUT I WILL HAVE HAD A LOT OF FUN.
I’M ENTITLED TO HAVE A PASTIME LIKE ANYONE ELSE, AM I NOT?
AND THE FACT THAT I’M DOING THIS JUST TO AMUSE MYSELF IS CLEAR FROM THE FACT THAT I LET MY COLLABORATORS KEEP ALL THE LOOT.
IT IS UP TO YOU TO PREVENT THE NEXT TWO BURGLARIES, WHICH YOU CAN DO ONLY BY GUESSING THE TIME AND PLACE.
CORDIALLY YOURS, AND WITH BEST WISHES.
The letter had been sent from Montelusa the day before.
The inspector called Fazio and handed it to him.
Fazio read it and put it back on the desk without saying anything.
“What do you think?”
Fazio shook his head.
“Bah!”
“Come on, don’t make like the Sibyl. Speak!”
“Chief, this letter seems totally useless to me. The guy wrote it just to write it. It has no purpose.”
“So it would seem, to all appearances.”
“Whereas?”
“Well, first of all, it’s clear that the guy who sent it is pretentious. He may even be quite i
ntelligent, but he’s definitely pretentious. And pretentious people can’t always control themselves. At some point they can’t help but try and show, whatever the cost, that they’re better than everyone else.”
“And second?”
“Second, he wants us to think that these burglaries are only an amusement, a pastime of his.”
“Whereas?”
“Whereas I’m under the impression that he’s looking for something, something specific, just one thing, the only thing he’s interested in.”
“Something to steal?”
“Not necessarily. Sometimes these burglaries have, well, collateral damage. When I was a deputy inspector, a house was robbed. The lady came and declared all the jewelry she lost. And then by chance, her husband saw the list. And he realized that there were a couple of earrings and a necklace that he hadn’t given her himself. It was her lover that had bought them for her. And the whole thing ended in a terrible row.”
He spent the morning signing paper after paper, until his arm finally gave out.
The ideal statue of a bureaucrat, he thought, should have its right arm in a sling.
He headed off for Marinella, thinking he would find Livia on the beach, sunbathing.
Instead he found her standing in the doorway of the house, all dressed up.
“I have to go back to Genoa immediately.”
“Why?”
“They called me from the office, and two of my colleagues have called in sick. I didn’t have the heart to say no. You know how things are these days. They’re always looking for the slightest excuse to get rid of you.”
Damn! Right when things were beginning to go so well between them.
“Have you already changed the ticket?”
“Yes, I’m on the five o’clock flight.”
Montalbano glanced at his watch. It was exactly one o’clock.
“Listen, we still have an hour at our disposal. I don’t have anything pressing to do, so I can drive you to Palermo. We can go straight away and have a quick lunch at Enzo’s, or we can . . .”
Livia smiled.
“Let’s do the second thing . . .” she said.
The drive to the airport went smoothly until they reached the intersection at Lercara Freddi. Here the road was blocked, and a road policeman explained to Montalbano that two trucks had got wedged together, and they’d had to set up a detour.
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