Angelica's Smile

by Andrea Camilleri

  Fazio was a redoubtable cop, and in such situations one had to take as many precautions as against the plague.

  “How could I possibly enjoy staying awake in a car in the middle of the night?” Montalbano asked gruffly, on purpose.

  Fazio said nothing.

  “With all those mosquitoes that don’t give you a moment’s rest?” Montalbano continued.

  “I didn’t get a single bite,” said Fazio.

  This time Montalbano said nothing. But he was hoping Angelica didn’t call while Fazio was still in his office.

  All at once, he had an idea.

  He had the phone number of the Sciortinos’ beach house in his cell phone, but he’d forgotten it at home. He asked Fazio for it, then dialed it at once.

  “Hello?” said a woman’s voice.

  “Good morning. Inspector Montalbano here. I’d like to speak with Mr. Sciortino.”

  “I’m his wife. I’ll get him at once.”

  “Good morning, Inspector, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Sciortino, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need some information.”

  “I’m glad to help.”

  “Did you tell your friends in Vigàta that you’d be going to your house by the sea for three days?”

  “I’m sorry, but why do you ask?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, believe me.”

  “I trust all my friends implicitly.”

  “And I’m sure you have every reason to do so.”

  “Anyway, it seems to me nothing happened last night, right?”

  “Absolutely. But I want you please to answer me just the same.”

  “I don’t think I told anyone.”

  “Think it over carefully.”

  “No, nobody, I’m sure of it.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “Wait just a second.”

  It really took him only a second.

  “Antonietta says the same thing.”

  “Well, thank you, then. You’re very kind.”

  As soon as he put down the receiver, Fazio said:

  “That road leads nowhere, Chief.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I realized what you were getting at. But even if the burglars don’t show up the next two nights, that doesn’t mean Mr. Z is one of the Peritores’ eighteen friends. It’s possible that Mr. Z isn’t part of that circle, or maybe he is but he has no interest in robbing the Sciortinos.”

  “Good point,” Montalbano admitted.

  Had he been in normal condition, he would never have thought of anything so stupid. And a man of nearly sixty besotted with a woman barely thirty could hardly be said to be in normal condition, could he?

  More to appear nonchalant in front of Fazio than because of any real necessity, he phoned the Free Channel studios.

  “Hello, this is Montalbano. Is Zito there?”

  “Just a moment.”

  The receiver started playing a passage from Wagner’s Ring of the Nibelung, which was scarcely phone entertainment stuff.

  “Ciao, Salvo.”

  “Ciao. Listen, after you broadcast the news of the burglary, did you receive any reactions?”

  “None. I would have called you in that case.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  Another dead end, just to use another cliché.

  They looked at each other disconsolately.

  “I’m going back to my office,” said Fazio, getting up and leaving.

  Immediately afterwards, the telephone rang.

  “Chief, iss Signora Cosulicchio wants a talk t’yiz.”

  “Is she here?”

  “No, Chief, she’s onna line.”

  “Put her on.”

  Perfect timing.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  “I didn’t go to bed.”

  “Were there any complications?”

  “No. I just knew that I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, so I waited for the sun to rise.”

  “I on the other hand slept like a rock. I’m calling from the office; I haven’t got much time. I can’t meet you for lunch.”

  His heart crashed to the floor and most certainly suffered some lesions.

  “Why not?”

  “I have to stay at the bank for about half an hour after closing. It wouldn’t leave us much time.”

  “Still better than nothing.”

  “I don’t agree. I get off work at six. I’ll go home, change clothes, and then come to your place, if that’s all right and if you’re free. That way we can go out to dinner instead of lunch.”

  “All right.”

  “Explain to me how to get to your house.”

  The lesions on his heart miraculously healed.

  He went to Enzo’s for lunch.

  “And where’s the beautiful girl from yesterday?”

  Enzo seemed disappointed.

  “She’s just a chance acquaintance, Enzo.”

  “I wish I could have the same chance as you.”

  “What’ve you got for me?” said Montalbano, changing the subject.

  “Whatever you like.”

  The inevitable antipasto. Risotto with an assortment of fish. Two big filets of sole that hung over the edge of the plate.

  When the inspector was getting up to leave, Enzo called him.

  “Telephone, Inspector.”

  Who on earth had the nerve to bust his balls during lunch at the restaurant? There were strict standing orders against it.

  “Beckin’ yer partin’, Chief, but hizzoner the c’mishner jess called madder ’n’ a tchaguar in a topical forest! Jeezis, was ’e ivver mad! Made the ’airs on my arms stann’ up!”

  “Wha’d he want?”

  “’E din’t say. Bu’ ’e’s gonna call back in a haff a hour an’ ’e says ’e assolutely wants yiz to be inna office assolutely to get ’is call!”

  “All right, I’m on my way.”

  So much for his walk along the jetty. How was he ever going to digest properly?

  Better look for another solution.

  “Enzo, bring me a digestivo, would you?”

  “I got some limoncello my wife made that’s better than a plumber’s helper.”

  And indeed it had a certain effect.

  He’d been sitting at his desk for about ten minutes when the telephone rang.

  “Iss him, Chief!” said Catarella, all agitated.

  “Put him on.”

  “Montalbano!”

  “I’m here, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “Montalbano!”

  “I’m still here, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “And that’s my undoing! That you’re still here instead of going to the devil! Instead of disappearing! But this time, as God is my witness, you’re going to pay for this, and for all the other times!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will. I’ll expect you at six P.M.”

  Like hell you will! Not at six or anytime thereafter, not even if God came down from heaven! He had to invent an excuse.

  “At six, you say?”

  “Yes. Are you going deaf?”

  “But the Pinkerton is arriving at six!”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a ship, Mr. Commissioner.”

  9

  “A ship? And what’s that got to do with you?”

  “The Harbor Office alerted me. Apparently there’s contraband aboard.”

  “But isn’t that the job of the Customs Police?”

  “Yessir, indeed it is. But they’re all sick. There’s a little stomach bug epidemic. Apparently the drinking water got tainted.”

  How many more lies co
uld he come up with?

  “Send your second-in-command!”

  “He was let go, Mr. Commissioner?”

  “Let go? What the hell are you saying?”

  “I’m sorry, I got that mixed up. I meant he’s on a leave of absence.”

  Damn Catarella!

  “Then I’ll expect you at five o’clock on the dot.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  What on earth could have happened?

  The telephone rang. It was Zito.

  “Did you see Ragonese’s editorial on the midday report?”

  “No. What did he say?”

  “Come over and I’ll let you see the videotape. You need to hear this for yourself.”

  Twenty minutes later he was rushing into the Free Channel studios.

  “Let’s go in the viewing room. It’s all set up,” said Zito.

  There wasn’t anyone else in the room.

  Zito turned on the tape.

  The pursed-lipped mouth on Ragonese’s chicken-ass face began to speak.

  “A very strange fact of unprecedented gravity has come to our attention. We will, of course, duly forward to Montelusa police commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi the letter that informed us of this episode. Our news program has already broadcast a report on the wave of burglaries that have beset our town, and which Inspector Salvo Montalbano, into whose hands the case has unfortunately fallen, has been unable to put an end to. The thieves apparently always use the same modus operandi.

  “They break into a vacation home while the owners are asleep inside, take the keys to these people’s apartment in town, and then proceed to rob it unmolested. This is exactly what happened again in the latest robbery, suffered by Miss Angelica Cosulich, but in his report on the incident, Inspector Montalbano altered the facts, writing that the only place that was robbed was Miss Cosulich’s apartment in town. Whereas the procedure was in fact the same on this occasion: the burglars first broke into the villa belonging to Miss Cosulich’s cousin, while she was asleep inside, and took the keys to her urban apartment.

  “This raises two questions. Was it Miss Cosulich who failed to tell Inspector Montalbano of the true sequence of events? And, if so, for what purpose? Or was it the inspector himself who filed a partial report of these events? And, if so, why? We shall keep our viewers informed of the latest developments in this situation, which we find gravely disturbing.”

  “You wanted a reaction?” said Zito. “Well, there you have it!”

  Now Montalbano understood what had made Mr. C’mishner so angry.

  It was four-thirty, so he made his way slowly to Montelusa Central Police.

  The usher showed him into the commissioner’s office at five-twenty.

  Montalbano felt calm. He’d had all the time he needed to prepare a dramatic defense, to be delivered in the old-fashioned Italian style, à la Gustavo Salvini or Ermete Zacconi.

  The commissioner did not look up from a sheet of paper he was reading. He did not greet the inspector or even tell him to sit down.

  Travelers’ warning: high-intensity storm on the horizon.

  Then, still without saying a word, the commissioner extended his arm and handed Montalbano the sheet he’d been reading.

  It was an anonymous letter, written in block letters.

  IT ISN’T TRUE THAT THE BURGLARS ONLY BROKE INTO THE APARTMENT WHERE ANGELICA COSULICH LIVES. THEY TOOK THE KEYS FROM HER COUSIN’S VILLA, WHERE SHE HAD GONE TO TAKE THE DAY OFF. WHY DID INSPECTOR MONTALBANO OMIT THIS FACT FROM HIS REPORT?

  Montalbano threw the paper disdainfully back on the commissioner’s desk.

  “I demand an explanation!” Bonetti-Alderighi said.

  Montalbano brought his hand to his forehead, as if in pain.

  “Alas!” he said operatically. “What grave offense is this?”

  Removing his hand from his brow, he opened his eyes wide, then pointed at the commissioner with a trembling finger.

  “You insult me with such ignoble slander!”

  “Come now, Montalbano, nobody is slandering you!” said the commissioner, slightly bewildered.

  “You lend credence to the words of an anonymous coward! You—yes, you—who should protect your faithful attendants, you abandon me to the whims of vile falsehoods!”

  “Why are you talking that way? Come on, calm down!”

  Montalbano didn’t sit down so much as collapse into a chair.

  “My report is honest and veracious! And none shall cast doubt upon it!”

  “But why are you talking that way?” the commissioner repeated, seeming troubled.

  “Could I have some water?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Montalbano stood up, took two steps, staggering as though drunk, opened the minibar, poured himself a glass of water, and sat back down.

  “Now I feel a little better. Forgive me, Mr. Commissioner, but when I am unjustly accused of something, I temporarily lose control of my language skills. It’s called Scotti Turow Syndrome; do you know it?”

  “Vaguely,” said the commissioner, not wanting to appear completely ignorant. “Now tell me what really happened.”

  “Mr. Commissioner, that letter is a pack of lies. While it’s true that Miss Cosulich was sleeping in her cousin’s villa—”

  “But then—”

  “Please let me finish. The burglars did not go inside the villa; they did not rob it.”

  Which was the pure and simple truth.

  “But then how did they get their hands on the keys? Because you, in your report, write that the door to her apartment was not forced!”

  “Let me explain. Miss Cosulich carelessly left the keys to her apartment in the glove compartment of her car, which was parked outside the villa. The thieves, apparently in passing, examined the documents with her address on it and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Technically, I couldn’t mention a burglary in the villa in the report, since this never happened. I wrote instead that the woman’s car had been stolen. So, as you can see, there was no omission.”

  He glanced at his watch. Matre santa, it was three minutes to six!

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Commissioner, but the Butterfly is about to come into port, and I—”

  “Didn’t you say it was called the Pinkerton?”

  “Excuse me, you’re absolutely right. The Pinkerton. You see, that unjust accusation has confused—”

  “All right, all right, you can go.”

  He raced to Marinella at breakneck speed, about fifty miles an hour for normal drivers.

  As he was passing through the village of Villaseta, a carabiniere with disc signals in hand, who’d probably been hiding behind a blade of grass, suddenly appeared in front of him, gesturing for him to stop.

  “License and registration.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  “The speed limit in a residential area is thirty miles an hour. Everybody and their dog knows this.”

  The inspector’s irritation at this new delay and the use of a cliché triggered an unfortunate reply.

  “Why, don’t the cats and birds know it?”

  The carabiniere gave him a dirty look.

  “Trying to be funny, are we?”

  He couldn’t allow himself to get into an argument. The guy was liable to run him in, and that would be all for Angelica that night.

  “I’m sorry.”

  How humiliating, shameful, offensive for a police inspector to have to say he was sorry to an officer of the carabinieri!

  The carabiniere, who was carefully studying the inspector’s license, made a strange face.

  “Are you Inspector Montalbano?”

  “Yes,” he admitted through clenched teeth.

  “Are you on duty?”

  Of course he was on duty. He was always
on duty.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can go,” said the officer, giving him back his license and registration, and a military salute.

  Montalbano drove off at a speed that would have had him finishing last in a tortoise race, but after the first bend he sped back up to fifty.

  By the time he got home, it was six-forty.

  It was anybody’s guess now whether Angelica had phoned or not.

  He took the phone off the hook so that it would ring busy, went and took a quick shower because he was drenched in sweat, then put the receiver back on the hook and got dressed.

  His dramatic performance with the commissioner had taken a lot out of him.

  At seven-thirty, after he had already smoked a whole pack of cigarettes, the phone decided to ring.

  It was Angelica.

  “There’s a problem.”

  What was going on? Was this National Frustration Day or something?

  “What is it?”

  “I’m at my cousin’s villa. I came to put my room back in order. I hadn’t been back since the burglary, you know, and suddenly the power went out. A fuse must have blown. I have everything I need here to fix it, but I don’t know how to do it.”

  “Sorry to ask, but what do you need power for right now? Just lock up, come over to my place, and tomorrow we’ll call an electrician.”

  “They’re delivering the water tonight.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They deliver water here once a week. If there’s no electricity in the tank, the pump doesn’t work, and the water won’t be sucked in. Understand? I risk being without water for over a week.”

  Montalbano had an unpleasant thought: Did she perhaps need her love nest in the coming days?

  As if she’d read his mind, she said:

  “And I won’t be able to wash the floors, which are dirty.”

  “I can try to fix things myself.”

  “I didn’t dare ask. I’ll explain to you how to get here.”

  She’d certainly picked a nice place!

  It was in the open country, and the inspector took forty-five minutes to get there.

  Leading off a dirt road was a long lane with an iron gate that looked as if it hadn’t been closed for years. At the end of it was a large eighteenth-century villa, completely isolated and well maintained.