Angelica's Smile

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Sorry to say, Chief, but you seem fixated on the idea that Mr. Z is someone on the list.”

  “But why do you want to exclude him a priori? It’s an avenue we have to explore. What have we got to lose?”

  “Alright, but why don’t you explore this avenue yourself? You, with the ladies, you know what to do, whereas I . . .”

  Montalbano decided to cut things short.

  “No, you do it. Thanks for everything and good night. Oh, and if there’s any news from the Sciortinos, give me a ring.”

  He’d just finished setting the table on the veranda, so he could enjoy the rice salad Adelina had made for him, when the telephone started to ring.

  He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but then it occurred to him that it might be Livia calling to find out how his ankle was doing, and so he went to pick up.

  When he reached out to pick up the receiver, the phone fell silent.

  If it was Livia, she would call back, since she knew he was immobilized at home.

  He went back out to the veranda, sat down, and was bringing the first forkful to his lips when the phone started ringing again.

  He got up, cursing the saints.

  “Hello!”

  “Please don’t hang up.”

  It was Angelica.

  His heart began to race, of course, but not as fast as he would have thought.

  A sign that he was getting better.

  “I won’t hang up. What is it?”

  “Three things, really quick. First, I wanted to know how your foot is doing.”

  “A lot better, thanks. Tomorrow I can go back to work.”

  “Have you had a lot of trouble over . . . that favor you did for me?”

  “I was called in by the commissioner after Ragonese sent him the anonymous letter he’d received, but I managed to convince him that I’d told the truth in my report. I don’t think there’ll be any unpleasant consequences for me.”

  “But there will be for me.”

  “How?”

  “The manager of my branch felt obliged to write to the head office.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he says he’s very troubled by the conjecture that newsman made—that is, that I may have lied. He says it’s bad publicity for the bank and that, however things turn out, my credibility as an employee has been diminished.”

  She certainly had a lovely voice . . . It was spellbinding, like the song of the sirens. It soothed you, it . . .

  He managed to shake off the spell.

  “What does that mean in plain language?”

  “That I might be transferred.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He meant it.

  “So am I. One last thing, and then I’ll let you go. Fazio asked me whether anyone on the Peritores’ list had pursued me insistently and was rejected. The answer is yes, a lot of the men on that list have pursued me, to the point of harassment at times, but I don’t think any of them would be capable of blackmail.”

  “It was just a hypothesis of mine.”

  “Well, I have one of my own.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Clearly whoever wrote that anonymous letter knows my . . . well, my habits. But he didn’t reveal them. That would have ruined me. So why did he do it? Now let’s assume that this is a person I know, say, a bank customer, who is trying to win my sympathies . . .”

  “I don’t understand. Do you mean in order to get a loan?”

  Angelica started laughing.

  My god, what a laugh!

  Montalbano’s heart, which until that moment had been pumping like a steam engine, suddenly turned into an electrically powered high-speed train.

  “With me as the loan,” Angelica said when she finished laughing.

  That didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

  But it was too generic. He needed for Angelica to say more, perhaps to give a few names of those who had pressed the issue a little more than the others.

  “What were you doing?” Angelica asked.

  “Eating dinner.”

  “I haven’t eaten.”

  Then, just to keep talking, he asked:

  “Where are you?”

  “Here.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Here, in Marinella.”

  He started. Why was she in Marinella?

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you to open the door for me.”

  He thought he perhaps hadn’t heard right.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m waiting for you to open the door for me.”

  He staggered and grabbed a chair for support, as if he’d just been clubbed in the head.

  He set the phone down on the table, went to the door, and looked through the peephole.

  There was Angelica, holding her cell phone to her ear.

  Ever so slowly, Montalbano opened the door.

  And he knew, as he was doing it, that he was opening not only the front door to his house, but the door to his personal damnation, his own private hell.

  “Care to join me for dinner?”

  “Yes. I’ve finally managed to make it happen.”

  He sat her down beside him, so she could look at the sea.

  “It’s so beautiful here!”

  He shared his seafood salad with her.

  And they didn’t say another word until they were done eating.

  But Montalbano was curious about something.

  “I’m sorry, but . . . why didn’t it occur to you that I might not be able . . . ?”

  “To open the door for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because there might have been someone else with you inside?”

  “Yes.”

  “But didn’t your girlfriend leave a few days ago?”

  Montalbano’s mouth opened of its own accord. Then he closed it and started to speak again, but he stammered more than spoke.

  “But . . . what . . . how . . . do you know . . . what . . .”

  “I know everything about you. Your age, your habits, what you think about certain things . . . As soon as you left my place that day after the robbery, I quickly got on the phone and found out what I needed to know.”

  “And so when I invited you to eat at Enzo’s, you already knew that I always eat there?”

  “Of course. And I also knew that you don’t like to talk while you’re eating.”

  “And you pretended to—”

  “Yes, I pretended.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I liked you from the start,” said Angelica.

  Better change the subject.

  “Listen, I’d like to take advantage of this opportunity . . .”

  She smiled slyly.

  “No, not in your bed.”

  “Can’t you be serious for a moment?”

  “It’s hard for me to be serious when I’m happy. But I’ll try.”

  “A few minutes ago you said the writer of the anonymous letter may have been trying to win your sympathies.”

  “Why, don’t you agree?”

  “It’s possible, because, you see, I’d been thinking the same thing. But couldn’t you give me some names?”

  “Of whom?”

  “Of men outside the Peritores’ circle who may have pushed a little too hard with you . . .”

  She shrugged.

  “There’s an embarrassment of riches.”

  “I’m asking you to overcome your embarrassment and make a few choices.”

  “Well, that’s a big responsibility.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “It is! I give you a name without a second thought, and the poor guy will suddenly find hims
elf up to his neck in—”

  “I’m not asking you to give me a name without a second thought.”

  She said nothing, and just stared out at the sea.

  11

  “Have you got any whisky?” she asked out of the blue.

  “Of course.”

  Montalbano got up, went to get the bottle and two glasses, returned to the veranda, and poured out two fingers’ worth for her and four for himself.

  “Come on now, even-Steven,” Angelica protested.

  Montalbano added two more fingers to her glass.

  “Would you like some ice with that?”

  “No, I like it neat. Like you.”

  They drank their first sips.

  “It’s not easy. I have to think it over carefully.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell you what. Come to my place tomorrow for dinner, and I’ll give you the names.”

  “All right.”

  She finished her glass and stood up.

  “I’m going to go. And thanks. For everything.”

  Montalbano saw her to the door.

  Just before going out, Angelica put her lips on his for a brief moment.

  Sitting back out on the veranda, Montalbano didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or pleased with the encounter.

  From the moment he’d opened the door for her, he’d been simultaneously hoping and dreading.

  And so, he concluded, it couldn’t possibly have gone any better than it did.

  Around three-thirty in the morning he thought he heard the telephone ringing.

  He got up in a daze, crashed into a chair, but managed in the dark to pick up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Fazio, Chief.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “There’s been an exchange of fire with the burglars at the Sciortinos’. Shall I come and get you? I have to drive past your place anyway.”

  “All right.”

  In ten minutes he was ready. His foot fit perfectly into the shoe, and he wasn’t even limping.

  Fazio arrived five minutes later. They drove off toward Punta Bianca.

  “Anybody wounded?”

  “They shot at Loschiavo but didn’t get him. That’s all I know.”

  The Sciortinos’ house was brightly lit up. Signora Sciortino was making coffee for everyone.

  The couple from Rome, whose name was De Rossi, was rather upset, and for them Signora Sciortino made some chamomile tea.

  Montalbano and Fazio called Loschiavo aside and walked down to the water with him.

  “Tell us what happened,” said Montalbano.

  “I was in a squad car on the hill in back, Inspector, when suddenly I saw a car come up the beach with its headlights off. I looked at my watch, and it was five minutes to three. I got out of the car and started making my way down the hill without being noticed. It was very dark, and I fell twice. Then I hid behind a large rock.”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Three men. I think they were wearing ski masks, but it was very dark, as I said. Then after a point I didn’t see them anymore. The house was between me and them and prevented me from seeing what they were doing. So I started moving and made my way behind the house. I stuck my head around the corner and watched. They were busy doing something outside the front door. So I pulled out my weapon and said, ‘Stop, police!’ I saw a flash and heard a crack. I returned fire and shot three times, taking cover. But they kept firing nonstop, preventing me from sticking my head back out. Then I heard their car drive away at high speed.”

  “Thanks; you’ve been very precise.”

  Then, to Fazio:

  “But where have the Sciortinos and everyone else gone off to?”

  “I’ll go and see,” said Fazio. “Did you want to question them?”

  “No, but I don’t understand why they suddenly all went back into the house, all at the same time.”

  “You did a good job,” Montalbano said to Loschiavo as Fazio was walking away. “Do you think any of your shots hit anyone?”

  “I went and looked immediately afterwards, but I didn’t see any traces of blood on the ground.”

  Fazio came back.

  “They decided to go back to Vigàta. He said they were afraid to stay here.”

  “But the thieves definitely won’t be back,” said the inspector. “You know what I say? I say we go home and get a few hours of sleep. You can go too, Loschiavo.”

  “Ah Chief, Chief! Wha’, d’jou hoitcha foot? Ya gonna hafta walk witta cane f’rivver?” Catarella asked with concern.

  “No, come on! I’m fine! I just brought the cane to give it back to Fazio.”

  “Jeez, I’m rilly glad, Chief.”

  “Fazio here?”

  “He called sayin’ ’e’d be ’ere in about ten minutes.”

  Montalbano went into his office.

  He’d been away for only a day, but it felt more like a month.

  On his desk, aside from some fifty documents to sign, were six personal letters addressed to him.

  His right hand shot out and grabbed one.

  The same envelope as last time, same handwriting, except that this time the letter hadn’t been posted but hand delivered by someone.

  He picked up the receiver.

  “Catarella, come in here for a second.”

  “Yessir, Chief.”

  How did he always manage to get there so fast? Did he dematerialize in his switchboard closet and rematerialize inside the inspector’s office?

  “Who brought this letter?”

  “A li’l boy, Chief. Five minnits afore ya got ’ere.”

  A classic arrangement.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “’E said the litter was sint by summon you know.”

  Right. Indeed he knew exactly who’d sent it.

  Mr. Z.

  “Thanks, you can go.”

  He decided to open the envelope.

  Dear Montalbano,

  You’ve shown yourself to be quite intelligent, which I never doubted.

  But you were also aided by luck or some other factor that I have yet to identify.

  At any rate this letter is to confirm that there will be a fourth and last burglary. By the end of the week.

  And it will be a total success.

  If you haven’t already come to this conclusion you should know that last night’s burglary had a purpose.

  Which was to find out whether you had figured things out.

  And since you prepared a good defense, I shall now be forced to change tactics.

  At any rate, score one point in your favor.

  Cordially yours,

  “What do you think?”

  Fazio set the letter down on the desk. He had a slight look of disgust on his face.

  “I think Mr. Z is claiming that he organized the burglary just to see whether or not you understood his moves. The guy is very pretentious; you were right.”

  “But it’s the second sentence I can’t quite figure out,” said Montalbano. “What do you think he means when he says we were aided by a factor he hasn’t managed to identify yet?”

  “No idea.”

  “And there are some other things that don’t make sense to me.”

  “In the letter?”

  “No, in Mr. Z’s behavior.”

  “And what would they be?”

  “It’s not clear to me, but maybe it’ll become clear as we talk about it.”

  “So talk, then.”

  “It concerns last night’s attempted burglary of the Sciortino house. Lojacono, Peritore, Cosulich, and Sciortino are all friends, all part of the same broader circle of acquaintances, and all on the famous list. This you c
annot deny.”

  “And indeed I don’t. I only want to remind you that the Sciortinos didn’t tell any of their friends that they were going to Punta Bianca for a few days.”

  “Now I’ve got you! And what if Sciortino or his wife happened to mention my phone call to some friends? The one where I asked them if they’d told anyone they were going to Punta Bianca?”

  “I don’t get the—”

  “Let me finish. The instant Mr. Z finds out about our phone call, he organizes the heist!”

  “But what is he, some kind of idiot? He should have understood from our phone call that the house was under surveillance!”

  “Exactly!”

  “Chief, if you don’t make yourself clearer . . .”

  “It’s a perfect opportunity for him! It’s a way for him to show that he’s not part of the Peritores’ circle of friends. He pretends not to know that the house is under surveillance! It’s another red herring, can’t you see? Because, if I fall for it, I should start looking for the ringleader outside that goddamned list!”

  “Chief, when you get something into your head . . . Whatever way I look at it, I still maintain that Mr. Z is one of the people on the list! You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna call Sciortino and ask him if he told any of his friends about our phone call.”

  “You’ll be making a mistake! Instead you should let him think he managed to fool us!”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Then Fazio added:

  “Something just occurred to me.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “At the moment I have seven men and two cars at my disposal. Going by the names on the list, there are still fourteen apartments left to be burgled. But they’re all relatively close to one another. I might just be able to put all of them under surveillance until Saturday night.”

  “With two cars?”

  “Two cars and five bicycles, like the night watchmen.”

  “All right, then, go ahead and try.”

  Montalbano paused. Now he had to broach an uncomfortable subject.

  “There’s something else I have to tell you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Last night La Cosulich called me.”

  He disliked lying to Fazio, but he didn’t feel like telling him the truth, either.