Angelica's Smile

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Yes, two. And at that moment, the man in back turned around and fired.”

  “One shot?”

  “Two.”

  Montalbano looked questioningly at Fazio, who gave a nod as if to say “yes.”

  “And then the motorcycle immediately accelerated and was gone,” the accountant concluded.

  “Were you able to get a look at the face of the man who fired the shots?”

  “Are you kidding? Both were wearing helmets that entirely covered their faces. But, in a way, Angelica was lucky.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I distinctly saw—just as the man was extending his arm to shoot—I saw the motorcycle lurch violently; it must have hit a pothole or something. And so the first shot missed, but the second hit her in the middle of the chest. I’m sure the guy was aiming straight at her heart.”

  “Did you manage to get a look at the license plate?”

  “No.”

  “None of you saw it?”

  “No, none of us. I wasn’t thinking . . . Anyway, after they shot her, you can imagine what happened. Everybody ran in every direction . . . And it just didn’t occur to me, to look at the license plate . . .”

  “Why not?”

  “My first thought was . . . Well, I just ran toward Angelica, who was lying in the middle of the street.”

  “Did she manage to say anything?”

  “No. I bent down over her, she was white as a sheet, her eyes were closed, she seemed to have trouble breathing . . . that horrific red stain on her blouse was growing and growing . . . I was about to pick her up off the ground when a man looking out from a balcony above said not to, and said he’d be down right away. He’s a doctor who has his office there. He’d already called an ambulance, but when he came down he immediately started to stanch the wound.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Falletta.”

  “Can I say something?”

  “Of course.”

  “In the last few days poor Angelica wasn’t . . . well, she wasn’t her usual self.”

  “And how was she?”

  “I don’t know . . . very nervous . . . sometimes even rude . . . as if her thoughts were always elsewhere, always focused on something . . . well, unpleasant. You see, Inspector, ever since Miss Cosulich arrived at the bank about six months ago, the atmosphere had changed . . . it had become more cheerful . . . more livable . . . Angelica has a smile that . . .”

  He stopped. Up to that point he’d been able to control himself, but suddenly his lips began to tremble, at the memory of Angelica’s smile.

  And Montalbano realized that young Falletta, the accountant, was hopelessly in love with her too.

  He felt sorry for him.

  When Fazio returned from having seen Falletta out, Montalbano asked him what had happened to the cell phone.

  “You mean Angelica’s? When the ambulance arrived, it ran over it and smashed it into a thousand pieces. What’s worse, most of the pieces fell into a drain.”

  “Why didn’t you think to grab it at once?”

  “Because I didn’t find out Angelica had been on the phone until after the ambulance arrived. It was too late. The damage was already done.”

  Montalbano picked up the receiver.

  “Catarella? Get the manager of the Banca Siculo-Americana on the line and then put him through to me.”

  “His name’s Filippone,” Fazio informed him, “and he’s a rather nasty sort. One of the employees had run back to tell him what had happened, and he raced to the scene. And then—”

  “Why, he doesn’t eat with the others?”

  “No, he just eats a little bit of fruit in his office. Anyway, he raced to the scene, and while they were waiting for the ambulance to arrive, all he could do was repeat that the whole episode would damage the bank’s reputation.”

  The telephone rang. Montalbano turned on the speakerphone.

  “Mr. Filippone? This is Inspector Montalbano, of the Vigàta police.”

  “Good afternoon, what can I do for you?”

  “I need some information.”

  “Banking information?”

  “I’m sorry, but if I call a bank, what kind of information am I going to ask for? About the latest outbreak of the flu in Malaysia?”

  “No, but, you see, we are held to the rules of banking secrecy. And our manner of procedure, moreover, is one of transparency, in full, absolute respect of the prerogatives of—”

  “I want a list of all your clients, and I want it at once. That’s not a secret.”

  “Why do you want it?” Filippone asked, alarmed.

  “Because. You know, we too are required to maintain investigative secrecy.”

  “Investigative?” asked Filippone, scared to death. “Listen, Inspector, I don’t think the telephone is the proper venue for discussing—”

  “Then come here to the station. And make it snappy.”

  Fazio smiled at him.

  “You’re making him pay for it, eh?”

  Filippone came in sweaty and out of breath.

  He was a man of about fifty, chubby, pink-skinned, and almost beardless, perhaps distantly related to some forgotten breed of swine.

  “Do not think for an instant that I wish in any way to obstruct . . .” he said, sitting down with great dignity.

  “I don’t think,” said Montalbano. “Fazio do you think I could think such a thing?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Fazio.

  “You see? Now, just a few questions for the purpose of the investigation. Is there anyone among your customers who belongs to the Cuffaro family?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean by your use of the word ‘family.’”

  “How long have you been the manager of your branch of the Banca Siculo-Americana?”

  “Two years.”

  “Are you Sicilian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t be telling me you don’t know the meaning of the word ‘family’ down here.”

  “Well . . . I don’t have any of the Cuffaros as customers.”

  The other Mafia family in Vigàta was the Sinagra clan.

  “What about the Sinagras?”

  Filippone wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “Well, there’s Ernesto Ficarra, who’s a nephew of—”

  “I know who he is.”

  Montalbano pretended to write something down.

  “How much credit are you exposed for with him?”

  Filippone blanched. The sweat was now pouring down his face in rivulets.

  “How did you know?”

  “We know everything,” said the inspector, who had fired a shot in the dark and been right on target. “Please answer my question.”

  “Er . . . well, a lot.”

  “Are you aware that Ernesto Ficarra is currently awaiting trial on racketeering charges, wholesale drug trafficking, and pimping?”

  “Well, a few rumors had reached my—”

  “A few rumors! And this is your famous transparency?”

  Filippone was now drenched.

  “A final question, and then you can do me a favor and get the hell out of here. Is one of your customers a man by the name of Michele Pennino?”

  Filippone livened up slightly.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well . . . for no reason he decided to withdraw his—”

  “For no reason? Do you know you’re taking a very big risk by not telling me the truth?”

  Filippone deflated like a punctured balloon.

  “He had asked Miss Cosulich not to . . . not to be so formal about the declarations as to the provenance of the sums Mr. Pennino was depositing . . .”

  “But one day Miss Cosulich rebelled and refused t
o accept Pennino’s deposit, and he changed banks. Is that what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now get out of here.”

  “So you think it was Pennino who—”

  “Not in my wildest dreams. I just wanted to know whether Angelica gave me Pennino’s and Parisi’s names just to throw me off the trail. I took a roundabout path with the bank manager because I wanted to frighten and confuse him.”

  “Whereas Cosulich told you the truth.”

  “Only in part,” Montalbano admitted.

  Fazio opened his mouth but then closed it immediately.

  “Meanwhile,” the inspector continued, “there’s no longer any need for you to keep trying to find out whether anything unusual happened within the Peritores’ circle a few months ago.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Falletta’s already told us.”

  “Falletta?! How?”

  “The unusual thing happened when Cosulich moved to Vigàta six months ago. She may have already told me this, but I’d forgotten it. Now we need to find out who it was that introduced her immediately into that circle. It’s extremely important.”

  Fazio remained silent for a long time.

  Then he spoke, looking down at his shoe tops.

  “Chief, when are you going to make up your mind and tell me what you know or think about Miss Cosulich?

  Montalbano had been waiting for this question for quite some time.

  “Soon. For now bring me the information on the last name, Schirò. I’m going home; I feel tired. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  18

  He sat out on the veranda, not having eaten. His stomach was tight as a knot, as if in the grip of a closed fist.

  “Alas!” he said, “my heart both burns and freezes,

  Now that my love is rendered null and void.

  What shall I do? . . .”

  No, enough of Ariosto. Above all, enough of the Angelica of his youth. There was only one thing to be done; there was no point in continually asking himself. And that was to proceed straight ahead, even if it cost him a great deal, or too much.

  He pulled out of his pocket the two sheets of paper Fazio had given him with the personal particulars. He’d grabbed them on his way out of the office and now settled in to study them.

  But even he didn’t know what he was looking for.

  Then he stopped short.

  Because inside his brain, some of Angelica’s words had suddenly come back to him.

  . . . my mother was from Vigàta . . . my father’s no longer around either . . . a terrible accident, here . . . I was only five at the time . . .

  A sort of wave of heat came over him, so strong that he had to get up at once and take a shower.

  When he was done, he went back out on the veranda and read Angelica’s personal particulars.

  Angelica Cosulich, daughter of Dario Cosulich and Clementina Baio, born on September 6, 1979, and residing in . . .

  Feeling suddenly restless, he got up and phoned police headquarters.

  “Yer orders, Chief.”

  “Listen, Cat, do you feel like working tonight?”

  “I c’d woik a tousand nights f’yiz, Chief!”

  “Thanks. The archive of Il Giornale dell’Isola has all been computerized, hasn’t it?”

  “Yessir. We awreddy consalted it once.”

  “Okay, I want you to search the year 1984 and see if you can find a report on a car accident in which two people lost their lives, a husband and wife, whose names were—now right this down correctly—Dario Cosulich and Clementina Baio. Now repeat them back to me.”

  “Vario Cosulicchio ’n’ Clementina Pario.”

  “Let me dictate them to you again. Try to get it right this time. And as soon as you’ve found the article, call me back at home.”

  Good thing the night was beautiful, relaxing, and quiet.

  Montalbano needed only look out at the sea and sky to feel his agitation diminish a few degrees.

  He was on his sixth glass of whisky and had just opened his second pack of cigarettes when the phone rang.

  “I foun’ it, Chief, I foun’ it! I foun’ it an’ I prinnit it!”

  Catarella was triumphant.

  “Read it to me.”

  Catarella started reading.

  Vigàta, October 3, 1984. From our correspondent. This morning the lifeless bodies of Dario Cosulich, aged forty-five, and his wife, Clementina Baio, aged forty, were found at their home at 104 Via Rosolino Pilo, by the cleaning woman. The apparent causes of death are murder and suicide.

  After killing his wife with one gunshot, Mr. Cosulich turned the weapon on himself. Dario Cosulich, a native of Trieste, moved to Vigàta seven years ago, where he opened a wholesale fabric store. After a successful start, business began to go bad. One week before the tragic event, Mr. Cosulich was forced to declare bankruptcy. The motive of jealousy in the murder-suicide has been ruled out. Apparently Mr. Cosulich could no longer meet the exorbitant demands of the illegal lenders from whom he had borrowed money.

  All that was missing was the final piece of the mosaic he could now see clearly before his eyes. He went back out onto the veranda and resumed reading the pages with the personal details.

  And he noticed at once that his eyelids were drooping.

  But when he reached the eleventh name, that of Ettore Schisa, on the second page, he felt a sort of electrical shock run through his body.

  So he went back and re-read the names on the first page.

  And all of a sudden he realized that he may well have found the final piece he was looking for.

  Angelica Cosulich, daughter of Dario Cosulich and Clementina Baio, born on September 6, 1979, and residing in Vigàta at Via . . .

  Ettore Schisa, son of Emanuele Schisa and Francesca Baio, born in Vigàta on February 13, 1975, and residing in Vigàta at Via . . .

  It was only a minimal point of contact, of course, and might, under examination, prove entirely random.

  Maybe Fazio, with Schisa, had guessed right.

  He looked at his watch. It was past one o’clock. Too late for anything.

  Suddenly, from the sea, a voice.

  “Inspector Montalbano!” it shouted. “Go to bed!”

  It must have been someone on a boat joking around. In the dark he couldn’t see anything.

  He stood up.

  “Thanks!” he shouted back. “I’m taking your advice!”

  And he went to bed.

  The phone woke him up at eight. It was Fazio.

  “Morning, Chief. I just wanted to tell you that I talked to a friend who works at the hospital. Miss Cosulich had a good night, and the doctors are amazed at her quick recovery.”

  “Thanks for calling. Where are you?”

  “At the office.”

  “Those sheets of paper you gave me with the personal particulars, are they the originals or a copy?”

  “They’re copies. I’ve got the original here.”

  “Have you had any time to look at them?”

  “No.”

  “Then look at them now and compare the info on Cosulich with that on Schisa.”

  “Holy shit!” Fazio exclaimed a moment later.

  “Now, while I’m washing up and getting dressed, I want you to put your records-office genius to work. Okay?”

  “All right. I’ll go straight to City Hall.”

  “Oh, and, on your way out, ask Catarella for the article he read to me last night, and have a look at it yourself.”

  Two mugsful of coffee made him fully lucid again. It was going to be a rough day. He found Fazio at headquarters.

  “I went to the Registry Office. Clementina and Francesca Baio were sisters. So wh
at do we do now?”

  “Now we proceed according to script. We go and pay a call on Dr. Ettore Schisa.”

  “Sorry for asking, Chief, but wouldn’t it be better if we informed the prosecutor first?”

  “It’d be better, but I don’t feel like wasting any time. I want to get this business over with as quickly as possible. Let’s go. Have you got a pocket tape recorder?”

  “Yes, I’ll go and get it.”

  Fazio pulled up in front of 48, Via Risorgimento.

  It was a five-story building, a bit run-down.

  “Schisa lives on the third floor,” said Fazio.

  They went in through the front door. There was no porter or elevator.

  As they climbed the stairs, Fazio took out his revolver, stuck it into his waistband, and buttoned up his jacket. Montalbano gave him a strange look.

  “Don’t forget the guy’s half crazy, Chief.”

  Fazio rang the doorbell. Moments later, the door opened.

  “Dr. Ettore Schisa?” Montalbano asked?

  “Yes.”

  The inspector couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Schisa wasn’t even thirty-five years old, and yet the man who stood before him looked at least fifty, and didn’t even wear those fifty well.

  Unkempt, shod in slippers, unshaven, disheveled, wearing a shirt that he clearly hadn’t changed for days, with a dark, greasy ring around the collar.

  He had a gleam in his eyes like a sick person or someone on drugs. And the bluish circles under them seemed painted on, making him look strangely like a clown.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano, police, and this is Inspector Fazio.”

  “Please come in,” said Schisa, standing aside.

  They went inside. Montalbano immediately noticed that the air in the apartment was sickly, heavy, irrespirable. There wasn’t a hint of order in any of the very large rooms. On their way to the living room, Montalbano saw a dish with leftovers of pasta on a chair in the hallway, a pair of socks on a small table, as well as trousers, books, shirts, glasses, bottles, and dirty coffee cups scattered all over the floor.

  Schisa told them to sit down. Before he could settle into an armchair, Montalbano had to remove a pair of cheesy, used underpants that lay on top it. Fazio, in turn, removed an ashtray that was overflowing with cigarette butts.