“Listen, what do you say if I set up a guard service for you for the time you’ll be here without—”
“Not in a million years!” the inspector said, interrupting him.
As soon as Cusimato left, Fazio came in.
“Tell me what you want me to do, Chief,” he said.
“I haven’t got the slightest idea,” Montalbano replied.
“When do you think you’ll come back to the office?”
“The doctors told me to move as little as possible for at least a week, but I may just lose my mind. So I’ll stay put until tomorrow. Then I’ll give you a ring and you can send a car to get me.”
He couldn’t make love to Livia that evening, either, even though he really wanted to.
* * *
At ten o’clock the following morning he received a phone call from Guttadauro, the lawyer and notorious consigliere for one of the two Mafia families of Vigàta.
The lawyer spoke in the plural, meaning that he was speaking on behalf of a third party.
“Inspector Montalbano, you cannot imagine the joy we felt upon learning that that cowardly attack on you didn’t . . .”
About an hour later, Piscopo, the lawyer and consigliere for the other family, also called. And he, too, used the plural.
“Inspector, we rejoiced when we heard that you came out of it relatively unharmed, and so we wanted to express our . . .”
This was confirmation of what he’d been thinking. The Mafia was keen to let him know that they had nothing to do with the attempted murder.
He spent the rest of the day in the armchair. Livia, having ordered lunch from Calogero’s trattoria, took a taxi to pick it up. That meal did more for Montalbano than any treatment could have done.
The following morning he sent for a car, and Gallo showed up and drove him to the station.
* * *
Catarella, in tears, ran up to the car to open the door for him, helped him out, and accompanied him all the way to his office, treating him as if he was severely disabled. Then Fazio appeared.
“Where’s Augello?”
“He had such a bad headache, the doctor told him to take a week off.”
As if he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation!
“Listen, Fazio. Yesterday, having nothing better to do, I thought a long time about Signora Guarraci’s disappearance. My question is this: How many people knew that she would be taking the six a.m. train on Saturday?”
“I was wondering the same thing, Chief. And I asked around a little. Two people definitely knew. Her husband and the cleaning lady, whose name is Trisina Brucato.”
“So you’ve spoken with this Trisina?”
“Of course. And she told me she knew the signora had a million lire in cash in her purse.”
“You don’t think . . .”
“She seemed like an honest woman to me.”
Unlikely that Fazio would have a mistaken impression.
“So that leaves only the husband. Do you know anything about his supposed girlfriend?”
“Her name is Giuliana Loschiavo. She’s twenty years old and a marvel to look at. Apparently she’s got Guarraci going out of his mind.”
“Why?”
“Because this Giuliana’s got a thing for another guy.”
“Do you know who?”
“Yes, I do: Stefano Di Giovanni, the biggest fishmonger in town. Also married. The girl divides her time equally between the two, but Guarraci wants exclusive rights.”
“And she’s probably ready to go with the best offer. Could you have her here for four o’clock this afternoon?”
* * *
Livia arrived in a car she’d rented and took him to Calogero’s.
When they finished, she drove him back to the station. Giuliana Loschiavo showed up at four o’clock sharp. Fazio showed her into the inspector’s office and sat down after the girl took her place in front of the desk.
She was a fine specimen of femininity and didn’t seem the least bit intimidated to find herself in front of a police inspector. Indeed she was the first to speak.
“I know why you wanted to see me.”
“Let’s see if you’ve guessed right.”
“Since Guarraci’s wife has disappeared, you wanted to know about my affair with him. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, look, Inspector. We haven’t seen each other for two months. It was I who left him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’d promised me he and his wife would separate, and we would go somewhere and live together, but in the end he never kept his word.”
Montalbano couldn’t resist letting slip a little jab.
“So then you must also have left Signor Di Giovanni.”
The girl gave a hearty laugh.
“No, I haven’t left Stefano.”
“Has he separated from his wife?”
“No, but he never promised me he would.”
Made perfect sense.
“Since his wife’s disappearance, has Guarraci tried to get in touch with you?”
“Not yet. But I’m sure he will, sooner or later.”
* * *
When Fazio returned after showing the girl out, he found Montalbano lost in thought.
“So, what do you think?” he asked him.
“You heard her yourself, didn’t you? Without realizing it, this Giuliana let us know that Guarraci had a good motive for wanting to get rid of his wife. But what the girl doesn’t know is that Guarraci doesn’t have a cent to his name, and that if he leaves his wife he’ll be left high and dry. Therefore he’s most likely the one who set up the disappearance. That way he still keeps his right to the inheritance.”
“You may be right.”
“Here’s a question. What reason did he have for giving his first and last name to the night guard he almost ran over with his car? The answer is: The only possible reason is that he wanted to have a witness who could swear that he was on his way home after dropping his wife off outside the underpass and therefore had nothing to do with the disappearance.”
“So he had accomplices working for him.”
“Which would be the two guys who arrived in the big car on Via Crocilla. Listen: As of this moment, we have to keep an eye on Guarraci day and night.”
3
That evening, after being dropped off at home, he found Livia on the veranda with a book in her hand.
“What are you reading?”
“A novel by Sciascia, To Each His Own. It was published many years ago. I’m on the last pages.”
He hadn’t read it, either.
“I’d like to read it when you’re done.”
Cusimato rang just as they were about to go out to eat.
“The very latest developments. The motorbike from which the assassins shot at you ran over a peasant about four kilometers down the road, afterwards, but without doing much harm. The peasant gave a carabiniere what he thought was the license number. I found this out from a captain of the force who’s a friend of mine. The only problem is there’s no license plate with that number.”
“Those don’t seem like such great results to me.”
“Wait. Then I took the number myself and hired an expert to do a little combinatorial analysis; he’ll check each new combination to see whether the number corresponds to any existing license plate.”
The inspector didn’t understand a word of this.
“At any rate, it’ll take a little time,” Cusimato continued.
“Best of luck,” said Montalbano.
* * *
“I want to talk to you,” Fazio said the following day, appearing in the inspector’s office as soon as Montalbano had gone in.
“So talk to me.”
“There’s something
that didn’t make sense to me, and I confirmed it last night. It’s already been about twenty days since Signora Giovanna disappeared, but how is it that Guarraci keeps on gambling and keeps on losing big-time?”
“Explain.”
“Chief, it’s known all over town that Signora Giovanna used to refill her husband’s wallet every Monday morning. With as much cash as he needed for the week. But now a good three weeks have gone by! So my question is: Who’s giving him this money? Where’s he getting it?”
“Well done, Fazio!” Montalbano exclaimed as another idea surfaced in his brain. “What’s the name of the bank where Signora Giovanna keeps her money?” he asked.
“Banca Popolare di Montelusa.”
He knew the manager. It was worth a try. And even if all he got was a polite refusal, one way or another, he would still manage to find out what he wanted to know.
“I’m going out. I’ll be back soon.”
The bank manager seemed reluctant at first. But the inspector didn’t feel like wasting time.
“Have you received the memo from the prosecutor’s office that all of Signora Guarraci’s assets have been frozen?”
“Yes, and I don’t understand the reason for—”
“It’s quite simple. The courts decided to freeze her assets in case her disappearance turns out to be a kidnapping for ransom. They’ve chosen to take a hard line.”
“I understand.”
“For this reason your bank will be required to send its balance statement for this month to the prosecutor’s office, something they’ll ask you to do within the next few days. And I’ll be having a look at it, too. All I’m asking you now is to let me have an advance look at it, which would save me precious time.”
The manager had been persuaded.
It turned out that on her last visit, Signora Giovanna had withdrawn no less than five million lire.
“Was that normal for her?”
“Well, no. Signora Guarraci normally withdrew three or four hundred thousand lire every two weeks, though sometimes the sum was more substantial. But never as much as that last time.”
* * *
“She took out five million to spare herself the trouble of going back to the bank within a few days. She left four million in her safe, assured that her husband didn’t know where she’d hidden the second key, the extra one. Whereas in fact Guarraci knew perfectly well where she kept it, and knowing that his wife would never return, he opened the safe and grabbed the money. And, in fact, we didn’t find a single lira in cash in there.”
“He would have needed at least part of the money to pay off his accomplices.”
“I don’t think so. I think he probably paid his accomplices by telling them to take the million they would find in her purse.”
“If only we could prove he has this key in his possession . . .”
“Well, he certainly doesn’t have it anymore. He’s thrown it away by now. What would be the point of hanging on to evidence against him when there’s nothing left in the safe?”
“You’re right. And so?”
“Just be patient. If things are the way I think they are, part two of the show is about to begin.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that Guarraci can’t waste too much time. He’s short on cash and needs to get his hands on that inheritance as soon as possible. Part two, which will begin very soon, will consist of the discovery of Signora Giovanna’s body. She will be found to have been killed during a robbery. And that’s where I’m hoping Guarraci makes a false move.”
* * *
At eight o’clock that evening, while waiting for Livia to finish getting dressed, he turned on the television. On the TeleVigàta channel, Pippo Ragonese was interviewing Guarraci.
“. . . I can only lament the extreme slowness of the investigation. The continued freeze on my wife’s assets is making life extremely difficult for me.”
“It’s possible that Inspector Montalbano, following the attempt on his life, is thinking more about his own personal matters than about those of us citizens.”
“If that’s the case, then the commissioner would do well to turn the case over to someone else. How can it be that twenty days later I still know nothing and nobody will deign to keep me abreast of developments? That’s no way to do things . . .”
“I’m ready,” said Livia.
Montalbano turned off the set, and they went out to eat. When they returned—rather late because they’d gone to a restaurant in Fiacca—the inspector started reading the Sciascia novel. He even brought it with him to bed, but had to stop reading when Livia protested that the light was keeping her awake.
At seven o’clock the following morning, the phone rang. Livia mumbled and Montalbano, cursing the saints, went and answered.
“It’s Fazio, Chief. A body’s been found. I’m on my way there, and meanwhile I’m sending Gallo to pick you up.”
The inspector washed, got dressed, drank a pint of espresso, and went and kissed Livia. Gallo arrived, and they drove off.
“Where are we going?”
“Out to the country, Chief.”
When they got to Vigàta, Gallo took Via Lincoln, passed by the train station, turned onto Via Crocilla, took it to the end, took one of the three unpaved roads that led down from the elevated part of Vigàta to the countryside below, and after they’d gone about a kilometer, Montalbano saw Fazio’s car alongside a squad car. Near them was a small van with a refrigerator on its roof.
The area was completely deserted, partly because it was a huge dumping site.
Gallo pulled up, the inspector got out, and Fazio came towards them.
“It’s Signora Guarraci, isn’t it?”
“How’d you guess?”
“And how’d you manage to identify her?”
“They were kind enough to leave her purse near the corpse with her ID inside.”
“Have you called the circus?”
“Yup.”
“Who found the body?”
“Lemme get him for you.”
He cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Signor Danzuso!”
The door of the van opened and a very thin young man of about thirty came out, almost six and a half feet tall. He immediately protested.
“I have to go to work! I can’t waste the whole morning here!”
“Did you get his name and address?” the inspector asked Fazio, who nodded in the affirmative.
“What were you doing here?” he asked the young man.
“We came here in two cars, me and my friend Parrinello, me to throw away my refrigerator, him to get rid of a washing machine. I gave him a hand with the washer, but as we were getting rid of it, we saw the dead body. So Parrinello got in his car and went to call you guys, while I, like the stupid shit I am, stayed behind to wait for you, without being able to get rid of my fridge. And what am I gonna do with it now?”
“You’re going to take it back home with you.”
Danzuso looked at him in shock, and then, without a word, turned his back, ran towards his van, got inside, started it up, and drove off.
“Let’s go and have a look,” said the inspector.
The corpse lay stretched out, in an orderly state, with her purse beside it.
“They didn’t bother to hide her. Actually, they made sure to put her where she would be seen,” the inspector observed.
There was a livid bruise around the dead woman’s neck.
“They strangled her, kept the corpse hidden away, then brought it here last night. Otherwise the dogs and rats would have made mincemeat of it. And in fact, aside from a few signs of decomposition, there’s no visible damage to the body.”
At that moment Dr. Pasquano arrived. In a dark mood, he grumbled a greeting and crouched down beside the dead woman. He looked at her a
long time, then stood back up.
“I’m leaving,” he said, walking away.
Montalbano ran after him.
“She was strangled, wasn’t she?”
“So it seems.”
“How long has she been dead, in your opinion?”
“At least twenty days.”
A short while later, Montalbano also decided to leave.
“See you back at the office.”
On their way back, Gallo barely missed colliding with a car that was coming fast in the opposite direction.
“They’re from TeleVigàta,” he said.
Montalbano figured Danzuso had earned his day’s pay. He would have sworn on a stack of bibles that he was the one who’d informed the newsmen.
When Fazio returned, Montalbano was just getting up to go and meet Livia in the parking lot.
“What took so long?” the inspector asked.
“We’d just finished when Guarraci arrived, Chief. The guy identified his wife and then fainted. Then he ran away, saying he was gonna go kill himself. To make a long story short, it took a good hour to calm him down.”
“Who told him?”
“The TeleVigàta guys. They called him up and told him they were on their way to see a woman’s dead body that had just been discovered, and so they thought . . .”
“Okay, okay. What did Forensics say?”
“They confirmed that the body hadn’t been at the dump for more than a night.”
“The way I see it, the poor lady was seized in the underpass, forced to get into the car that had stopped outside the Via Crocilla exit, taken out to the country, and killed immediately. The corpse was then pulled out and left to be found when Guarraci thought the time was right.”
“Chief, the same problem remains: We have no proof.”
The phone rang. It was Catarella.
“Chief, ’ere’s a jinnelman says ’e wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases Page 5