4

Seen by the light of the high beams, on an utterly moonless night with the sky entirely covered by a heavy blanket of clouds blacker than the blackest night, the worksite looked like the perfect set for a German-Expressionist film, with the sharp contrast of lights and darks and the gigantic, deformed shadows looking like projections of monstrous, motionless figures.

Or one of those other pictures, usually American, about the day after a nuclear catastrophe, when the survivors wander about a landscape they knew perfectly well the day before but now do not recognize, so foreign has it become.

It was as though nobody had worked at that construction site for many years: the crane, the trucks, the excavators looked just like skeletal scrap metal abandoned centuries earlier on some dead planet.

All color was gone. One saw nothing that wasn’t the same drab, uniform gray as the mud. Or the “bud,” as Catarella called it. And maybe he wasn’t wrong to do so, because the mud had entered the blood, become an integral part of it. The mud of corruption, of payoffs, of phony reimbursements, of tax evasion, scams, faked balance sheets, secret slush funds, tax havens, bunga bunga . . .

Maybe, thought Montalbano, it was all a symbol of the situation in which the whole country found itself at that moment.

He stepped on the accelerator, in the sudden, irrational fear that the car might get infected, come to a stop at that accursed place, and turn into another muddy ruin from one moment to the next.

Had this happened, he would surely have started screaming at once like a frightened child, and it would have taken a long time before he regained the use of his reason.

He heaved a sigh of relief when his headlights at last lit up the front of the house.

But they also lit up a car that was parked a bit to one side of the house.

Want to bet someone had had the same idea as him? But could Zito the journalist have possibly already got so far in his private investigation?

It took him a moment to realize he couldn’t stop, but he had to pretend to be just driving by, and so he kept on going.

He did, however, manage to notice distinctly that there was a man and a woman inside the car. They were both sitting in front, and when his high beam shone on them they moved so that their faces would not be seen. She was blond.

It couldn’t be Zito.

He passed the old lady’s illegal shop and drove on until the country road gave onto the provincial road to Sicudiana. There was almost no traffic at that hour. He pulled over to the side of the road and stayed in the car.

He fired up a cigarette and smoked it slowly. Good thing there was almost a whole pack, since, in one way or another, he had at least half an hour to kill.

Because of the couple in the car, what he had in mind to do had now become a bit more dangerous than expected. For there was a chance—a small one, of course, but a chance—that the blond woman was Inge, Nicotra’s German wife, who was returning home completely unaware that her husband had been murdered and wanted to say, well, one last good-bye to the man accompanying her.

The half hour, by God’s grace, finally passed. Montalbano started up the car and retraced his path down the same road.

The car with the couple was gone. Had it actually been an amorous tryst, or had Inge gone straight inside after saying good-bye?

He got out of the car and stood motionless for a spell, to check whether any car headlights were approaching. On so dark a night one would see the beam from miles away. Luckily there was nothing. Pitch-black in either direction.

He walked cautiously towards the house.

There was no light filtering through the shutters in front. He went round the back. The situation seemed the same as that afternoon. Except that the bedroom light was more visible.

He came back round the front, tiptoeing ever so softly, to avoid making noise, and opened the door on his third try, using a special key he’d been given by an old burglar. Pushing the door gently, and slowly, worried that it might creak, he craned his neck and looked inside.

The darkness on the ground floor was so dense, so solid, that you could cut it with a knife. Before entering, he took off his shoes, leaving them outside the door.

Going in, he lit the powerful flashlight he’d brought along and closed the door behind him, guiding it gently with his hand.

His immediate impression was that there wasn’t anyone in the house. It smelled stuffy, of stale air.

This meant that the woman in the car was therefore not Inge. The coast was clear, but proceeding carefully, in such situations, was the golden rule.

The flashlight’s beam revealed that he was in a large room divided into an alcove kitchen in one corner, an eating area, and a third part outfitted as a sitting room. At one end was a closed door, no doubt a bathroom.

He’d imagined a different scene. Here, instead, everything was in perfect order. The only things that looked out of place were an overturned chair in the middle of the room and another lying on its side on the floor.

A clear sign there’d been something of a scuffle, the beginnings of a struggle.

Then he noticed some muddy footprints left by a pair of shoes and a pair of heavy boots, leading from the door and going straight to the foot of the wooden staircase.

So two people had come into the house.

He moved slowly towards the stairs, then started climbing them, trying not to make the slightest sound.

The staircase led to a corridor with three doors in a row on each side.

The first room at the top of the stairs was a bedroom. As the light was on, it corresponded with the one he’d seen from the outside.

He went in.

The sheets and blankets on the double bed were thrown over to one side and touched the floor.

A pillow all covered in blood had fallen on the ground.

It seemed immediately clear to Montalbano that only one person had slept there.

How to explain the blood? Whose was it?

The murdered man’s head, which he’d seen with his own eyes, showed no wounds.

He continued his inspection. The next room was a spacious bathroom, followed by a sort of study. He went over to the other three rooms facing the front of the house. Directly across from the study was a storeroom, then came a bathroom just like the other one, and finally a bedroom with a double bed.

Here, too, the bed was in a state of chaos, and it was clear that two people had slept in it.

This left Montalbano bewildered.

So Nicotra and his wife had a guest.

Male? Female?

Then he had an idea, and opened the armoire. There were men’s as well as women’s clothes, the latter a little gaudy. That must therefore have been the master bedroom. He had his confirmation when he went into the bathroom next to it. There were perfumes, creams, makeup.

He went back into the first room and opened the armoire. Three men’s suits, gray and blue, two woolen sweaters . . . all stuff belonging to a man of a certain age. And shirts, underpants, socks . . .

He took the suits out, one at a time, thoroughly searching the pockets. No papers, no documents.

He closed the armoire and went and had a look in the bathroom. Razor blades, shaving brush and soap . . .

He’d forgotten to inspect the little drawer in the bedside table. Going back into the bedroom, he opened the drawer and the first thing he saw was a large, loaded revolver and, beside it, a box of cartridges. There was nothing else. But on the bedside table, next to a bottle of water, was a phial of medicine with a dropper attached to its cap. It contained heart medication.

So the man must not have been someone passing through, but a sort of permanent guest.

He couldn’t have been a relative, otherwise the old woman would have mentioned him.

Indeed, the old woman must not even have been aware of him, since she was surprised to find that they spent too much on food for just two people.

So who was he? And what was he doing in that house? And had the intruders taken Inge away because she was a potentially dangerous witness?

In conclusion, the situation had, in a sense, worsened: Now there was one murder victim and two people kidnapped.

There was nothing more to be done in that house. He went back downstairs, turned off his flashlight, and opened the door. But to see where he’d left his shoes, he had to turn the flashlight back on.

And that was how he managed to notice a metallic glint somewhere very near his shoes. He felt around until he found what it was. A bullet shell. One hundred percent certainly from the gun that had fired the shot into Nicotra.

And this proved, in part, the inspector’s reconstruction.

He left the shell where he’d found it, put on his shoes, closed and locked the door, got into his car, and drove off.

As he was driving to Marinella he started thinking about some things that didn’t add up.

The first was the story the old woman had told him, that is, that Ingrid received visitors, because cars would sometimes pull up outside the house and then leave a few hours later.

How could Inge have been fucking her occasional lovers so brazenly, not giving a shit about the old man staying at her house? This would have meant that the guy, among other things, had to have been her accomplice, not to have revealed anything to the cuckolded husband. No, this seemed inconceivable.

And so it was legitimate to make another, more reasonable hypothesis. The men who parked their cars outside the house were going there to meet not with Inge, but with the person staying there. And it was convenient for Inge to let people think she was a slut, so that nobody would suspect that a man was hiding out at their house.

The other thing that didn’t add up was the elderly guest himself. Why was he staying there? What was his relationship with the owner of the house? Why were people coming to see him?

And, most importantly, why, when he slept at night, did he keep a revolver within reach?

The inspector was unable to answer even one of these questions.

But this did not prevent him, when he finally got into bed, from having an excellent sleep.

The following morning, before going to Prosecutor Jacono’s office, he dropped in at Montelusa Central Police to speak with Angelo Micheletto, the new chief of Narcotics, who was a good friend of his and with whom, between jokes and banter, he had exchanged many mutual favors in the past.

“Listen, ’Ngilì, I’ve got a sensitive matter on my hands I want to talk to you about confidentially, like a brother,” said Montalbano, putting on a serious face.

“Well, I’m the most sensitive person you know, little brother. Confide away,” said Micheletto, making the same face.

“Following an anonymous phone call yesterday, my second-in-command, Mimì Augello, unbeknownst to me, arrested some poor bastard for narcotics possession, a certain Saverio Piscopo, who—”

“Save your breath, I know all about it. What do you need from me, brother?”

“You need to know that Piscopo is not a dealer; he was set up, in retaliation.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Piscopo’s an informer of mine,” said the inspector, making as sincere a face as possible.

“Ah, I see. And your second-in-command was not aware of this?”

“No.”

“I questioned Piscopo myself. Can you explain to me why he didn’t tell me he was an informer of yours?”

“I have no explanation.”

“Well, I do. It’s because he’s not an informer of yours, and you just made that up to get him out of trouble.”

At this point, the only solution was to lay his cards on the table.

“You’re right.”

“No, no, no! Brothers don’t lie to each other! At any rate, just to set your little heart at rest, you should know that I, too, became convinced that Piscopo was not involved in any way in drug trafficking. We turned his life inside out like a sock, and found that all he’d ever done was work as a stonemason. He’s clean.”

“So you’re setting him free?”

“This very morning. But I mean it: Next time, don’t come to me spouting bullshit.”

To the prosecutor he told the whole story, except, of course, for the part about the nocturnal visit.

“So you think it’s absolutely necessary to get into that house?”

“I see no other way to move forward on the case. If you have a better idea—”

Jacono had no better ideas.

“When would you go?”

“First thing this afternoon.”

“Let me know immediately if you find the woman’s body in there,” he said firmly as he signed the authorization.

He’d made the inspector wait two hours in the waiting room, but he’d wasted no time making up his mind.

The moment Montalbano entered the station he told Catarella to have Fazio and Augello meet in his office. Then he said to Fazio:

“Can you go outside for a minute? I need to speak with Inspector Augello in private.”

Fazio got up and went out. Augello gave him a questioning look.

“Mimì, I’m going to have to retract the praise you extorted from me over your brilliant arrest of Saverio Piscopo. He turns out to have no connection whatsoever with drug trafficking.”

“But we found drugs in the—”

“I know, but somebody planted them there on the sly and then called you up so that he would be arrested.”

“Who told you this?”

“The chief of Narcotics, that’s who. Good enough for you? So, next time, think carefully before believing an anonymous phone call.”

Furious, Augello got up and went out without saying a word. A moment later, Fazio came in.

“I got Jacono’s authorization,” said Montalbano. “Tell Forensics to be on the scene by four o’clock. They’re the ones who must unlock the door. If we find Inge dead inside, we’ll have to alert the prosecutor and Pasquano. And what have you got to tell me?”

“Can I read the notes I jotted down on a piece of paper?”

“On the condition that you don’t, as usual, start with the subject’s great-grandparents.”

“Okay. Gerlando Nicotra was born thirty-four years ago in Vigàta and got a degree in accounting. He was the son of an accountant.”

“Are his parents alive?”

“The father, yes, and I’ve got his address and telephone number. But not his mother.”

“Go on.”

“He’s been married for five years to Inge Schneider, born in Bonn, twenty-nine years old. We know where they live. He seems to have been a pretty serious young man, hardworking, no vices, no women on the side. Clean record. He’d recently bought himself a new car, a Volvo. I’ve got the license plate number, which might prove useful. For the last year and a half he was the chief accountant for the Rosaspina firm.”

“What does that mean, ‘chief accountant’?”

“It means he handled payouts and salaries, reviewed expenditures for materials, and balanced the books as well.”

“A position of responsibility, in other words.”

“Absolutely. He practically knew about every cent that came in or went out.”

“One second, Fazio. But isn’t Rosaspina the one building the water main?”

“That’s right. But Nicotra wasn’t always at the worksite; he worked in an office.”

“Therefore it’s likely the two workers didn’t recognize him.”

“Yes, they probably didn’t.”

“And before working for Rosaspina, what did he do?”

“He was an accountant for the Primavera firm.”

What poetic names these firms had! Firms which, to get the public works contracts, were capable of the vilest things.

“But that’s a little strange,” Fazio continued.

“Why?”

“If you recall, I already told you that before Rosaspina got into the act, the company working on the water main came under investigation for fraud, and there were arrests and convictions and they eventually lost their contract. That company was in fact Primavera.”

“So what’s strange about that?”

“The only former employee of Primavera hired by Rosaspina was Nicotra.”

“Are you sure they didn’t take on anyone else?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“Not even any of the laborers?”

“Not even.”

“Maybe he’s a good accountant.”

“Good accountants are a dime a dozen.”

“Then there can only be one explanation: He’s got friends in high places.”

“That’s possible. In fact people say that in order to hire Nicotra, Rosaspina had to sack the accountant they’d just hired.”

“Anybody whispering who recommended him?”

“One rumor has it that someone on the board of directors—Nino Barbera, a lawyer—wanted him.”

“Anybody know why?”

“For the simple reason that, based on what people say, he was sleeping with Nicotra’s wife.”

“So it’s the usual story.”

“Apparently.”

“You’re not convinced.”

“Nah.”

“Tell me why.”

“I know this lawyer Barbera. He might well have been Inge’s lover, but I know that he’s small potatoes on the board of directors. There must be another reason. I just can’t figure out what.”

“Maybe Nicotra’s name was pushed on Barbera by one of the other directors he couldn’t say no to. But we’re still in the realm of conjecture. And you know what you have to do to take us from conjectures to certainties.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Montalbano started to feel irked.

“Then if you know, tell me.”

“Find out the names of the directors of the board.”

“Bravo. Now get up, inform yourself, and report back to me.”

“Already taken care of,” said Fazio, taking another piece of paper out of his pocket.

Montalbano saw red. Whenever Fazio said that, he lost control. To let off steam, he pinched himself painfully on the thigh with his right hand, which was out of view.

“Can I read it?”

“Go ahead, go ahead.”

“Michele La Rosa, engineer, chairman of the board; Giovanni Filipepi, medical doctor; Nicolò Transatta, landlord; Mario Insegna, businessman; and Nino Barbera, lawyer.”

“I don’t know them. Do you?”

“I know two of them. Barbera the lawyer and Dr. Filipepi. It’s well-known that he’s the Cuffaro family doctor.”

As if the Mafia wouldn’t be involved in this affair! They were always up to their necks in the shady business of public contracts.

“Are the Cuffaros his only patients?”

“No, Chief. He’s a good doctor, and he’s got a lot of patients. You can see them lining up outside his office.”

“Then the fact that he also cares for a Mafia family might not mean anything.”

“Or it might mean many things,” Fazio felt compelled to add with a pensive air.

“If you have any suspicions, all you have to do is get moving,” said Montalbano.

“That’s what I’ve been wanting to do.”