“Need a lift?”
“No,” she said without turning her head.
“I’m Inspector Montalbano.”
The girl then turned and looked.
“Then all right,” she said. “Thank you.”
Montalbano opened the door and she got in.
“Tell me where you want me to take you.”
She gave him an address. The inspector knew the street.
“So, you worked with Catalanotti?”
“I was hoping to, but . . .”
“Go on. I’m interested.”
“Carmelo put me through the hardest tests, like he always did. I put up with it because I really liked the role and I wanted it for myself, but in the end he decided I wasn’t up to the task, and so that was the end of that. But that doesn’t prevent me from appreciating the guy’s genius. Nobody in our company was on the same level as him. They’re all just amateurs.”
“So how did you react when you found out he didn’t pick you?”
“I certainly can’t say I was happy about it, but I decided I understood the reasons for it. Well, here we are,” said Maria, cutting the conversation short and getting out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. Good night.”
“Listen, could I ask you for your cell phone number, in case I need to talk to you?”
The girl told him the number, the inspector wrote it down, and they said good-bye.
Catalanotti had been right in what he’d written about Maria. She had an unpredictable personality. And at that moment Montalbano suddenly felt so sleepy he had to pull over. Seconds later he was asleep, head resting on his arms folded over the steering wheel.
It was at that hour of the morning, in the first faint, violet light, when the sky greets the earth, that street cleaner Totò Panzeca, sweeping here and sweeping there, ended up near a car stopped right at the bottom of the stone staircase of the Chiesa Madre, where it was strictly forbidden to park.
Totò took a look inside and saw that in the front seat lay a man curled up in the fetal position between the two doors. He couldn’t see his face, because the man’s left arm was folded over his head.
Totò tapped on the window, to wake the sleeping man.
He got no answer. The man did not move. Totò tried again, with no result. And so, feeling a little spooked, he shouted to his coworker Ninì Panaro, who was sweeping the street about ten yards away.
“Have a look in there,” Totò said as soon as Ninì came up to him.
“So? What’s the big deal? There’s some guy sleeping.”
“Then you try to wake him up!” Totò challenged him.
“All right,” said Ninì. And, with the broom he’d carried along with him, he knocked loudly on the roof of the car.
The sleeping man did not move.
“Want to bet he’s dead?” said Ninì, trying to force the car door open with both hands.
At this point, Totò, running quickly away, shouted: “Careful!”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“The guy might be a terrorist with a time bomb!”
These words worked like a magic spell. In a flash both men turned as pale as corpses and embraced each other, trembling.
“What should we do?” asked Totò.
“Let’s call the carabinieri.”
Ten minutes later, Marshal Bonnici of the Royal Corps of Carabinieri came running, followed by a corporal-at-arms. Totò and Ninì immediately informed the officer of the situation.
Bonnici walked ever so slowly and carefully towards the car, keeping his head tucked down between his shoulders, as though expecting at any moment to be shot at. When he was two steps away from the car, he stopped and bent all the way forward to look inside. He, too, became convinced that the man in the car was dead.
He turned around and started walking back. When he reached the other three, he said: “It’s clearly a trap. That corpse was put there to attract attention, and the moment anyone opens the car door, the car will explode. You stay here and keep people away. I’m going to call Montelusa at once and tell them to send the bomb squad.”
As the marshal was speedily walking away, Father Stanzillà opened the great front door of the church for the six o’clock morning Mass, then came down the stairs to get a little fresh air.
“Get away from there!” shouted the carabinieri corporal. “Stand back! Stand back!”
The street cleaners added in tandem: “Run away! Run away! Run away!”
Father Stanzillà looked at them in shock.
“Why?”
“’Cause there’s a bomb in that car.”
In spite of their warnings, Father Stanzillà descended two more steps and, reaching the car, said: “But there’s even a Christian soul inside!”
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” shouted everyone in chorus.
At this point Father Stanzillà got scared, turned around, ran back up the staircase, went into the church, and slammed the great door shut with a boom.
Then, as if on cue, a small truck full of fish stopped a short distance away from the car and a man inside the truck began to wake up the whole town with his amplified voice: “Come and see my fish dance! They’re so fresh and alive they’ll dance before your very eyes! Come and see the dancing fish!”
The corporal rushed over to the truck.
“Get away from here at once!”
“I’m completely legit,” said the fishmonger, holding up a sheet of paper.
“Get away now! There’s a bomb in that car!” the corporal shouted.
The little truck bounded forward as though onto the track at Indianapolis, and at the same time a powerful curse boomed over the loudspeaker, which the fishmonger had forgotten to turn off.
At that moment the car door opened and out came the man who everyone had thought was dead.
As the two street sweepers were running away in terror, the carabinieri corporal didn’t hesitate for a second. He cocked his revolver and said: “Hands in the air!”
Montalbano, still half asleep, was under the impression he was still dreaming and instinctively held up his hands, thinking: I’ll wake up soon enough, I guess . . .
The corporal, gun still trained on him, slowly approached, then, to his great surprise, recognized him.
“But . . . aren’t you Inspector Montalbano?”
The inspector didn’t even have time to say yes, when suddenly a man came running up behind him, shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Matre santa! Matre santissima! Wha’ happen? Wha’ happen? Why’s the carabbineris pointin’ ’eir gun a’ my chief?”
It was Catarella, and he’d positioned himself in front of Montalbano, offering his body as a shield. Weighing his options, the corporal kept his gun pointed at them. Nobody moved. It looked like a freeze frame from a Tarantino movie.
At this point Marshal Bonnici came racing back.
“The bomb squad’s on its w—” he started saying, then stopped, slack-jawed, at the sight of Montalbano.
When Montalbano finally got home, as he stepped out of the car he realized that having spent the night in so uncomfortable a position had made his legs as stiff as boards. He started cursing while unlocking the front door. Goddamn old age!
One way or another, he made his way into the dining room. Leaning with both hands against the table, he began doing a sort of gymnastic exercise, stretching first the right leg, then the left, a bit like a mule kicking out at someone.
After some ten minutes of this exercise, his legs began to feel a little less like boards. He took all his clothes off and got into the shower.
Then, beginning to enjoy himself, he got out, dripping wet, went into the kitchen, made himself a mug of coffee, and got back into the shower.
In short, it took more than an hour for his body to recover all its functions. But at this point another phenomenon occurred, owing certainly to his age: He felt sleepy again.
He grabbed the phone and rang Catarella.
“I’ve got stuff to do at home, Cat. Tell everybody I’ll be coming in around eleven.”
And then he went to bed.
As he was parking, he saw Scimè, the lawyer, come out of the station house. Montalbano got out of the car and called to him.
“Good morning, sir, I apologize for being late, but—”
“Yes, yes, I heard all about it,” said the lawyer.
“I’m sorry, you heard all about what?” asked Montalbano, confused.
“About what happened to you this morning. Apparently you were mistaken for a terrorist! The whole town’s been laughing about it.”
Montalbano got pissed off and changed the subject.
“Did you bring the documents for me?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, I have to run to the courthouse in Montelusa now. I left them with the guard. You’ll see the company’s name on the folder: ‘Trinacriarte.’ At any rate, if you need any clarifications, you know where to find me.”
They shook hands, and Montalbano went inside. Where he was instantly stopped by Catarella.
“Ahh, Chief, Chief! Ya feelin’ better now? All recovered? Man, whatta scare I gat this mornin’! Man, whatta scare!”
Montalbano really didn’t feel like hearing Catarella’s blather, so he cut things short: “Gimme the documents that Scimè the lawyer left with you.”
Catarella bent down and handed him a folder.
Montalbano took it and started walking towards his office. Halfway there, he crossed paths with Cumella, a beat cop, who looked at him and giggled. The withering glance the inspector shot at him quickly wiped the smile off his face.
As soon as he entered his office, Montalbano locked the door, tossed the folder onto his desk, and started pacing to and fro, cursing the saints. He needed to get the agitation out of his system. How was it possible that not a single hair could fall from a man’s head in that goddamn town without everyone knowing about it immediately?
He opened the window, fired up a cigarette, smoked it, closed the window, sat down, and grabbed the folder.
Scimè had done a good job.
At first glance, the elements making up Trinacriarte seemed to break down into three categories: partners, subscribers, and staff. The first name on the list of partners belonged to the late Catalanotti, beside which Scimè had taken the trouble to inscribe a small cross. Next came the names of Scimè himself and the bank manager, Elena Saponaro, both of whom, together with Catalanotti, made up the directorate, and these were followed by those of the lead actress, the lead actor, and the administrator. The next list was longer and featured the names of the subscribers: six male actors, including Engineer Lo Savio, and six actresses.
The next and final group was the staff: a seamstress, prompters, lighting crew, electrician, set designer, costume designer, chief stagehand . . . All technical personnel, totaling seven people.
On another sheet of paper, Scimè explained the differences between the three categories. The partners were producers of a sort; they sought out financial support, covered the expenses of every production, and collected any proceeds there were to be had. The subscribers worked for free but had the right to a per diem if they went on tour. The technicians, on the other hand, were paid the union-approved minimum wage.
Scimè made a point of specifying that it was the directorate that decided which plays would be produced, which actors would take part in them, and whom to assign, on a case-by-case basis, the tasks of set and costume design.
For each of the names on the three lists, the lawyer had diligently written the address and telephone number.
Montalbano had just started rereading the pages for the addresses when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he said.
The door was pushed, but did not open.
Then he remembered he’d locked it.
He got up, opened the door, and found Fazio before him.
The inspector immediately felt grateful to him for not having a smirk on his face.
They sat down, as usual. Fazio got straight to the point.
“I’ve found out a few things about the Lo Bello family, Chief.”
“Let’s hear ’em.”
“Apparently the quarrel that led to the girl leaving home was pretty serious. A neighbor woman told me that the girl’s father literally threw her out of the house, right onto the street, then slammed the door on her. Then, as the girl was lying there, crying her eyes out, he started throwing her stuff out the window at her: dresses, panties, bras, shoes, and so on, followed by a big, empty suitcase, and then he said: ‘Don’t you ever show your face around here again!’
“At this point, Signora Nunziata—the neighbor—told me she went outside to console the poor girl. She gathered up all the stuff the father had thrown out the window, brought her inside, and calmed her down a little. The girl then called up her boyfriend, who rushed over there in about ten minutes, grabbed the suitcase, and drove away with her.”
“A fine scene from the way things used to be,” Montalbano commented.
“It gets worse,” said Fazio. “Apparently this Tano Lo Bello is often violent with his family. Signora Nunziata also told me that two months ago, she even had to intervene because Lo Bello had beaten up his wife. Apparently—though I haven’t confirmed it yet—he was called in by the carabinieri for his behavior.”
“And what exactly is his gripe against his daughter? Did you find out?”
“His gripe is that she’s been too long with a boyfriend who he says is a good-for-nothing.”
“But the poor kid even goes down to the docks to unload fish . . .” Montalbano objected.
“Yeah, sure, but Signor Lo Bello doesn’t see it the same way.”
“What’s the man do for a living, anyway?”
“In theory, he’s a clerk at city hall.”
“Why ‘in theory’?”
“’Cause he seems to belong to that category of government employees who take turns going to work and punching each other in.”
“And what’s he do the rest of the time?”
“He goes to game rooms and plays video poker.”
“Is Margherita an only child?”
“No. She’s got an older brother, Gaspare, who’s married with a one-year-old boy, and they all live with the parents.”
“Does he have a job?”
“He did, but he just got laid off.”
“All right,” the inspector said by way of conclusion. “Do me a big favor and keep an eye on this Lo Bello.”
“I will.”
“And what can you tell me about the other two people?”
“Nothing, Chief. I haven’t had time yet to start asking questions.”
“Could you do me another favor?”
“At your service, Chief.”
“Get up now, go out of the room, close the door behind you, wait a few seconds, then reopen the door, come in, and close it behind you again.”
“And why all the rigamarole?”
“I’ll explain afterwards.”
Fazio got up and did exactly what Montalbano had asked him to do.
“Stop right there!” the inspector ordered him the moment he was back in the room. “Tell me precisely in what part of his leg Nico was injured.”
“In his left calf.”
“Have Forensics determined what direction the shot came from?”
“Yes, Chief: from the front.”
“Excellent. You can sit back down. Now think carefully before answering: Tell me what your eyes saw as you opened the door.”
Fazio thought about this for a moment.
“They saw you behind your desk, under the picture of the president.”
“Now make another effort. Did you look immediately at me the moment you entered?”
“No, Chief.”
“Feel like taking a little spin with me?”
“Sure.”
“Good, then we’ll take your car,” said the inspector.
“Where are we going?”
“To Nico and his girlfriend’s place.”
Via Pignatelli was long and narrow, and there was almost nowhere to park, so Fazio practically had to go down the whole street before he could stop. They got out and retraced their path.
At number 57 was a small locked door.
“This is where Nico lives. Second floor,” said Fazio.
It was a small, three-story apartment block.
“Do you know who’s on the third floor?”
“It’s vacant, Chief.”
Only then did the inspector notice a sign saying FOR SALE. Just opposite the front door, across the street, was a haberdasher’s shop with a metal shutter over its façade and a sign saying FOR RENT. To the right of it was another block of apartments, locked up.
The building opposite also featured two tall windows with iron grilles to the left of the door and two identical windows to the right.
“Okay,” said Montalbano, “come with me.”
He took a few steps and then stopped, with his back to the front door at number 57. Fazio came up beside him and did the same.
“Okay, imagine you’re coming out the front door. What do you see?”
“I see the metal shutter of the haberdashery,” said Fazio.
“And out of the corner of your eye?”
“I can see as far as the windows.”
“Now turn your gaze a little to the left. What do you see?”
“The start of the building connected to it.”
“Now turn to the right.”
“Same thing. The other building.”
“Conclusion?”
“Conclusion,” said Fazio, “Nico had to have seen whoever it was that shot him. And when he recognized him, he turned around, not to close the front door, but to try to run back inside. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” replied the inspector. “And that’s the part of the Mass that Nico neglected to sing to us.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“I’ll tell you later. Now drive me to Enzo’s.”
There were few people in the trattoria, so Enzo came up to them almost immediately.
“Would you like a little seafood antipasto? It’s very fresh today.”
“I think we can make the sacrifice,” replied the inspector.
Enzo was about to turn and go when he stopped and bent down towards Montalbano, leaning his hands on the table.
“Could you tell me if you’re making any progress on the Catalanotti murder?” he asked softly.
Montalbano did a double take.
“Why, did you know him?”
“Yeah, he was a customer.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he’d been coming out this way for the last three months. Always in the evening.”
“Want to bet I can guess what evenings he came here?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.”
“You guessed right,” said Enzo. “But did you already know?”
“No, but tell me something else. Did he come alone?”
“No, Inspector, he was always in the company of the same woman: blond, about forty, all dolled up and stuck up in the worst kind of way. A total, ball-busting pain in the ass. None of our dishes was ever good enough for her: sometimes it was overdone, other times it was underdone . . .”
“And how did Catalanotti act on those occasions?”
“I remember that one evening somebody called the restaurant to talk with Signor Catalanotti. When he came back to the table, the woman lit into him and made a big scene. ‘How the hell do they know you’re here? Who’d you tell we were coming to eat at this restaurant?’”
“And wha’d he do?”
“The poor guy got all confused and tried to tell her it wasn’t an important phone call. But she was having none of it. At a certain point the woman, still yelling, got up and just left, leaving the guy in the lurch. Before sitting back down, poor Catalanotti felt obliged to apologize to the other customers in the restaurant for all the commotion she’d created.”
“And they came back to eat here again after that?”
“You bet they did! They were back at their usual table two days later, all nice and well behaved.”
“Do you know what this blonde’s name is?”
“No, Inspector, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there. And I never saw anyone in here greet her, so I wouldn’t know who to ask.”
“Did you ever manage to notice whether they would come in the same car or two different cars?”
“I think they always came in one car.”
“Why? How do you know?”
“Because on the evening of the big dustup, Catalanotti asked me to call him a taxi to take him home.”
As Enzo walked away, it occurred to Montalbano that the trattoria was actually rather far from Catalanotti’s place, which was on the opposite side of town. And it was also far from the warehouse where they held their rehearsals.
So it must have been a secret relationship, especially since neither the doorman of his building nor his housekeeper knew where he went on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights.
He had a substantial, satisfying meal. The walk out to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty was therefore slow and meditative.
As he sat down on the usual flat rock, the usual crab, seeing him arrive, hid under the surface of the water. Apparently the animal wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
Enzo’s story added a further complication to the overall picture: now there was a mysterious woman in the middle of it all.
And so, as tradition would dictate, he should probably begin with the categorical imperative: cherchez la femme.