DEATH AT SEA
1
It was a spring morning and Montalbano was drinking his customary mug of espresso when the telephone rang. It was Fazio.
“What’s up?”
“I got a call from Matteo Cosentino—”
“Sorry, but who’s he?”
“Matteo Cosentino is the sole owner of five fishing trawlers.”
“And what did he want?”
“He wanted to tell us that there was an accident on one of his boats, the Carlo III, in which somebody aboard died.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Apparently a crew member inadvertently killed the engineer.”
“And where’s the boat now?”
“On its way back to Vigàta. It should dock in about forty-five minutes. You can come directly to the port; I’m on my way there now. Should I alert the prosecutor, the forensics lab, and the rest of the crew?”
“Let’s check out the situation first.”
As he was heading for Vigàta he wondered what mysterious reason Cosentino could have had for naming his fishing boat after a Spanish king, but couldn’t think of an answer. The area reserved for trawlers was at the far end of the central jetty, where there was a long row of refrigerated warehouses. It wasn’t yet time for the boats to return from their fishing runs, and so there were few people about.
Montalbano spotted the squad car and pulled up beside it. Fazio was a short way off, talking to a squat, shabby-looking man of about sixty.
Fazio introduced them. Matteo Cosentino immediately explained to the inspector that his fishing boat was late because it had engine problems.
“How did you learn of the accident?”
“From the ship’s radio. The crew chief called me at three o’clock in the morning.”
“And what time was it when you called the police?”
“Seven.”
“Why did you wait so long?”
“Inspector, the whole thing happened five hours out at sea from here. If I called you right away, what were you gonna do? Get on a boat and join them out on the open sea?”
“Did the crew chief tell you how the accident happened?”
“He summed it up for me.”
“Well, then sum it up for me, too.”
“The ship’s mechanic, whose name is Franco Arnone, was in the motor compartment working on some malfunction, and Tano Cipolla, a crew member, was sitting on the edge of the hatch and talking to him as he was cleaning his pistol, when—”
“Wait a second. Are the crews of your trawlers armed?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So how do you explain that Cipolla had a pistol?”
“How should I know? You can ask him when they get here.”
“There’s a trawler coming in,” Fazio announced.
Matteo looked out towards the harbor entrance.
“It’s the Carlo III,” he confirmed.
Montalbano couldn’t hold back his curiosity.
“I’m sorry, but why did you give your boat that name?”
“All my fishing boats are called Carlo and go from one to five. In memory of my only son, who died when he was twenty.”
As the trawler was docking, a number of idlers approached, curious at the boat’s unscheduled reentry.
Once they learned there was a corpse aboard, the crowd would swell to a hundred or more and create tremendous confusion, making it difficult to work. Montalbano made a snap decision and turned to speak to Cosentino.
“Don’t let any of the crew disembark. The three of us will go aboard, and then I want the boat to put out again.”
“And where should I tell them to go?” asked Cosentino.
“Right outside the harbor will be enough for me. Then they can stop wherever they want.”
Ten minutes later the boat was rocking, engines off, about half a kilometer from the lighthouse that was the destination of Montalbano’s daily digestive walks. From the bridge, looking through the hatch to the engine compartment, one got a good view of the body of the man who’d been killed. He was in a strange position, kneeling in front of the engine, his right arm raised, held up by a handle in which his hand had become entangled. The back of his head was gone, the walls of the compartment stuck with scattered fragments of bone and brain matter.
“Which one of you is Tano Cipolla?”
One man stepped away from the group of sailors standing astern and talking to Cosentino, a very lean forty-year-old, pale and agitated, wild-eyed, hair standing on end. He moved in fits and starts, like a mechanical puppet.
“It was a terrible mistake! I was just—”
“You can tell me that later. Now go to the exact spot where you were when you shot the mechanic.”
Cipolla protested. His voice was quavering, his eyes on the verge of tears.
“But I didn’t mean to shoot Franco!”
“Okay. But, in the meantime, just show me.”
Still like a puppet, Tano Cipolla sat down on the edge of the hatch with his legs dangling into the motor room.
“This is exactly how I was. And I was talking to him while he worked.”
“Did you already have your gun in your hand?”
“No, sir.”
“Weren’t you cleaning it?”
“Who ever said that?”
At this point Fazio intervened.
“Give me your weapon.”
“I ain’t got it anymore. As soon as I realized I’d killed Franco, I threw it into the sea.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. You can’t understand. I was desperate, I was mad . . .”
“What kind of gun was it?”
“A Colt revolver.”
“What caliber?”
“Dunno.”
“Do you have extra cartridges?”
“Yessir, about thirty. They’re in my bag.”
“Where did you buy it?”
Cipolla became tongue-tied.
“I got . . . I got it from a friend.”
“Did you register it?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have a license to bear arms?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you done yet?” Fazio asked the inspector.
“For now, yes.”
“So I’ll repeat my question: Why at some point did you take out your gun?”
“He asked me to.”
“Explain.”
“I’d told him I owned a gun, and so he asked to see it.”
“I see. And where did you have it at that moment?”
“In my bag.”
“What did you do?”
“I got up, went and got the gun, and then sat back down. And that was when . . .”
“When what?”
“When it went off. We took a wave across the deck, and to keep from falling into the engine compartment, I grabbed the edge with both hands. And without realizing it I probably squeezed the trigger too tight, and . . .”
“Okay. Stand up. Fazio, please give the gentleman your pistol.”
Fazio didn’t really feel like it, but he gave it to him anyway, after removing the cartridge clip.
“Now, Signor Cipolla, I want you to repeat the movements you made, and you should even pull the trigger when the moment comes.”
Everyone on board watched the scene. Cipolla sat down and, as soon as he was seated, lurched suddenly chest-forward, spread his arms, grabbed the edge of the hatch with both hands at his sides, and at that moment they all heard the click of the pistol’s hammer striking an empty chamber.
It was a plausible reconstruction. The accident could, in fact, have happened that way.
“Give Signor Fazio back his gun and remain seated.”
The inspector then turned to the rest of the crew.
“Did you all hear the shot?”
There was a chorus of yeses.
“What were you all doing at that moment?”
The sailors looked at one another, a little confused, and didn’t answer.
“Can I speak for everyone?” asked a sandy-haired man of about fifty with sun-baked skin and a Phoenician face.
“And who are you?”
“I’m the crew chief, Angelo Sidoti.”
“All right, speak.”
“The pilot was at the helm, four men were astern checking the nets, and I was walking from stern to prow to—”
“So you were the person closest to the spot where—”
“Yessir, I was.”
“What did you do?”
“I took two steps back and realized immediately what had happened. Cipolla was frozen like a statue with a gun in its hand. I looked into the engine room and didn’t take long to figure out that poor Franco was dead.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I rushed over to the radio to call Signor Cosentino.”
“And then?”
“Then I informed the other boats that we were suspending the fishing expedition and heading back to Vigàta. And then I heard some shouting and so I went out on deck.”
“Who was yelling?”
“Cipolla. It was like he’d gone crazy. Girolamo and Nicola were restraining him, ’cause he wanted to throw himself into the sea.”
Montalbano walked away towards the prow and called Fazio over.
“Listen, I want Cosentino, Cipolla, and the crew chief in my office at four o’clock this afternoon. And everyone else should remain available. As soon as we get back, inform the prosecutor, Pasquano, and Forensics. I’m going back to the office. Tell Cosentino we can return to port.”
After the inspector had been signing papers for an hour, Augello came in. He’d been in bed for four days with the flu.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fully recovered,” said Augello, sitting down. “I heard there was an accident out on a fishing boat.”
“Yeah, some fisherman, one Tano Cipolla, accidentally shot the engine man . . .”
“What did you say the shooter’s name was?”
“Cipolla. Tano Cipolla.”
“Cipolla . . . Tano Cipolla . . . Want to bet he’s the guy married to the two twins?” Augello asked himself aloud.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“There’s a pair of twin girls here in Vigàta, Lella and Lalla, famous for their beauty, who are now around thirty years old.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. Lella married Cipolla, and Lalla remained unmarried but lives with her sister and brother-in-law. Around town they call him the twins’ husband.”
“But how do you know these things?”
“I know everything about the beautiful women of Vigàta,” Augello said with a grin.
Montalbano realized that grin was hiding something.
“Don’t tell me you tried your luck with them!”
“No, I never did. But I later regretted it, when I started to hear rumors.”
“Saying what?”
“Saying that on certain nights, when Cipolla is away, his wife entertains. Not often, but sometimes.”
“And what does Lalla do in the meantime?”
“Well, she certainly doesn’t sit in her room twiddling her thumbs. She takes part. They do threesomes. But these are just rumors. There may be nothing to them.”
“And does Cipolla know anything about these escapades of his wife and sister-in-law?”
“There are some who are convinced Cipolla’s in the dark about the whole thing, and then others who swear Cipolla knows everything but pretends not to know anything.”
“Do me a favor, Mimì, and try to get more information.”
“Why, do you have doubts about the accident?”
“For the moment, no, but it’s always best to be aware of all the possibilities.”
2
By the time Fazio returned, the inspector was already about to go out to eat.
“What took so long?”
“Dr. Pasquano made a wrong move trying to turn his car around and ended up with both front wheels hanging off the pier, looking like some balancing act at the circus. He very nearly plunged straight into the water.”
“What did he say?”
“He was cursing like a madman. Scared to death.”
“No, I meant what did he say about the corpse?”
“He said the man died instantly and that it must have happened between two and four a.m. last night.”
“That fits.”
“Right. Forensics found the bullet. It was pretty misshapen. They’ll keep us posted.”
As he was eating some exquisite mullet al cartoccio, the inspector thought of something and called Calogero, the owner, over to his table.
“What is it, Inspector?”
“Tell me something. Where do you buy your fish?”
“From Felice Sorrentino.”
“And have you ever used Matteo Cosentino?”
“I did, for a while. But then I switched.”
“Why?”
“Because twice he tried to pull a fast one on me.”
“How?”
“By selling me frozen fish he was passing off as fresh.”
“Apparently he hadn’t caught enough to allow him—”
“People say it happens often. His boats come back half-empty, and since he doesn’t want to lose customers, he buys frozen fish from some of his colleagues.”
“But has he always done that?”
“He was dependable at first. The problems started about three or four years ago.”
A walk out to the lighthouse was in order. Sitting down on the flat rock, he fired up a cigarette. After what Mimì Augello had told him, he realized they had to leave no stone unturned in their interrogation of Cipolla. He looked at his watch: three o’clock.
He sat there a little while longer, breathing the sea air deep into his lungs. When he got back to the station, Fazio informed him that those summoned were already there.
“Let’s start with the crew chief. What’s his name again?”
“Angelo Sidoti.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s fifty-one, has always worked for Cosentino, and is top dog among all the other crew chiefs.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that if a dangerous situation arises, he’s the boss and everyone has to follow his orders.”
The inspector sat Sidoti down in the chair opposite his desk. Sidoti seemed neither nervous nor worried; in fact, his attitude seemed almost indifferent.
“Signor Sidoti, you told me where you were when the shot went off. Where were you five minutes before that?”
The crew chief answered at once.
“Five minutes before that, I was in the wheelhouse.”
“So, if I’ve understood correctly, you went from the wheelhouse to the stern, where four crewmen were checking the nets, you engaged them briefly, and were on your way back to the wheelhouse when you were stopped by the shot?”
“That’s correct.”
“Where did Cipolla keep his knapsack?”
“There’s a space on the prow where we can store our things.”
“So—please correct me if I’m wrong—to go and get his gun, Cipolla in fact had to travel from near the stern to a spot near the prow, thus covering almost the entire length of the boat. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Now pay close attention. When you came out of the wheelhouse and went astern, did you see Cipolla sitting on the edge of the hatch opening?”
This time, too, Sidoti answered without hesitation.
“No, he wasn’t there.”
“How can you be so sure? It was the middle of the night and—”
“Inspector, we make do just fine with the navigation lights; we’re used to it. Apparently he’d gone to get his gun.”
“So then you must have seen him return.”
“Yes, that I did. We crossed paths outside the engine compartment. Then I took two more steps and heard the shot, at which point I turned around and saw what I already told you.”
“When you crossed paths with Cipolla, did you notice he was holding a gun?”
“No.”
“How long has Cipolla been working with you?”
“That was his first time aboard my boat.”
This answer took Montalbano by surprise.
“Where was he before that?”
“On the Carlo I.”
“Why was he moved?”
“Those are things Signor Cosentino decides.”
“Was it also the first time aboard for the engine mechanic?”
“No, he’s been working for me for three years.”
“I’m sure you’ve discussed what happened with your men. Did anyone overhear what Cipolla and Arnone were talking about before the shot was fired?”
“The guys checking the nets were about ten feet away from the engine room and shooting the breeze. It’s unlikely they heard anything.”
“Did Cipolla and Arnone already know each other?”
“Of course. Since we all work for the same boss, we all know each other.”
“Thank you. You can go now.”
Sidoti said good-bye and left. Fazio and the inspector exchanged a glance.
“What do you think?” asked Fazio.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not convinced. He was too ready with his answers.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“How is it possible for someone to remember immediately everything he did, minute by minute, the night before? A lot of it was habitual acts and gestures he must have done hundreds of times, and you’re gonna remember exactly where you were at an exact given moment?”
“Maybe in the meantime he’d gone over those moments in his mind.”
“I’m sure that’s true. Have Signor Cosentino come in.”
Signor Cosentino appeared immediately, more nervous than that morning.
“I was told my trawler will be under a restraining order for at least a week. I’m going to lose a ton of money!”
Montalbano pretended not to have heard him.
“Signor Sidoti has just told us that Cipolla was on his first fishing expedition aboard the Carlo III, after working on the Carlo I, and that he was moved there on your orders.”
“So what? Ain’t I got the right to move one of my fishermen from one boat to another?”
“Of course you do, but you’ll have to tell me the reason.”
“Mr. Inspector, it just happens sometimes that when certain people spend too much time on the same boat with each other, they end up getting on each other’s nerves. And that’s when the arguments and scuffles start . . . and the work suffers.”
“Had you received any complaints?”
“Complaints, no, but I got a good nose for certain things.”
“So has your nose sniffed out anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m told that Cipolla has a beautiful wife and that his sister-in-law, who lives with them, is also no joke.”
“Would you please come right out and say what you’re getting at?”
“Was Arnone married?”
“No, sir. He was a good-looking kid of about thirty and a real ladies’ man.”
“Okay, now you’re talking. Is it possible Cipolla may have heard some nasty rumors about his wife and Arnone?”
Cosentino threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Anything’s possible,” he said.
“We need to find out whether Arnone knew Signora Cipolla.”
“I can answer that question myself. He most certainly did know her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because every New Year’s Eve, I invite all my crews with their families to my house. But if you want to know what I think—”
“Tell me.”
“If Cipolla really intended to kill Arnone, couldn’t he have found a better place to do it? To kill a man like that, on a fishing boat, in front of everyone . . .”
“Okay, that’ll be enough for today. Fazio, please bring in Signor Cipolla.”
Apparently Cipolla had had all the time in the world to calm himself down. He was no longer wild-eyed, and had meanwhile combed his hair. He even seemed more sure of himself, and the questions they asked would no longer catch him unprepared. As soon as he appeared before him, Montalbano realized instinctively that the best strategy would be to make him all nervous again, as he was that morning. And so he immediately went on the attack.
“Signor Cipolla, aside from the fact that you’re up against the very serious charge of murder—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?! Murder?!” Cipolla immediately interrupted him.
The inspector slammed his hand down on the desk and raised his voice, surprising Fazio, who looked at him in shock.
“Don’t you ever dare interrupt me! You will listen to me in silence, and if I ask you to speak, you will use proper language! And be careful what you say. I’ll only tell you this once. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir,” said a frightened Cipolla.
“And I will add, for your information, that if it had been up to me, I would have arrested you already, but His Honor the judge did not agree, and I must therefore keep interrogating you.”
Cipolla’s brow quickly became drenched in sweat.
“Now, in addition to homicide charges, you will have to answer for illegal possession of a firearm. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason, in your opinion, did Signor Cosentino take you off of the Carlo I and transfer you to the Carlo III?”
“How should I know ? . . . He’s the boss . . .”
“Don’t waste my time, Cipolla. And don’t try to get cute with me. Cosentino told me everything. Will it make it easier for you if I tell you the reason myself?”
Cipolla, resigned, threw up his hands and said nothing.
“You,” Montalbano continued, “weren’t getting along with your mates on the Carlo I anymore. And do you want me to tell you why? Your wife—”
All at once Cipolla shot to his feet, red in the face and trembling.
“Leave my wife out of this!”
Fazio grabbed him by the arm, put the other hand on his shoulder, and forced him to sit back down.
“It’s all lies! Malicious gossip based on nothing!” a very upset Cipolla said through clenched teeth.
“Try to calm down and, for your own good, think carefully before you answer my questions. Were you a friend of Franco Arnone?”
Cipolla took a deep breath before answering.
“Friend, no. An acquaintance.”
“Now try to answer me without making a scene, otherwise I’ll have you thrown in a holding cell. Did Arnone and your wife know each other?”
“Of course. Franco knew Lella before she became my wife.”
“Tell me more.”
“Franco was head over heels in love with Lalla, my wife’s twin sister. Lalla went along at first, but then she left him.”
“I’m beginning to understand,” said the inspector.
And he cast a quick glance over at Fazio, which meant for him to be ready to intervene. Fazio nudged himself to the edge of his seat.
3
“I understand,” Montalbano repeated pensively.
And he said no more. The silence grew heavy. Cipolla started to get nervous, then couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Could you tell me . . .”
“Absolutely. I’m convinced that Arnone wanted compensation from your wife for Lalla’s rejection, and that he got it.”
At first Cipolla didn’t understand. Then the meaning of the inspector’s words began to sink in. With a kind of roar he shot to his feet and flew over the top of the desk at Montalbano before Fazio could restrain him. But the inspector had stood up and stepped aside, so that Cipolla ended his flight by crashing his head against the wall and collapsing to the floor, stunned. Fazio helped him back up, sat him down again, and brought him a glass of water.
“Sorry about that,” Cipolla said moments later, still breathing heavily.
A change had come over him. Maybe he’d realized that it was best to keep his nerves in check.
“Can I continue?”
“Yessir.”
“You know what led me to make that conjecture? The fact that you, before boarding the Carlo III, had a friend give you a revolver and—”
“But I’d had the gun already for a while!”
“But you can’t prove that.”
Cipolla closed his eyes and threw his head back. He was starting to feel lost.
“Then, if you’d already had it for a while, my question is: Were you also armed when you worked aboard the Carlo I?”
“Yessir, I was.”
“Can you explain to me why?”
“I can explain, but I wouldn’t want the others to know that I explained it to you.”
“What have the others got to do with it?”
“Well, they . . . Okay, I’ll tell you the whole story and get it over with . . . It’s because sometimes, while we’re fishing, some patrol boats from Libya, Tunisia, an’ who knows where the hell else, arrive out of nowhere and hijack some of our boats. An’ I don’t feel like ending up in one of Gaddafi’s prisons.”
“Has that already happened to you?”
“Not to me personally, but to a friend o’ mine, yes. And he told me they did shameful things to him.”
“So your gun was for self-defense?”
“Of course.”
“But what could you have done all alone against the machine guns of a patrol boat?”
Cipolla said nothing.
“As you can see, your explanation doesn’t hold water. And, I must warn you, your situation is looking worse and worse. We’re actually moving towards a charge of premeditated murder, so you’d better forget about your ‘accident’ claim. Anyway, now I’m going to call the investigating judge and—”
“Wait a second,” Cipolla said softly.
He was wringing his hands and rocking his upper body back and forth in his chair. Montalbano prodded him a little.
“Okay, that’s enough.”
“Whoever said I was the only one with a weapon?” Cipolla cried out.
“Just a minute, let me get this straight. Are you telling me your fellow crewmen were also armed?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you think your mates are ready to confirm that for me?”
“Not in my wildest dreams.”
“Why not?”
“First of all because they don’t have gun permits, and secondly because I’m the one who screwed up, and so I have to pay.”
Suddenly, upon hearing these last replies, a little light came on inside the inspector’s brain.
“So, maybe, aboard the boat, there was something bigger than a revolver?”
“I ain’t no snitch.”
The little light grew brighter.
“Is Signor Cosentino aware of this?”
Cipolla shrugged.
“Maybe, maybe not. He’s got his own reasons for not wanting his boat hijacked.”
Silence fell. Then Montalbano asked:
“You realize that, as things stand now, you’re fucked?”
Cipolla hung his head down to his chest and started silently weeping.
“I swear I didn’t wanna kill him! It was an accident!”
“Unfortunately for you, however . . .”
A kind of wail began to come out of Cipolla’s mouth. Montalbano decided the moment had come to deliver the decisive blow. He’d given him the bitter part; now he would give him the sweet. He spoke in a soft voice.
“. . . Though I, personally, am beginning to have serious doubts as to the premeditation.”
As Cipolla’s body shook as if from a jolt of electricity, Fazio smiled. He’d grasped the inspector’s game.
“So you believe me?” a disoriented Cipolla asked, incredulous.
“I might. But I need to ask a few more questions.”
“Whatever you like.”
“And you must answer me with the utmost sincerity.”
“I swear I will.”
“So you confirm for me that your mates were also armed?”
“Yessir.”
“And the engine man likewise?”
“Yessir.”
“Where’d he keep his weapon?”
“In his waistband.”
“You threw your own weapon into the sea after the accident, but when did your mates get rid of theirs?”
“After Sidoti told them to.”
“And was Sidoti acting under orders from Cosentino?”
“I don’t know whether or not Cosentino gave the order, but in any case Sidoti told us after talking to him.”
“What else did Sidoti throw into the sea?”
Cipolla hesitated slightly for a moment. Montalbano decided to intervene.
“Signor Cipolla, you have two roads before you: on the one hand, thirty years for premeditated murder, and on the other, a few short years for manslaughter and illegal possession of a handgun. The decision is yours. I repeat: What else did Sidoti throw into the sea?”
“A . . . a Kalashnikov.”
Montalbano immediately realized that Cipolla was hiding something else.
“And in addition to the Kalashnikov?”
“Two wet suits, two diving masks, and four oxygen tanks,” Cipolla said under his breath.
“What were they used for?”
Before answering, Cipolla furrowed his brow as though it cost him great effort.
“To . . . to disentangle the net, if necess—”
“I’m sorry, but then what need was there to get rid of them?”
“I don’t know.”
It was clear the guy was lying, but the inspector chose not to press the point.
“Are the crews of the other trawlers also armed?”
“Yessir.”
Then Fazio spoke.
“When they pulled the mechanic’s body out, there was no weapon.”
“Sidoti had gone down into the engine room and taken it,” said Cipolla.
“That’ll be all for now,” said the inspector. “Fazio, take him to a holding cell. You’re under arrest, Signor Cipolla.”
Cipolla, who hadn’t expected this outcome, sat there in shock, mouth open, lacking even the strength to stand up. Fazio helped him to his feet and dragged him along. Five minutes later he hurried back and sat down.
“But what do you really think about Cipolla?” he asked the inspector.
“I’m beginning to become convinced that it actually was an accident, but one that produced undesirable results.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that this little killing is endangering some shady activity the nature of which I have yet to discover. We need to find out more about Cosentino.”
“Already taken care of,” said Fazio.
Every time Fazio said “already taken care of,” which he did often, it meant he was one step ahead of him, something that made the inspector feel tremendously annoyed. But he controlled himself.
“Who’d you talk to?”
“To my dad. I went to see him after lunch, before coming here.”
“And what did he tell you?”
Fazio beamed, as if on a grand occasion.
“My father told me some interesting things. Many years ago, Cosentino was a poor wretch of a fisherman whom Don Ramunno Cuffaro—”
“Ay-yai-yai . . .” said Montalbano.
“. . . whom Don Ramunno Cuffaro took under his wing, to the point that he made him crew chief of a special fishing boat.”
“What was so special about it?”
“Aside from fishing for fish, it also fished for contraband cigarettes.”
“I get it. So he made his career with the Cuffaros?”
“Exactly. My father is convinced that he’s not the real owner of those trawlers, but just a front man for the Cuffaros.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. They say his son Carlo, who officially drowned at sea six years ago and whose body was never recovered, was actually killed in a shoot-out with the Sinagras, who’d sent out two trawlers to steal the Cuffaros’ cigarettes. At that point, apparently, Cosentino got the Cuffaros to allow him to work solely as an honest fisherman, whereas now—”
“Whereas now he’s been called back into service. But what kind of service? That’s the question. Listen, do you know any trawler owners who are honest and discreet?”
“Yes. Calogero Lorusso.”
“Turn on the speakerphone, give him a ring, and then put me on.”
Five minutes later he had Lorusso on the phone.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“I would ask you to keep our conversation to yourself.”
“I’m as silent as the grave.”
“Thank you. I’d like to know what sort of instructions you give your crews in the event a foreign patrol boat should attempt to sequester them.”
“Well, Inspector, the instructions aren’t mine. All Italian fishing boats are supposed to abide by the rules issued by the Harbormasters’ Central Command.”
“And what would they be?”
“First of all, to try to avoid sequester by moving away at maximum speed, even if it means abandoning our nets. Second, not to put up any resistance, not even in the face of serious provocation. Third, not to carry any weapons whatsoever on board. Fourth—”
“That’s enough, thanks. But tell me something. If your nets get stuck, do you send a diver down?”
“A diver? At night? Are you kidding? We just try and try with the capstan, hoping that with the right maneuver and a little luck . . .”
“One last question, then I’ll let you go. How are the fisheries divided up between you and your colleagues?”
“There’s nothing in writing. It’s just the traditional fisheries. If we were on land, you could call it acquisitive prescription. I’ve had my own area for decades, Filipoti’s got his, Cosentino likewise, and so on.”
“Thank you for your help.”
Montalbano hung up and dialed another number with his eyes on a piece of paper in front of him.
“Signor Cosentino, Montalbano here. I wanted to inform you that Cipolla’s under arrest, so you could let his wife know. Tomorrow morning he’ll be transferred to Montelusa prison. I’ll be reporting to the judge that in my opinion we’re dealing with premeditated murder.”
“So when can I have my trawler back?”
“I’ll ask the judge to lift the restraining order, first thing tomorrow morning. Have a good evening.”
He hung up and looked over at Fazio.
“That way, Cosentino will feel safe to keep doing what he does. Because there’s no doubt he’s doing something shady, considering that he’s breaking the Harbormasters’ rules.”
“His trawlers are so heavily armed they might as well be a naval squadron,” said Fazio.
“Exactly. My dear Fazio, I’m under the impression we’re looking at something big. But it’s getting late now, so I’m going to head on home. One thing, however: I want you to find out where Cosentino’s fishing area is located. See you in the morning.”
When he got home he realized he didn’t feel like doing anything, not even eating.
There was a question swirling about in his head: What was Cosentino’s secret?
And the fact that he couldn’t answer it weighed heavily on him.
He decided to have a little snack, just so he wouldn’t go to bed on an empty stomach.
4
He prepared a platter of salami, caciocavallo cheese, prosciutto, and ten or so passuluna olives, then grabbed a bottle of wine and brought everything out onto the veranda. This kept him busy for about an hour, after which he went back inside and turned on the television. They were broadcasting the third installment of La Piovra, a TV series on the Mafia that was enjoying tremendous success. He watched it for a bit. It was as though the Italians had only just discovered Sicily, but only for its worst side, and so he changed the channel. And he found Toto Cutugno singing “Con la chitarra in mano,” from “L’ Italiano,” which he’d presented at the San Remo festival the year before. He turned off the set and went back out to the veranda to smoke and rack his brain. At that hour the fishing boats of Vigàta were heading out towards their respective fishing zones.
But what did Cosentino’s boats fish?
Finally, around midnight, it was time to phone Livia.
She said she’d just got back from the movies.
“What did you see?”
“A double-oh-seven movie with James Bond.”
“But those are spy fables!”
“And in fact I saw it as a fable. Totally unreal. Just think, at a certain point they hide an airplane at the bottom of the sea, covering it with a tarp, then they send some frogmen down to the plane to recover some . . .”
But Montalbano, following his own thoughts, was no longer listening . . .
“Thanks,” he blurted out at one point.
“Thanks for what?” asked Livia, confused.
Montalbano set her straight.
“Thanks for telling me the plot of the film. That way I don’t have to go and see it.”
“But I wasn’t talking about the film anymore! I was telling you I really feel like being with you, and you come out and say ‘thanks’ like I was offering you a cigarette! Go to hell!”
And she hung up angrily. Montalbano called back and needed a good ten minutes to make peace.
But when he lay down in bed, he didn’t fall asleep right away. Livia’s words had been like a ray of light that illuminates a dark corner for a few seconds, allowing you a momentary glimpse of what’s there . . .
And thus he was able, after jumping from hypothesis to hypothesis, to arrive at a possible conclusion. One truly worthy of a James Bond movie.
“I’ve got some good information,” Fazio said cheerfully the following morning, when entering the office. “I had a long talk with Calogero Lorusso. Cosentino’s fishery is just opposite the Gulf of Sirte, but still in our territorial waters, a seven-hour sail from Vigàta. The area is called the ‘shallows of Ghabuz’ because the water’s not very deep around there.”
“Shallow water? Just the words I wanted to hear.”
“Lorusso also told me about something strange he’d noticed.”
“What?”
“That Cosentino’s five boats always put out together, but every fifteenth day one of the boats returns some three or four hours later than the others. And this has been going on for the past few years. He also said that if I wanted to check, all I have to do is go to the harbor tomorrow, because tomorrow’s the fifteenth day.”
“All right, then. I’m going now to see the judge in Montelusa about Cipolla’s arrest and to lift the restraining order on Cosentino’s boat. I’ll be back in two hours at the most. You, in the meantime, should try to find out where the radio that Cosentino uses to communicate with his boats is located. Look carefully as to where the doors and windows are.”
“What have you got in mind?” Fazio asked suspiciously.
“I’ll tell you later.”
He convinced the judge that Cipolla should remain in detention despite the fact that he himself was almost certain that the killing was a case of involuntary manslaughter; he obtained a signed order lifting the sequestration; and from the phone in the courthouse he informed Cosentino of the news, telling him he could drop by to pick up the document around one p.m., but in the meantime he could remove the seals and get the boat ready to sail. Cosentino thanked him endlessly.
When he got back he left the order lifting the sequestration with Catarella and found Fazio waiting for him in his office.
“Before anything else, you must answer a question: At what time do Cosentino’s boats put out?”
“At two p.m.”
“So they should reach their fishery by nine, fish until midnight, then return home, getting to the port of Vigàta around seven in the morning, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Now it’s your turn to talk.”
“Cosentino’s office is on the road that runs along the edge of the port, at number twenty-two. It’s in a warehouse where they store spare parts and fishing nets. The actual office consists of a sort of loft that you reach by way of a narrow iron staircase. That’s where he’s got his radio. There’s also a bed, because sometimes Cosentino spends the night there.”
“I’d bet the family jewels he’s going to spend the night there tonight. How can I get in there?”
“Without authorization?”
“Good guess.”
“Chief, you must know that this could turn out badly for you.”
“Answer my question.”
“In back there’s a window that’s always half-open. But if you go, Chief, I’m going with you.”
“No. At the most you can stay outside and be my lookout. I want you to post a guard outside the warehouse starting at seven o’clock tonight. As soon as Cosentino returns, you must inform me at home. Now go get Augello and come back.”
When Mimì arrived, the inspector told him the conclusions he’d drawn and the plan he had in mind.
“Just one observation,” Mimì said when he’d finished. “You haven’t the slightest idea what crime Cosentino and his men are committing. And, I’m sorry, but that’s not much to go on.”
“Mimì, what’s certain is that they are committing a crime. What kind of crime, we won’t find out until we get our hands on those fishing boats. It’ll be like the surprise inside an Easter egg.”
Fazio’s call came in at eight, and at eight-thirty the inspector was pulling up behind Cosentino’s warehouse in a deserted alley. Before getting out, he took his pistol from the glove compartment and put it in his jacket pocket. Fazio was waiting for him.
“Cosentino is inside and has locked the main door. This is the window here. It’s open enough to get through. I’ll give you a hand. Climb up onto my shoulders.”
A moment later the inspector was sitting on the windowsill. Then he turned around and, grabbing onto the edge, slid down noiselessly.
He was inside. The light was on. He could hear Cosentino talking to someone on the phone. Montalbano stood there and looked around. The warehouse wasn’t very big, but it was stuffed with crates, engine parts, and fishing nets. The loft area where Cosentino had his office was made of masonry and attached to the wall on the left-hand side of the building. It had a window that gave onto the interior of the warehouse. Montalbano was convinced that Cosentino wouldn’t be able to see him unless he looked out that window. Under the loft there were more crates, and the inspector decided that was the best place to go and hide. Cosentino was still talking over the phone. Montalbano moved very slowly and with great care. Finally, with a sigh he wedged himself between two crates. As soon as Cosentino had finished talking, a voice came over the radio.
“Carlo III to home base. Carlo III to home base.”
The voice was Sidoti’s.
“I hear you, Carlo III.”
“We’re at Ghabuz. Should all five of us start fishing?”
“For the moment, yes.”
What did that “for the moment” mean? That Cosentino was awaiting orders?
This was going to take a while. Moving very slowly, Montalbano managed to sit down on the ground with his back against the wall. He heard Cosentino get up and was afraid he would come downstairs. Moments later, however, Cosentino sat back down. Every so often he heard him humming a tune. Ever so slowly, a dangerous sleepiness started to come over him. He defended himself by reciting in his mind whatever he could remember from the Orlando Furioso, and then The Iliad. He didn’t know how much time had passed. Then he heard Cosentino’s telephone ring. The man said: “Hello?” and then listened in silence. In the end he said, “Okay,” and hung up. A moment later he spoke over the radio.
“Home base to Carlo III. Home base to Carlo III.”
“Carlo III here, over. What’s the order?”
“Pass the position I gave you over to Taibi; the Carlo II’s gonna pick up the stuff. When Taibi tells you he’s arrived, give me a call. It should take about an hour. Your four other boats should keep on trawling.”
More time passed. Then Sidoti’s voice returned.
“Carlo III to home base.”
“Home base here, go ahead.”
“Taibi informs me the Carlo II is at the buoy and starting the operation. He says he should be able to do it in half an hour.”
“Okay, I’ll hail you in a few minutes to give you the instructions for Taibi.”
Amidst the great silence the inspector distinctly heard Cosentino dialing a telephone number. Then he heard:
“Hello? They’ve started the retrieval. I want to know what my trawler’s supposed to do with the stuff.”
As Cosentino was listening to the answer, Montalbano stood up, took out his pistol, reached the foot of the iron staircase in a flash, and started climbing gingerly. Cosentino, sitting at a table with a radio and telephone on it, had his back to him.
“All right,” said Cosentino, putting down the receiver.
And at that moment he felt a gun barrel press against the back of his neck. He froze.
“Turn around.”
Cosentino turned, remaining seated, and as soon as he recognized Montalbano, his mouth dropped and stayed open.
“Now listen closely. Nobody on the police force knows I’m here. So I can shoot and kill you and nobody would be any the wiser. After they find your body, I’ll be the one doing the investigation and I’ll blame the Sinagras. So you can consider yourself a dead man. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Cosentino nodded in affirmation. He was drooling, the saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth.
“Now, I’m going to ask you a question, and if you don’t answer it to my satisfaction, I’ll shoot you in the knee. And if you still don’t answer, I’ll shoot your other knee. And I’ll keep on going until you make up your mind.”
Cosentino had turned a greenish hue.
“What instructions were you given for the Carlo II?”
“It’s . . . supposed to . . . stay close . . . to the buoy . . . which . . . a motorboat . . . ’ll be there . . . in about an hour and . . .”
“And now you’re going to tell them the orders have changed and that the Carlo II should join the other four boats and they should all sail back to Vigàta. And they should put the stuff they picked up in the forehold. Now, you need to calm down before talking over the radio. Your voice has to sound the way it always does.”
Cosentino obeyed.
“Just out of curiosity, could you tell me what you retrieved from the bottom of the sea?”
Cosentino opened his eyes wide in surprise.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Thirty kilos of heroin.”
He escorted Cosentino out of the warehouse. Fazio came running as soon as he saw them.
“Have the reinforcements from Montelusa arrived?”
“Yessir.”
“Then inform Inspector Augello that the five trawlers are returning to port and that in the forehold of the Carlo II he’ll find thirty kilos of heroin. Arrest all the crewmen; they’re armed and dangerous. And I’m turning Signor Cosentino over to you. Take him and put him in a holding cell.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’m going home to bed. I’m a little tired.”
He’d just spent a nasty afternoon fending off journalists wanting interviews when he had to dash off to Montelusa to receive first a tongue-lashing and then praise from the commissioner. After that he was summoned by the judge to explain everything. But he sang him only half the Mass.
He got home at nine that evening, agitated and tired. But he had a good sleep, and showed up at the office the next morning in a good mood.
“I need to talk to you,” said Mimì Augello, coming into his office.
“So talk.”
“Did you tell the judge you think Cipolla was guilty of involuntary manslaughter?”
“I’m convinced he is.”
“You’re wrong. I have two witnesses. Over the past month, Arnone’d been going at night to Cipolla’s house when he wasn’t there.”
Montalbano thought about this for a moment.
“You know what I say to you, Mimì? Never mind about the judge. He’ll decide for himself. In my opinion, Cipolla deserves a little help.”