THE TRANSACTION
1
Montalbano was fed up. He couldn’t take it any longer. After glancing at his watch—it was almost twenty past five in the afternoon—he looked at Augello and Fazio, who were sitting in front of his desk, also feeling fed up.
“Boys,” he said, “we’ve been talking about this question of night shifts for over two hours without arriving at any solution. But I have a great idea I want to propose.”
He never had a chance to propose his great idea, however, because a bomb, surely thrown in through the open window, went off in the room, deafening them all.
Or, more precisely, such was the terrible impression all three of them had. At any rate, Fazio fell out of his chair, Augello threw himself forward onto the floor, shielding his head with his hands, and the inspector found himself kneeling behind his desk.
“Anyone hurt?” Montalbano asked a moment later.
“Not me,” said Augello.
“Me neither,” said Fazio.
They fell silent.
Because, as they were saying this, they all realized that it wasn’t a bomb that had made that frightening boom, but the door to Montalbano’s office, which, flung open, had crashed against the wall.
And, indeed, in the doorway stood Catarella, who this time did not, however, “papologize” or “beck their parting,” but merely excused himself, saying his hand had slipped.
He was red in the face and trembling all over, his eyes so goggled they looked like they were about to pop out of his head.
“Th-th-they-sh-sh-shat-th-th-the-po-po-pope!” he said in a voice that came out very shrill, like one of the Flying Squad’s sirens.
And he started weeping uncontrollably.
None of the three, ears still ringing from the boom, understood a thing. But clearly something terrible had happened.
Montalbano went up to him, put his arm on his shoulder, and spoke paternally to him.
“Come on, Cat, get ahold of yourself.”
Meanwhile Fazio brought a glass of water, and Montalbano made Catarella drink it. It seemed to calm him down.
“Sit down,” Fazio said to him, indicating his chair.
Catarella shook his head in refusal. He would never sit in Montalbano’s presence.
“Speak slowly and tell us what happened,” said Augello.
“They shot the pope,” said Catarella.
He said it quite clearly. It was the others who didn’t understand or couldn’t believe what they’d heard.
“What did you say?!” asked Montalbano.
“They shot the pope,” Catarella repeated.
The others remained spellbound for a few seconds. The pope couldn’t possibly have been shot. It was inconceivable, and their brains, in fact, were refusing to accept the news.
“But where did you hear it?” the inspector asked.
“Onna radio.”
Without saying a word, all three raced into Augello’s office, where there was a television set. Augello turned it on. A reporter was saying that John Paul II, while standing up in his automobile, greeting the faithful in St. Peter’s Square, had been struck by two shots from a revolver, one in the left hand and the other in his intestine. The latter injury was very serious. The pope had been taken to the Gemelli hospital. The gunman had tried to escape but was stopped by the crowd. He was a Turk of twenty-three by the name of Mehmet Ali Agca and belonged to a dangerous nationalist group called the Grey Wolves.
They remained glued to the TV set until half past seven, hoping to find out more. But they didn’t learn anything else, other than the fact that the pope was teetering between life and death.
“Do you understand any of this?” Fazio asked Montalbano.
“Not a thing. But it’s starting to look like a bad year. Between the Mafia, the P2, the Sindona case, the negotiations with the Camorra in Naples over the liberation of Ciro Cirillo, and now this Turk shooting the pope . . .”
“Maybe it’s the KGB getting even for all the chaos in Poland,” Augello ventured.
“Anything’s possible,” said Montalbano.
Driving through town on his way to Marinella, he noticed that there were very few people on the streets, no doubt all at home in front of their television sets. When he got home, he realized he wasn’t hungry.
Montalbano was not a man of the church. In fact, he considered himself an agnostic and generally didn’t like priests. Still, this whole affair seemed rather ugly and upset him. And, truth be told, he felt scared. Because he was unable to understand what kind of motives anyone could have for wanting to assassinate the pope.
Was somebody trying to trigger a religious war? Was it the act of a lone madman? Or was it an international plot, the aims and possible consequences of which remained unknown?
He went and looked for a portable radio, small but powerful, which he’d bought a year earlier. It picked up stuff from all over the world. Taking it out onto the veranda, he turned it on. There wasn’t a single station that wasn’t talking about the attack, and even if the report was in Ostrogothic, at a certain point he would hear the word “pope” or the pope’s name. But there was no news on the Vatican Radio. They were praying.
He spent some two hours in this fashion. Then he got up, went into the kitchen, made himself a salami sandwich, and went back out onto the veranda to eat it.
He kept listening to the radio until Livia called him just before midnight.
“Have you heard the awful news?”
“Of course.”
“What do you think?”
“No idea.”
“Listen, I wanted to confirm that I’ll be arriving on the four o’clock flight tomorrow.”
“I’ll come and pick you up at the airport.”
“No, why bother? There’s a perfectly decent bus service. But if you want, you can come and pick me up in Montelusa. The bus gets in at six-thirty.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
They talked a little while longer, exchanged kisses over the phone, and wished each other good night. When he got into bed, Montalbano set the alarm for six.
The first thing he did when he woke up was to turn on the radio, and he learned that the operation on the pope had gone well. Feeling relieved, he went and opened the French door to the veranda. The day promised to be friendly, the sea was smooth as a mirror, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He went into the kitchen and made coffee, drank down a mugful, smoked a cigarette on the veranda, then shut himself in the bathroom.
When he came back out, he was surprised to find Adelina standing in front of him.
“Why so early?”
“Since I wenna the early Mass to pray f’the pope, I decided a come anna givva the house a nice-a goo’ cleanup.”
“Good idea, because Livia’s coming this evening to stay for a few days.”
“Ah . . .” said Adelina.
She turned her back to him and went into the kitchen. Montalbano stood there, speechless. Clearly she was not pleased that Livia was coming. But why? What had happened between the two women? He decided that the matter should be cleared up at once. But when he went into the kitchen, Adelina didn’t give him any time to open his mouth.
“Isspector, I’m a-sorry, bu’ less-a spick-a clearly. I’m a-no’ gonna come ’ere onna days whenna young-a lady’s ’ere.”
“But why not?”
“’Cause iss-a betta tha’ way.”
“But did something happen?”
“Nuttin’ an’ everytin’.”
“Care to explain?”
“Wha’ss t’asplain? We jess donna get along. She never like-a nuttin’ I do. Iss never good enow. First issa bedsheet ’a’ss no’ tight enow, ’enn issa bat’robe a’ss no’ inna righ’ place, ’enn iss a li’l bitta dust behine a TV . . . An’ fuhgettabou’ my cookin’! ’Ere’s always too mucha salt, too li’l oil, anna so on . . . An’ she herself donno even how ta cook a egg!”
On this last point, she was right.
“All right, now that you’ve got that off your chest . . .” Montalbano began.
“Now I gettit offa my chest iss no’ gonna change-a nuttin’,” Adelina said, interrupting him. “Iffa you like, I canna senn my cousin ’Gnazia for as long as a young-a lady’s’ere.”
“Does she cook as well as you?”
“Isspector, nobody cooka like-a me!”
Montalbano thought it over for a moment.
“Let’s do this. Send your cousin ’Gnazia just to clean the house.”
“An’ what about eatin’?”
“This morning you can make some cold dishes for us to eat in the evening. After all, Livia won’t be staying for more than three days.”
“An’ what abou’ lunch?”
“I’ll take her out to a trattoria.”
“Okay,” said Adelina. “I can do that.”
At that moment the telephone rang. Montalbano went and picked up.
“Beckin’ yer partin’ f’callin’ so oily inna mornin’,” said Catarella.
“Something happen?”
“Wha’ happen izzat ’ere was a boiglery.”
“Did you inform Augello and Fazio?”
“Yessir, ’ey’re already onna scene.”
“Well, then, in that case . . .”
“Nah, nah, Chief, ya don’ wanna take it too easy. Inso-much as how that Fazio juss called sayin’ as how i’ ’d be better if you was onna scene, too.”
What?! His two detectives couldn’t handle a simple burglary on their own? Montalbano huffed, but he couldn’t very well back down.
“What’s the address?”
“Via del Corso, stree’ nummer toity-eight.”
He ran into Adelina in the hallway. She was on her way out.
“Where are you going?”
“If I gotta cooka fuh tree days I’s best a-go shoppin’.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
In the car, Adelina started talking about Livia again.
“Isspector, sir, you gotta ’scuse me for talkin’ like I do, but I din’t wanna talk about it wit’ the young lady, so . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, Adelí. The less we talk about it, the better.”
Driving down the Corso, he realized something he hadn’t noticed before. Which was that a grocery store and a wine shop had disappeared and been replaced by two banks. Was there really so much money in town that they needed to open two new bank branches?
Then, as if it had been scripted, number 38, Via del Corso, corresponded to one of the banks that hadn’t been there before. A fancy sign, with neon tubes that lit up at night, announced that this was the Farmers’ Bank of Montelusa.
He got out of the car. The rolling shutter was pulled almost down to the ground and showed no signs of having been forced. He tried to raise it, made an extra effort, but wasn’t able. He rang the doorbell, which was on the wall under a plaque that also bore the bank’s name.
Moments later a man’s voice asked:
“Who is it?”
“Inspector Montalbano, police.”
“I’ll come and open up.”
In a flash the shutter rose halfway. It must have functioned electrically. Montalbano bent down and passed under it.
In front of him he found a heavy armored door that worked by number combination, to be keyed in on a telephone-style touchpad. The door was open just enough to allow a person to enter.
They protected themselves well, at this bank.
There to receive him was an emaciated man of about fifty, all dressed in black and wearing a melancholy expression. He would have fit in better at a funeral home.
“Hello, I’m ragioniere Cascino. Downright shameful, don’t you think?”
What was so shameful? The burglary? Did he have such a lofty conception of banking that to be robbed was shameful? Why not just call it sacrilege?
Montalbano gave him a questioning look, and ragioniere Cascino felt pressed to explain.
“I was referring to the fact that the burglars showed no respect for the Holy Father, who just . . . Ah, never mind. Please, come in.”
Montalbano went in.
2
Montalbano remembered that up until a couple of months ago the place had been a fancy barber shop called Today’s Man. Outside there had been a display window with photos featuring a number of different male hairdos that had won prizes in hairstyling competitions. He’d never gone in, because at the time the sickly-sweet smell wafting out onto the sidewalk had sufficed to convince him there was no point.
The bank had tried to transform the interior into something a little less frivolous, but hadn’t really succeeded, because the result now looked exactly like one of those government lottery offices of days past. Apparently this was some kind of third-tier bank.
Behind a wooden partition wall sat two cashiers at their stations. One of them, a young man, was watching a fly in the air, while the other, an elderly man, looked asleep. A third workstation, which must have belonged to the man who’d let him in, was vacant.
“Please follow me,” ragioniere Cascino invited him in a tone of voice somewhere between that of a butler and an official guide.
Montalbano felt like he was visiting Windsor Castle.
The barber’s large salon in the back had been turned into two smallish rooms. Over one of the doors was a little plaque with the word MANAGER. It was made of copper but was so bright it looked like solid gold. There was no sign on the other door, but to make up for this the door was made not of wood but some kind of heavy metal. And was more heavily armored than the entrance door. And it had, in fact, two combination dials with numbers on them.
Cascino knocked on the manager’s door.
“Come in!” said a voice inside.
Ragioniere Cascino opened the door, poked his head inside, announced the arrival of the inspector, then ceremoniously withdrew.
“Please come in.”
Damn, did they ever have a lot of frills and froufrous at this bank! It probably wasn’t even this bad at the office of the president of the Bank of Italy!
Montalbano went in. Cascino closed the door behind him ever so quietly.
Fazio, who was sitting in front of the desk of a well-dressed fortyish man with a salon tan, stood up. The man did the same, adjusting his tie.
“Good morning,” said Montalbano.
Was it just him, or could he still smell, ever so slightly, the sickly-sweet scent of the barbershop in the air?
“Where’s Inspector Augello?” he asked Fazio.
“When he learned you were coming he left, saying he had some urgent business to attend to.”
The little shit! He’d snuck off! The rotational spin of Montalbano’s cojones, set in motion by the flap with Adelina, picked up considerable speed. Meanwhile, the tanned forty-year-old had come up to the inspector and held out his hand.
“My name is Vittorio Barracuda,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you, and I’m sorry to have to meet you in such unpleasant circumstances.”
And he smiled, displaying two rows of teeth much like those of the dangerous carnivorous fish of the same name.
Montalbano was immediately convinced that the man before him would have a brilliant career in banking. A hungry wolf had more scruples than this guy. But wasn’t he wasting his talent on a rinky-dink bank like this?
“How long has your bank been in Vigàta?”
“Six months.”
“Have you established a good client base?”
“We can’t complain.”
“How many branches do you have in the province?”
“Just one. This one.”
But didn’t the bank call itself a “farmers’ bank”? So why, then, hadn’t they opened up branches in Cianciana or Canicattì, which were farming towns, instead of Vigàta, which was a fishing town?
Unable to stand Barracuda’s toothy smile any longer, Montalbano turned to Fazio.
“Got anything to tell me?” he asked.
“The burglary occurred last night, Chief—”
“It would have been harder during the day,” the inspector interrupted him gruffly.
Fazio realized the inspector was in a funk, pretended not to notice, and continued:
“—in the room next door, where the safety-deposit boxes are. If you want to go and have a look . . .”
“No, if anything we can do it later,” Montalbano said curtly. “Can you tell me how many deposit boxes there are?”
“A hundred, but of varying sizes, of course.”
“And were they all rented out?”
This time Barracuda answered.
“Yes, all of them.”
Montalbano felt a little bewildered but didn’t know why. There was something here that didn’t add up, but he couldn’t say what.
He’d remained standing ever since entering the room. He looked around. Barracuda intercepted his gaze.
“Please sit down,” he said, freeing a chair by removing two binder files. Montalbano sat down.
“How did they get in?” he asked.
Fazio answered.
“They had the keys to the shutter and knew the combinations to the two armored doors, the one at the entrance and the one to the room with the deposit boxes.”
“Wasn’t there any kind of night guard?”
This time the manager answered.
“We use the services of the Securitas firm, which is very reliable.”
“Did you give them a ring?” the inspector asked Fazio.
“Yeah, Chief. The watchman, whose name is Vincenzo Larota, rides past every hour on his bike and didn’t see anything.”
“Apparently the burglars were aware of his schedule,” the manager commented.
“Right,” said the inspector.
But he said nothing else. He’d leaned forward and seemed engrossed in staring at the tips of his shoes.
To break the silence Barracuda tried to explain.
“You see, Inspector, we’re a small bank, and so, together with management, we didn’t think it necessary to resort to any kind of special surveillance . . .”
These words actually helped the inspector bring into focus the reason why he’d felt uneasy.
“What kind of customers do you have?” he asked.
Barracuda shrugged.
“We call ourselves a farmers’ bank because our goal, so to speak, is indeed to help wine producers, citrus farmers, and the like, and to lend support to small farmers and local agricultural concerns . . .”
But where were all these agricultural concerns in the province of Montelusa? At any rate, in Vigàta you’d never find a single one even if you paid for their advertising.
“Naturally,” Barracuda continued, “this branch is also seeking clients among the owners of fishing boats and the fishermen themselves . . .” He made a sly face and then added: “If the chief inspector of Vigàta Police would also like to become a customer of ours . . .”
And he laughed. Alone.
Montalbano, meanwhile, was asking himself some questions. If these clients were all, when you came right down to it, poor bastards having trouble making ends meet, what need was there for a bank like this to have safety-deposit boxes? And not ten, mind you, but a hundred! Of varying size! And they’d all been rented! No, the whole thing made no sense at all.
Montalbano decided to aim straight for the bull’s-eye.
“Could you please provide me with a complete list of the people renting the safety-deposit boxes?”
Barracuda immediately became as stiff as another kind of fish: salted cod.
“I don’t see what use that would be.”
“I’ll determine that myself.”
“Let me clarify.”
“Yes, please clarify.”
“The deposit boxes were all—I repeat, all—robbed without distinction. No specific boxes were targeted. Therefore—”
“Therefore you’ll provide me with that list just the same,” the inspector said, hardening his face.
Barracuda now turned from salted cod into frozen stockfish.
“But that, as I’m sure you know, would go against the rules of client confidentiality . . .”
“Signor Barracuda, I am not asking you to tell me the contents of the deposit boxes, which at any rate you don’t even know yourself; I am only asking you for the list of the clients’ names.”
“I know, but I’ll have to request authorization from senior management, and I’m not sure they’ll—”
“How many of you know the combinations?” the inspector interrupted him, irritated.
“We all do. The three cashiers and myself.”
“Do you change them often?”
“Every three days.”
“Who’s in charge of it?”
“I am. And I give the new combinations to those involved. I’ll be changing them again this evening.”
He gave the inspector a doubtful look.
“You’re not thinking it was one of my employees who gave the combinations . . .”
Montalbano looked at him without saying anything. The manager continued.
“You know, there are devices that can—”
The inspector stopped him by raising his hand.
“I’m fully aware of that. I’ve seen some movies myself. I would appreciate it if, once I walk out of here, you would draw up a list of the bank personnel with names and telephone numbers and give it to my colleague here. I don’t think there’s any confidentiality restrictions in that regard.”
He then asked Fazio:
“Have you called Forensics?”
“Not yet.”
“Do it. I’ll see you back at the station.”
He stood up, and Barracuda held out his hand. Montalbano shook it and, while still holding it, wrinkled his nose.
“Can you smell it, too?” he asked.
“Smell what?” asked Barracuda, confused.
“There used to be a barber’s salon here. I guess the walls have remained imbued with the scent. It’s pretty unpleasant.”
He had the impression that the bank manager’s hand had become a little sweaty.
Stepping outside, he noticed that the morning was keeping its promise to be sensitive to his less-than-happy mood. He decided to go for a walk to the bank into which his salary was regularly deposited. Macaluso, the manager, received him immediately.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“I need some information. How many safety-deposit boxes do you have at this bank?”
“Thirty.”
“Could you tell me, at least roughly, how many deposit boxes the other banks in Vigàta have?”
“May I ask you the reason for these questions?” asked Macaluso.
News of the bank robbery hadn’t spread. And it was better that way.
“It’s for a survey the commissioner’s office requested.”
It took Macaluso only five minutes. It turned out that only the Montelusa Farmers’ Bank had such a disproportionate number of boxes.
The bank manager looked at Montalbano in surprise.
“How strange! What do they do with all those safety-deposit boxes?”
“No idea,” said the inspector, face as innocent as that of a cherub just then descended from heaven.
When he left the bank he retraced his steps, got in his car, and went to the office.
During the drive, something occurred to him. So that, once he got there, he gave his father a ring.
“What a wonderful surprise, Salvo! You have no idea how pleased I am to hear from you!”
“Papa, would you mind if I invited you to meet me for lunch at one?”
“Would I mind? What are you saying?!”
“All right, then, I’ll see you at Calogero’s at one.”
3
When he got to the trattoria, his father was already seated at a small table set for two, waiting for him and watching the television, which was saying that while the prognosis for the pope was still guarded, his life was no longer in danger.
Seeing him come in, his father shot to his feet and went up to him with open arms.
Montalbano instinctively warded him off, extending his hand instead. His father pretended not to notice and shook it, smiling.
They both ordered the same first course, spaghetti with clam sauce. They’d always had the same tastes. His father was clearly dying of curiosity to know the reason for the unexpected invitation, but didn’t venture to ask any questions.
They sat there in silence for a few moments, without even looking at each other. Then Montalbano made up his mind to speak.
“How’s business?”
His father, who had a small wine-producing business between Montelusa and Favara, looked at him with surprise.
The last thing he’d expected to hear from his son, with whom he had a difficult relationship, was a question like that. He sighed deeply, looked Montalbano in the eye, and shrugged.
“Not so great?”
“Not good at all. It’s too small. We can’t keep up with the competition. I’d have to expand it to give it any chance to survive, but I haven’t got the money.”
“Can’t you ask for a loan at the bank?”
“Do you think that’s so easy? One of them offered me an interest rate to make your hair stand on end; another refused me because my business partner had once contested a bill . . .”
The spaghetti arrived, and they spoke no more. Montalbano’s father knew that his son didn’t like to converse while eating. When they were done, they ordered a second course of fried mullet.
“So you’re sailing on rough seas,” Montalbano resumed.
“Yes.”
“And what can you do to set things right?”
“A friend of mine from the Catania area suggested I become partners with him. His business does very well. I would sell mine to my partner, and that way—”
“Did you also try asking for a loan at the Montelusa Farmers’ Bank?” Montalbano asked in an apparently indifferent tone.
The firm answer came at once.
“I never even went near the place.”
“Why not?”
“There’ve been nasty rumors.”
“Such as?”
His father twisted up his mouth.
“They’re sharks pretending to be bighearted folks. I’ll cite one example, which should be enough. A guy I know, by the name of Divella, had signed some paper without really understanding what it said, and at some point found himself unable to pay the interest rates, because they’d gone straight through the roof. They ended up taking everything of his, even his house.”
“Common criminals, in other words.”
“Worse. Bloodthirsty animals.”
“Have you ever heard mention of a certain Barracuda?”
“Sure! He’s now the manager of the Vigàta branch. He’s the kind of guy who’s capable of stabbing you in the back just to stay in shape.”
He heaved another sigh and then continued.
“But now let’s change the subject, or I’m gonna lose my appetite. Let’s talk about you. Working a lot?”
The inspector didn’t feel the least bit like talking about himself. He started saying the standard things when he was luckily interrupted by the arrival of the mullet.
After they’d finished eating, at the moment of saying good-bye his father said, with a bitter smile:
“Well, even if you invited me because you needed some information, I’ve really enjoyed seeing you just the same.”
Montalbano felt like a worm.
He got into his car, but instead of going to the office, he took the road to Montelusa. Pulling up outside the provincial headquarters of the Guardia di Finanza, the Finance Police, he went inside, identified himself, and asked to speak with Marshal Antoci, whom he’d first met during the course of an investigation, and they’d instantly hit it off.
He told him about the burglary and what his father had said to him about the Farmers’ Bank. He was seeking confirmation.
“Well, I can certainly tell you about the Divella case, where the guy got skinned alive by that bank. We handled it. And we conducted an investigation. But, you see, it turns out they were very clever, and Divella was careless. We were unable to come up with any evidence that they used loan-sharking methods, even though we were certain they had. Also, there’s another important thing to bear in mind, which is that we were working on our own initiative, because Divella didn’t want to press charges.”
“Did he fear reprisals?”
“Perhaps.”
Montalbano smiled.
“Your ‘perhaps’ has got me walking in a minefield now.”
Now it was Antoci who smiled, but he said nothing.
“Is there a whiff of the Mafia about that bank?” Montalbano asked out of the blue.
Antoci made a serious face.
“Let’s say a faint whiff—or rather, the ever-so-slightest, barely perceptible whiff.”
A bit like the barber’s-salon aroma still wafting about inside the bank’s walls.
“Care to explain a little better?”
“The president, the managing director, and the advisers all have clean records and no known connections to the Mafia. They’re businessmen, yes, and unscrupulous. But if they’re violating the criminal code, as might have been the case with Divella, then . . .”
“And where is this ever-so-slight whiff?”
“It’s coming from the office of the general manager, a certain Cesare Gigante, attorney-at-law, who ten years ago married the sister of Memè Laurentano, a Mafia capo with the Sinagra clan. Laurentano’s daughter is married to another employee of the same bank, Vittorio Barracuda, who is presently manager of the Vigàta branch.”
Montalbano’s eyes opened wide.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. But don’t get your hopes up. We’ve been keeping an eye on both Gigante and Barracuda for a good while, and we’re not the only ones. Nothing’s come up that we could use against them. Stellar conduct, aside from their unfortunate tendency to loan-sharking. But here’s an extra detail: The two women have broken off their relationships with their respective brother and father.”
When Montalbano got back to the station, Fazio told him that Forensics hadn’t found anything, not even the fingerprints of the bank’s own employees. Clearly the burglars had used gloves and, just to be safe, had carefully wiped everything down.
The inspector told him about his meeting with Marshal Antoci. Fazio became pensive.
“What is it?”
“I was just wondering who would ever be crazy enough to go and rob a bank managed by Laurentano’s son-in-law.”
“Couldn’t it be some kind of vendetta?” asked the inspector.
“By whom?”
“By someone who was taken to the cleaners by the bank.”
“First of all, that wouldn’t be vendetta but suicide. And secondly, that burglary was the work of professionals!”
They fell silent. Then Fazio said:
“Oh! I was forgetting something. I scratched around for information and found out something strange.”
“And what was that?”
“The bank’s central office, in Montelusa, has fifty safety-deposit boxes. Now my question is: Why would the bank’s central office have fifty, and the Vigàta branch one hundred?”
“Maybe they wanted to decentralize.”
“Okay, but decentralize what?”
“Who knows. You think the DA will get me an injunction to force Barracuda to give me the list of people renting safety-deposit boxes?”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
“I’m not. So we need to find some other way.”
“How?”
“At the moment I have no idea. But I’ll think of something.”
Five minutes after Fazio had left, Catarella came in.
“Chief, ’ere’d be a jinnelman onna premisses ’at wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“What’s his name?”
“’E says ’is name is Provisorio.”
How could anyone have a surname like that?
“Are you sure, Cat?”
“Sure ’bout wha’, Chief?”
“That the gentleman’s name is Provisorio?”
“Swear to Gad, Chief.”
The well-dressed man of about sixty who appeared at the door seemed gentle and well-bred.
“May I? My name is Carmelo Provvisorio.”
Montalbano did a double take. How did Catarella finally get somebody’s surname right? Was it because it was a very strange name?
“Please come in. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about the burglary at the Farmers’ Bank.”
Montalbano pricked up his ears.
“Who told you there’d been a burglary?”
“Signor Barracuda, the manager, called me to tell me the safety-deposit boxes had been broken into and advised me not to say anything to anyone about it.”
“Did you have a box there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a farmer or—”
“No, I’m a pensioner. You see, after they hired my nephew Angelo, who I brought up after he was orphaned at the age of three, as a cashier, at that bank . . . I thought it was my duty to transfer my account there. And I also rented a safety-deposit box to securely store the jewels of my poor wife, Ernestina, who died four years ago.”
“So why did you come to us?”
“I brought a list and some photographs of her jewelry, so if you did happen to find them . . .”
“I see. Please wait just one minute.”
He rang Fazio, summoned him, and told him who Provvisorio was and what he wanted. The inspector took his leave of the gentleman, who followed Fazio into his office.
Barely five minutes had gone by when an idea flashed in the inspector’s brain. He shot to his feet and ran to Fazio’s room, throwing the door open wide. The two looked at him in shock.
“Listen, Signor Provvisorio, is your nephew’s name also Provvisorio?”
“No, it’s Curreli. He’s my sister’s son.”
“What are his working hours at the bank?”
“He’s there till seven p.m.”
“Could you please do me a favor and call him and ask if he could drop by the station after he gets off work?”
“But Barracuda, the manager, has sent them all home already.”
“Why?”
“I really don’t know; that’s all my nephew told me.”
“Well, please call him anyway.”
“If I could use your phone . . .”
“Go ahead,” said Fazio.
Provvisorio dialed a number.
“’Ngilì? Inspector Montalbano would like to speak with you. Could you come to the police station?”
After hearing the answer, he hung up the phone.
“He’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Montalbano, returning to his office.
If the nephew was an honest man like his uncle, he may have noticed some things at the bank that didn’t quite add up.
Angelo Curreli was the only key they had that might open the armored door hiding the secrets of the hundred deposit boxes.
At least, that was what the inspector was hoping.
4
Angelo Curreli was a shy, polite, and slightly awkward young man of twenty-five, the same one the inspector had seen at the bank staring at a fly in the air. Montalbano sat him down opposite his desk. Fazio was sitting in the other chair.
“Signor Curreli, thank you for coming. Let me start by saying that you should consider this a conversation among friends and feel free not to answer any of my questions if you so decide. All right?”
“All right.”
“How is it working at the bank?”
Curreli visibly gave a start.
“How did you know?”
“Signor Curreli, I assure you that I know nothing whatsoever about you.”
“I’m sorry, I misunderstood. Since I’d secretly sent my résumé to three different Palermo banks, I thought maybe that . . .”
“So, you’re not so happy at the Farmers’ Bank? Or am I mistaken?”
“Well, it’s not that I’m unhappy. It’s just that . . .”
“You want to quit to pursue a career?”
“I want to quit, but not to pursue a career.”
“Why, then?”
Angelo squirmed in his chair. It was hard for him to say what he was thinking.
“When a customer with a safety-deposit box comes in, which of you three clerks goes with him into the secure room?” asked Montalbano, to prod him.
“None of us. The manager takes care of it himself.”
“And what if the manager isn’t there?”
“That’s never happened.”
“Maybe the customers let him know in advance,” Fazio ventured.
“I doubt it,” said Curreli.
“Well, you must admit it’s a bit frustrating for a client to go to the bank and come out empty-handed,” said Montalbano.
Curreli heaved a long sigh and then spoke.
“It was exactly this way of doing things that started arousing my suspicions. So I began to pay attention to what was up with the deposit boxes and I discovered something disturbing. And that’s why I want to quit.”
“Please tell me what you discovered.”
“There are a hundred safety-deposit boxes. Aside from my uncle’s box, the other ninety-nine are rented out to ninety-nine different people.”
Montalbano felt disappointed. But the young man went on:
“But there are only two people who ever come to open them, always the same two, equipped with power of attorney and keys for all the boxes.”
“Always the same two people?”
“Always the same.”
“Do you know their names?”
“Yes. Michele Gammacurta and Pasquale Aricò.”
Montalbano and Fazio exchanged a quick glance.
“One last favor. When you go into work tomorrow—”
“But I’m not going in tomorrow!”
“Why not?”
“Because the manager told us the branch office will remain closed for at least a week. The accounts have all been transferred temporarily to the Montelusa office.”
“Could you give me the home phone numbers of Barracuda, the manager, and the managing director, Gigante?”
“Sure.”
He dictated them to Fazio, who wrote them down.
Fazio returned after showing the young man out. By now it was almost six o’clock. Montalbano put on the speakerphone and dialed the number of the Montelusa headquarters of the Farmers’ Bank.
“Hello? This is the Honorable Giovanni Saraceno speaking. Could I speak to Signor Gigante, please?”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” said the receptionist. “But Signor Gigante left on holiday just this morning with his family. If you’d like to speak to—”
“No, thank you.”
He hung up, then dialed Barracuda’s home number. The phone rang a long time, but nobody answered.
“How much you want to bet that he’s gone on vacation with his family?”
“I never bet when I’m sure to lose. Since Gammacurta and Aricò are trusted men of the Sinagras, what do you think was in those deposit boxes?”
“Cold cash. Instead of taking it out of the country, which is always risky, they were keeping it here, in a small bank of no importance.”
“So the Cuffaros, the Sinagras’ sworn enemies, found out and screwed them?”
Montalbano shook his head no.
“And why not?” Fazio insisted.
“Look, if it had been the Cuffaros, Barracuda would have been scared out of his wits, because he would have to account for the mishap to the Sinagras. Whereas he was perfectly calm and all smiles.”
“So who was it, then?”
“Gammacurta and Aricò.”
Fazio very nearly fell out of his chair.
“With Barracuda’s complicity, of course, as well as that of the entire Sinagra clan,” Montalbano concluded.
“I don’t understand anything anymore,” said Fazio.
“I’ll explain. That money, or at least ninety-nine percent of it, did not belong to the Sinagras, but had been entrusted to them to speculate on. By people with closets full of skeletons—criminals, if not outright mafiosi. But apparently at a certain moment the Sinagras needed the cash and so they set up a burglary, which allowed them to steal the money and still look like victims.”
“You may even be right, Chief, but how on earth will we ever prove it?”
“I can’t work miracles. We’ll wait and see. Listen, I have to go to Montelusa to pick up Livia, who’s coming in at six-thirty. I want you to go by Barracuda’s house and see if they’ve gone away. I’ll call you later to find out.”
The bus was going to be an hour late because the flight had landed an hour late. Montalbano went and sat in a bar and, after letting forty-five minutes go by, rang Fazio.
“What’ve you got to tell me?”
“You were right on target. A neighbor lady told me the Barracuda family left in their car around five o’clock, with some suitcases on the roof.”
“So it’s going to be a long vacation.”
“So it would seem. But why, in your opinion?”
“Don’t you know Leopardi? They waiting for the calm after the storm.”
“You think the people who entrusted their money to the Sinagras are going to remain calm?”
A short while later, the bus finally arrived.
At seven o’clock the following morning, the phone rang, waking up Montalbano, who was sleeping in Livia’s arms.
“Mmm,” said the young woman, disturbed by the ringing and by Salvo’s movements. It was Fazio.
“Chief, can you come to Vicolo Cannarozzo, which is the first side street on the left off Via Cristoforo Colombo? Somebody got shot and killed there.”
He didn’t bother to inform Livia that he was going out. He would call her later.
In Vicolo Cannarozzo there were two squad cars. Four uniformed cops were keeping the rubberneckers away.
The dead man lay on the sidewalk right in front of the door from which he had apparently just emerged.
“Shot seven times, no less,” said Fazio. “By two guys on a motorcycle.”
“Did you know this guy?”
“Yeah. His name was Filippo Portera, a small-time mafioso with the Cuffaro family.”
And he gave the inspector a meaningful look.
“Are you telling me I was wrong?” Montalbano asked.
“It does look that way.”
“So this murder supposedly means that it was the Cuffaros who robbed the bank and the Sinagras are starting to avenge themselves?”
“C’mon, Chief, what’s two plus two? And now I’m worried another war between the two families’ll break out. We’d better get ready for the worst.”
At that moment two cars pulled up. In the first one was Augello; in the second, Zito the newsman from the Free Channel and a cameraman.
“Salvo, would you do an interview for me?” Zito asked.
“Sure, if you keep it brief.”
“Inspector Montalbano, do you think this killing marks the beginning of a new war between the Mafias of our town?”
“Every war has a motive that triggers it, usually stemming from the desire on the part of one of the two adversaries to increase their power. In the present case, in my opinion, there is no triggering motive. This killing is supposed to make us believe that a war is about to break out.”
“Could you be a little clearer?”
“This is Pirandello’s home turf, isn’t it? Appearance and reality. In the present case—only in my opinion, mind you—somebody wants to make something appear a certain way, whereas the reality of that thing is completely different.”
“Inspector Montalbano—”
“That’ll be enough, thanks.”
“But I can’t broadcast that!” Zito protested.
“Well, you’re gonna broadcast it anyway, and right away. Somebody will understand it.”
Montalbano then hurried over to Augello.
“Mimì, you wait here for the prosecutor, Forensics, and everyone else. I’ll see you at the office after lunch.”
And he raced away, back to Marinella. Livia was still asleep. He got undressed and lay down beside her.
At one o’clock, as Livia was getting dressed to go out with him for lunch at Calogero’s, he turned on the television to watch the TeleVigàta news report. Pippo Ragonese, the station’s chief reporter and often a willing spokesman for the Mafia, was speaking.
. . . and we who have so often criticized the overly nonchalant modus operandi of Inspector Montalbano, this time we cannot help but appreciate his caution and old-fashioned good sense, which—
He turned it off. The message had been received.
As soon as he got to the office, Fazio assailed him.
“Chief, you have to explain the meaning of that interview to me.”
“Did you watch Ragonese?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t understand a thing.”
“It’s quite simple. I let it be known that I’d understood everything. That is, that it was the Sinagras themselves who organized the burglary at their bank and killed Portera to make it look like it had been the Cuffaros. I defused the bomb that was about to explode.”
Around four o’clock Fazio came back into Montalbano’s office. He looked bewildered.
“Provvisorio called just now—remember him? He says he found a parcel outside his front door with the stolen jewelry in it. What does it mean?”
“That a transaction between the Cuffaros and Sinagras has begun. Part of the stolen money will be returned, and the remainder will be divvied up between the Cuffaros and Sinagras. But I think the transaction contains a few other stipulations.”
It was an easy prophecy. Half an hour later, Fazio returned, more bewildered than ever.
“Chief, Michele Gammacurta is dead.”
“Shot?”
“No, he was driving his car while drunk and fell into a gully. The strange thing is that Gammacurta didn’t drink.”
“Nothing strange about that. Apparently the transaction included the stipulation that the person who killed Portera must die. And this is just the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. Quick, grab a couple of officers and bring me Pasquale Aricò, immediately.”
“And if he asks me the reason, what should I tell him?”
“Tell him I want to save his life.”
It took him two hours to convince Aricò that he was going to be the next victim, and that this would close out the transaction between the Cuffaros and Sinagras. The stipulation according to which the Cuffaros demanded the death of the two who’d killed Portera had been respected by the Sinagras by arranging the death of Gammacurta. It would be his turn next. Didn’t he realize this?
When he finally did realize this, Aricò opened up. And spilled the beans. All of them: about the Farmers’ Bank, the safety-deposit boxes, Barracuda, Gigante . . .
The inspector rang Livia and told her he’d be a little late. Then, with Fazio at the wheel, he took Aricò to the prosecutor’s office in Montelusa.
He wanted to get things over with quickly, so he could race back home, where Livia was waiting for him.