The Overnight Kidnapper Read online

  It was a quiet evening. He set the table out on the veranda and had himself a feast. The telephone was polite and cooperative, waiting until he’d swallowed his last bite of jumbo shrimp before it started ringing.

  At that hour, it was sure to be Livia.

  “Ciao, amore,” he said, raising the receiver to his ear.

  “This is Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi.”

  Shit. It was Hizzoner the c’mishner, and he’d called him amore! He didn’t know what to do.

  “I’m terribly sorry to bother you at home . . .”

  My, my, how polite, how very nice Mr. Commissioner was being! Apparently the Macannuco effect hadn’t worn off yet.

  “No bother at all, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “Montalbano, I need you to console me.”

  To console him? Montalbano shuddered. What had gotten into the guy? What, did he want him to rock him in his arms or something?

  9

  He imagined the gruesome scene: himself in half-light, sitting on the sofa in the commissioner’s office, stroking Bonetti-Alderighi’s head in his lap . . .

  “I need some words of consolation,” the commissioner clarified.

  Montalbano breathed a big sigh of relief. Words of consolation were another matter entirely.

  “I’m at your service.”

  “It’s about the banks. You must have heard that there’s a silly scare spreading among account holders who—”

  “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “Well, this evening, TeleVigàta broadcast a feature in which the Honorable MP Cucciato viciously attacked me and you for having done nothing to allay the fears of the account holders and for not having followed the bank-sabotage lead in our investigation. Things being the way they are, I’m afraid I’m going to have to issue an official statement.”

  “I think you should.”

  “But, please try to understand, first I would like to hear you say that you are absolutely certain, more than certain, that these kidnappings have nothing to do with the banks.”

  The inspector didn’t hesitate for a second.

  “I can confirm that, sir.”

  “And are you also willing to assume the full responsibility for your declaration?”

  Ah, so the commissioner was protecting himself, covering his rear.

  So if things took a bad turn, he could easily defend himself by laying the blame entirely on Montalbano.

  “Of course.”

  “Your conviction is encouraging, and I greatly appreciate it. Because, you see, after they found those leaflets . . .”

  What leaflets was he talking about? What was this? Better not let the commissioner know he knew nothing about them. For this reason he didn’t ask for any explanation.

  “. . . in a few mail slots, signed by a strange antibank organization, I became very, very worried. At any rate, thank you, and good night.”

  “And a good night to you, sir.”

  After setting down the receiver, he started cursing the saints.

  Why the hell had he been so self-assured and decisive? And then that great big son of a bitch of a commissioner comes out with this business of the leaflets, only after the inspector had already compromised himself.

  Certainly, from a logical point of view, the banks had nothing to do with any of this. But what if it really was some madman carrying out these abductions, someone who hadn’t the slightest idea where to find so much as the ghost of logic? And hadn’t he, the inspector, indeed received a phone call from some unhinged nutcase claiming to speak on behalf of an organization called . . . called what? Ah, yes, the CABC, the Clandestine Anti-Bank Coalition?

  Meanwhile, he was also furious at himself for another reason.

  And he kept repeating to himself: All these doubts, all these fears are crashing down on you because you’re getting on in years, since old age undermines the self-assurance and certainties of youth.

  Then, all at once, it occurred to him that there was a way to calm down the account holders and allow Mr. Commissioner to come out smelling like roses.

  The inspector spent an hour on the veranda considering and reconsidering this idea from all possible angles.

  And he came to the conclusion that he should put the idea into practice. After all, even if it turned out to be wrong, it would do no harm.

  He was finally able to talk to Livia and go to bed.

  * * *

  He slept well, straight through, and arrived at the office at nine sharp, fresh and rested.

  “Cat, come into my office, there’s something we need to work on together.”

  Upon hearing these words, Catarella blushed for joy, bolted out of his closet, and followed behind the inspector like a dog.

  He was practically wagging his tail.

  After entering the office, he planted himself at attention in front of the inspector’s desk, standing as still as a statue.

  “Catarella, did we register the phone numbers of all the calls we received during the night we spent together here at the station and ate bread and salami?”

  “Assolutely, Chief.”

  “Then please go and get me the number for the caller who rang just after Fazio’s call.”

  “I’ll be right back, Chief.”

  Montalbano had no idea how Catarella did it, but in the twinkling of an eye, the switchboard operator was already standing in front of him again, still red in the face from the honor that had been given him, and handed him a little piece of paper.

  “I writ the nummer onnit,” he said.

  The inspector dialed it.

  “Commissioner’s office,” said a voice.

  Montalbano hung up in a hurry, as though the receiver was burning his hand.

  “Cat, you gave me the number to the commissioner’s office.”

  “Oh, matre santa! Twaz a mistake! I’ll be right back.”

  There was barely time to take a breath before Catarella rematerialized, holding another little piece of paper in his hand.

  “Who’s this?” asked a male voice.

  “This is Inspector Montalbano, police. Who am I talking to?”

  “You’ve reached the train station bar, Inspector.”

  Montalbano felt disappointed.

  “How late do you stay open?”

  “Till one in the morning.”

  So the phone call from the unhinged spokesman for the CABC had been made from that bar. Unhinged, perhaps, but certainly no fool.

  So, what now? He got another idea.

  “Cat, listen up.”

  “I’ll lissen as up as I can, Chief.”

  “I want you to phone the five different banks in Vigàta, one at a time, tell them I want to talk to the bank manager, then put the call through to me after you do this, but first telling me which bank I’m talking to. Got that? That’s not too hard, right?”

  “Nah, Chief, I c’n do it if I ’ply myself.”

  Two minutes later the phone rang. Catarella seemed to be moving faster than the speed of light.

  “Chief, iss the Banca di Tredito.”

  “Hello? Is this the manager of the Banca di Credito?”

  “Yes, Inspector, what can I do for you?”

  “I need a little information, which will remain confidential.”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  “I need to know whether there have been any firings or layoffs at your local branch.”

  “No, not that I can recall.”

  The inspector had more or less the same conversation with the manager of the Banco Siculo and the manager of the Banca Cooperativa.

  The manager of the Credito Marittimo, on the other hand, gave a different answer to the question.

  “Yes, unfortunately, four months ago I had to recommend—unfortunately, I repeat—that an emplo
yee be not fired, but sent away.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “He wasn’t exactly sacked; he was . . . how shall I say? . . . persuaded to resign.”

  “What had he done?”

  “Well, until the moment he started displaying some very strange behavior, he’d been a model employee.”

  “What kind of strange behavior?”

  “Well, one day he came to the bank in his pajamas, another day he came in barefoot, a third time he brought a great big green umbrella that he insisted on keeping open over his desk, stuff like that . . . Until one day he received a certain Signora Bianchini completely naked. The lady screamed and then fainted. It was sheer bedlam, know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I understand. Could you tell me his name and how old he is?”

  “His name is Arturo Sigonella, and he’s a little over fifty.”

  “Married?”

  “No, he lives alone.”

  “Any relatives?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No, but if you can wait for just a minute, I could ask a colleague of his who goes to see him every now and then.”

  “Please let me speak with him.”

  A minute went by, then a voice:

  “Hello, Inspector? This is Michele Ferla.”

  “Has it been a while since you last paid a visit to Signor Sigonella?”

  “Inspector, it’s been a while since he started acting like a madman and calling me a slimy banker. I actually went to see him just last night, after not seeing him for a week, but, despite my insistence, he didn’t want to open the door for me, and even said to me angrily, and repeatedly, that he no longer wanted to have anything to do with me.”

  “Did he give you any reason?”

  “No, he just said disdainfully: ‘I’m through talking to you, bankster!’ And to think that he used to be—”

  “Give me the address,” said Montalbano, cutting him off.

  Taking this down, he thanked Michele Ferla and told Catarella not to make the last phone call on the list. Then he went into Fazio’s office.

  “Come with me. We’ll take your car.”

  * * *

  Along the way, he told Fazio what he had in mind. And he explained to him how they should act.

  Largo dei Mille was a rather central square. Fazio stopped outside the building marked number 4. It was a modern construction. Sigonella lived on the third floor, in the apartment just opposite the elevator.

  Fazio rang the doorbell beside the door. There was no reply. He rang again, keeping the doorbell pressed a long time. Finally they heard a voice say:

  “There’s no point in ringing, don’t you realize?”

  “Why not?” asked the inspector.

  “Because there’s nobody home.”

  Montalbano didn’t lose his cool.

  “Do you know when Signor Sigonella will be back?”

  “If there’s nobody here, nobody can answer your question.”

  Made perfect sense, you had to admit.

  “Okay. Tell you what. If nobody happens to see him, nobody should tell him that two gentlemen came here who agree entirely with everything involving his revolutionary activities and would like to join the CABC. Have a good day.”

  “Wait! Wait!” the voice said breathlessly.

  “Bull’s-eye!” Fazio whispered in admiration.

  There was a loud jangling of keys and latches, and the door came open.

  Before them stood a rather short man of about fifty looking unkempt, disheveled, and unshaven.

  Montalbano bowed respectfully before him.

  “Are you the head of the CABC?”

  Sigonella puffed out his chest.

  “In person,” he said.

  “I’m ragioniere Galasso, and this is my colleague Pozzi. He’s a surveyor.”

  “Please come in.”

  The flat was like its owner, dirty and in a state of disorder. And there was a stale, rancid smell in the air.

  Sigonella showed them into a dusty sitting room, after turning the light on. The window was hermetically sealed, as all the others must also have been.

  “How did you manage to find me?” asked Sigonella.

  Fazio gave Montalbano a worried look. Would the inspector have a convincing lie ready to tell him? A lie at least good enough to convince a madman?

  But in the end the inspector told him a half-truth.

  “It occurred to me that you might be the one, because I knew that you had suffered a terrible injustice from the bank where you used to work so devotedly for so many years. An injustice that cried out for revenge. And so we’ve come to let you know we’re completely available.”

  “Well, you’ve come at just the right moment.”

  Sigonella looked all around to make sure there weren’t any spies hiding in the room, then said in a soft voice:

  “I’ve been able to print, right here at home, two thousand copies, but it’s not easy for me to distribute them all by myself. Know what I mean? I have to take just a few at a time, put them in my pocket, go into unattended apartment buildings, and then slip the flyers one by one into each tenant’s mail slot . . .”

  “We can give you a hand with that, if that’s all right with you . . .”

  “Of course it’s all right with me.”

  “Where do you want them distributed?”

  “In Vigàta.”

  Montalbano shook his head, as if to say no.

  “Mistake.”

  “Why.”

  “Because you need to expand your area of operation. Extend the protest beyond Vigàta, make your way step by step to the big cities, all the way to the capitals—Rome, Berlin, London . . .”

  Sigonella clapped his hands enthusiastically.

  “I suggest we distribute them in Montelusa.”

  “But how will we do that? I don’t have a car,” Sigonella protested.

  “We do. Let’s not waste any time. Let’s take those flyers and go to Montelusa!”

  They loaded the flyers into the car and drove off. But ten minutes into their journey they had to stop because there was a roadblock set up by the carabinieri. Montalbano broke into a cold sweat. What if there was the same corporal who had arrested him just the other day?

  He looked at Fazio, who was right beside him, and Fazio understood. He opened his door, got out, and went over to the marshal.

  The inspector, meanwhile, got busy distracting Sigonella.

  “This is a very dangerous situation we’re in here. If the carabinieri discover our flyers we’re screwed. So please stay calm. Stiff upper lip!”

  The upshot of this was that he’d managed to make Sigonella start shaking all over in terror. Luckily Fazio returned.

  “All taken care of.”

  Twenty minutes later, Fazio’s car pulled up in the courtyard of Montelusa Central Police headquarters.

  “Where are we?” asked Sigonella.

  Montalbano felt terribly sorry for the poor bastard. But he had to continue his playacting. He assumed a mysterious air.

  “Please don’t ask any questions. Get out of the car and go with Surveyor Pozzi, who will introduce you to some other friends.”

  Speechless, Sigonella obeyed.

  * * *

  “But is he the kidnapper?” asked Mr. Commissioner.

  “Not on your life! Sigonella wouldn’t be capable of kidnapping an ant! He’s just a wretched nutcase who heard on TV that the three girls who were abducted worked at three different banks, got excited, invented the CABC, and now has been trying to distribute political leaflets he prints at home. He should be treated like the mental case he is. But you may be able to use his arrest to declare that the antibank lead was a red herring.”


  “I’m sorry, Montalbano, but what if, then, we’re faced with another abduction of a woman working at a bank? What do we do then?”

  “Are you religious, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I would advise you to say a novena to the Blessed Virgin and pray that that doesn’t happen.”

  * * *

  “Ah, Chief, y’er back?”

  “I’m back. Anything new?”

  “Wha’ss new izzat Isspecter Augello tol’ me to oigently tell ’im all oigentlike when you was back as soon you was back, an’ since ya tol’ me jess now ’at you was back—”

  “Then tell ’im.”

  Then, turning to Fazio:

  “You come, too.”

  Mimì appeared in a flash.

  “You got something for me?” Montalbano asked.

  “Yeah,” said Mimì, yawning.

  “Didn’t you sleep last night?”

  “Not much.”

  Another yawn.

  “Mimì, maybe it would be best if you went home and got a little more sleep.”

  “No, no, it’s just cuz last night I took a girl out to dinner and we stayed up late.”

  “Mimì, I haven’t got time to listen to reports of your amorous exploits.”

  “But this is a service report I’m trying to make!”

  “Then speak and try not to yawn so much,” Montalbano said, yawning. “See? Yawning is contagious.”

  “The girl in question is named Anna Bonifacio. I had an affair with her four years ago.”

  “Imagine that!” the inspector exclaimed ironically.

  Augello pretended not to notice.

  “Yesterday I called her up, invited her out, she hemmed and hawed, and then finally accepted.”

  “And what does this woman do for a living?”

  “Well, that’s where my move was a stroke of genius. She works at the same bank as Luigia Jacono.”

  Montalbano and Fazio both pricked up their ears.

  “And what did she tell you?”