A Beam of Light Read online

  “I’m going to Montelusa, I have some stuff to do there,” said Intelisano. “I’ll be back here around one or maybe earlier, but I’ll make myself scarce for you by three o’clock.”

  As he was heading back to Vigàta, the inspector felt certain that Alkaf’s and Mohammet’s hands were not the hands of peasants accustomed to working the land from morning to evening.

  When he shook their hands the first time he’d found them relatively smooth, with none of the calluses they should have had.

  He’d wanted confirmation the second time. And he got it.

  “Good morning, Chief!” said Catarella as soon as the inspector came in.

  Montalbano stopped dead in his tracks.

  What? He was wearing sunglasses, a ridiculous hat and a giant bandana that made him look like a walking scarecrow, and Catarella recognized him at once, just like that?

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Wasn’ I asposta know it was you?”

  “No. I’m in disguise.”

  Catarella looked troubled.

  “I’m sorry, I din’t realize you was diskized. I beckon yer partin, Chief. Bu’, if you like, you c’n go back out an’ come back in, an’ I’ll preten’ I don’—”

  “Never mind. Tell me instead what made you recognize me.”

  “Well, foist of all, by yer mustashes an’ mole. An’ seccunly, by yer walk.”

  “Why, how do I walk?”

  “Ya walk the way ya walk, Chief.”

  In short, he was better off not disguising himself.

  “Get me Fazio.”

  Once in his office he immediately took off his hat, sunglasses, and bandana and shoved them into a drawer of the filing cabinet. He didn’t want to do a repeat with Fazio.

  “Good morning, Chief. How’d it go with the Tunisian peasants?” Fazio asked as he came in.

  “They may be Tunisian, but they certainly aren’t peasants.”

  “Why not?”

  He told him about their hands. Fazio remained pensive.

  “But Intelisano says they know how to work the land,” he said.

  “It’s possible that back home they were small landowners, and so they know how it’s done. At any rate, I’m going back there this afternoon. I’ll have to be very careful about what I say. They’re the type that can even read your mind. So what’ve you got to tell me?”

  “Chief, around town they’re saying that last night Loredana di Marta was checked into a clinic in Montelusa.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “There are rumors, with nothing confirmed, that she’s got a few contusions on her head and some broken ribs.”

  “Does anyone know how this happened?”

  “Well, nobody knows for certain, but some say that it’s from the beating her husband gave her over the armed robbery, and others say that she fell down the stairs.”

  “If you ask me, Signor di Marta must have reached the conclusion that Loredana knew the robber and tried to find out his name by raising a hand and maybe even a foot.”

  “I agree.”

  “Now we have to try and find out whether Loredana told him the name or not. Don’t you think it’s time we had a little look at Carmelo Savastano?”

  “Already taken care of.”

  Montalbano felt irked, as always happened whenever Fazio uttered those four words. On top of everything else, when did the guy find the time to take care of what he said he’d taken care of? The inspector crushed one foot with the other under his desk to calm himself down.

  “So fill me in.”

  “Savastano continues to live the same debauched life as before. Nobody knows where he gets the money to live as well as he does. Yesterday evening he got into a row at the fish market and beat someone up. The carabinieri had him spend the night in a holding cell. By this time he’s probably already been released, or will be very soon.”

  “I think you’d better have somebody keep an eye on him.”

  “Yes, sir. I wanted to mention something that you ordered me to do. I did it, but you never asked me about it again and I forgot to—”

  “What was it?”

  “You wanted me to find out how long it might have taken Loredana to get from Via Palermo to Vicolo Crispi.”

  “You’re right. Did you do the test?”

  “Yes. Twice. You can’t do it in less than half an hour, thirty-five minutes.”

  He went to eat at Enzo’s, taking it slowly. He had time to kill. By the time he came back out, it was almost three.

  He decided there was no need to take his customary stroll along the jetty, since he’d be able to digest while walking through the countryside later.

  But first he had to drop in at the station to retrieve his sunglasses, straw hat, and bandana.

  As soon as he walked in, Catarella assailed him.

  “Ah, Chief! Good ting you’re ’ere.”

  “Why?”

  “Cuz you best call Signor Intelligiano emoigently an’ straightaways-like, cuz he rung ’ere awreddy twice! An’ ’e avized ’at ya shoun’t go where yer asposta go before ’e called yiz back, ’e bein’ ’im, the same Signor Intelligiano.”

  So what had happened? Montalbano dashed into his office.

  “Signor Intelisano, what’s going on?”

  “Somethin’ incredible, Mr. Inspector!”

  “What?”

  “Somethin’ otherworldly!”

  “Speak!”

  “Somethin’—”

  “Are you going to tell me or not?” Montalbano cut him off impatiently, raising his voice.

  “Like I tol’ you, I went to Montelusa an’ was back in Spiritu Santo by twelve-thirty. An’ I noticed immediately that the tractor was sittin’ in the middle of the field with the motor runnin’, but there was no sign of the two Tunisians anywhere.”

  “Where were they?”

  Intelisano didn’t even hear him.

  “So I went over to the shed. Which was locked, but the keys was just layin’ on the ground right in front of the door. So I opened up and went inside. The Tunisians couldna gone too far, ’cause their backpacks was still there with all their other stuff.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I waited half an hour. Those keys tossed on the ground outside the shed made me think they might come back at any moment. Then, seein’ that they wasn’t comin’ back, I got in my car an’ drove to Montelusa. I knew where they lived; they rent a little room in the Rabato. They weren’t there. An’ the other Tunisians livin’ next door tol’ me they came back aroun’ eleven, grabbed all their stuff in a hurry, an’ ran out.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In Spiritu Santo.”

  “Please wait for me there. I’m on my way.”

  Half an hour later he was with Intelisano. Who was sitting out in front of the open shed looking disconsolate.

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Then I’ll explain it for you. The two Tunisians recognized me, and since they’ve got something to hide, they ran away.”

  “So you’re saying they had something to do with those weapons?”

  “They had a lot to do with those weapons. Their escape proves it.”

  “But how could they have recognized you?”

  “They must have seen me on TV.”

  Intelisano grimaced.

  “’Scuse me for askin’, but when was the last time you was on TV?”

  Montalbano did some quick calculation in his head.

  “About ten months ago.”

  “And you think that someone that doesn’t know you and sees you for a few minutes ten months later’s gonna still remember what you look like? Not even if they held a flashlight up to your face . . .”

  Flashlight! The flash of light! It hadn�
��t been a reflection off a sheet of metal, but probably . . .

  “How does one get up to the hayloft?”

  “Behind the shed there’s a little iron ladder on the outside, but I never go up there ’cause I’m ascared o’ heights.”

  Montalbano raced behind the shed, followed by Intelisano. The ladder was almost vertical, and dangerous, but the inspector paid no mind, climbing up as nimbly as a fireman, as Intelisano stayed behind on the ground, watching.

  The hayloft was practically empty, except for ten or so bales of hay stacked at the back in front of the large window above the shed’s main entrance.

  Montalbano noticed, however, that the bales had been moved in such a way that a sort of passage was created between them. One could enter it and, from that vantage, see what was going on around the shed.

  He went in. The view from up there stretched as far as the spot where he’d left his car and beyond. On top of this, since there was a dip about three-quarters of the way up the small hill dividing the two sections of the property, you could even see the ramshackle house that had served as a temporary arms depot. It was a perfect observation point.

  Therefore, when he’d come by that morning with Intelisano, someone had been watching him from the hayloft. Probably with a pair of binoculars, which had then produced the beam of light that had struck him in the eyes.

  And it was that person, not the two Tunisians, who’d recognized him. But it explained their hasty escape.

  He came back out of the passage between the bales and looked around. In the part of the loft nearest the ladder, someone had arranged enough of a cushion of hay to sleep on.

  Beside it was an empty bottle of mineral water. And a folded-up newspaper. Using two pieces of wood, and taking care not to touch it with his fingers, he managed to read the date. It was from that same day. Apparently the Tunisians had bought it early that morning and brought it to the man hiding in the hayloft.

  Then he noticed a small plastic bag and opened it with a piece of wood. Inside were the bits of a hard-boiled eggshell, a still-fresh piece of bread, and another bottle of mineral water, half full. Along with the newspaper, they’d also brought him breakfast.

  There was nothing else to see. He went back out and down the ladder.

  “Did you find anything?” asked Intelisano.

  “Yes. The two farmhands were hiding someone in the hayloft. I guess they figured that since you suffer from vertigo, you’d never go up there. He must have been the one who recognized me.”

  “So what are we going to do now?”

  “Close everything up now and come with me to Montelusa.”

  “What for?”

  “To talk to the counterterrorism unit.”

  Montalbano went into Sposìto’s office alone, making Intelisano wait outside.

  “Dear Inspector, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’m here to confess to a fuckup on my part.”

  “On your part?” Sposìto asked in surprise.

  When Montalbano had finished explaining, Sposìto asked:

  “But did the commissioner know you were conducting this parallel investigation?”

  “No.”

  “I get it. Well, for my part, I won’t tell him anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But, look, we don’t know for certain that they left because they recognized you.”

  “We don’t?”

  “No. What time was it when you and Intelisano left Spiritu Santo?”

  “It was probably around nine-thirty, quarter to ten.”

  “It tallies.”

  “With what?”

  “As I said, we’re combing the countryside for those weapons, because I’m convinced they weren’t taken very far. This morning at nine, the team working under Peritore, my second-in-command, went back to search the house where the arms had been kept. Then they moved their search towards the hill, looked inside a cave where they found nothing, and looked around a tractor that was stopped farther away, but didn’t find anything or anybody. Peritore told me there was also a shed made of sheet metal and a stable. Since they found the keys to the shed outside on the ground, they opened it, looked inside, and found nothing of importance. There wasn’t anything inside the stable either. And so they headed for the adjacent property.”

  “And they didn’t look in the hayloft?”

  “No. As you see, we’re guilty of our own little fuckup.”

  “So you think the three ran away not because they’d recognized me but because the man in the hayloft saw your men heading for the shed?”

  “It’s plausible.”

  “Of course it is. But there’s one thing that isn’t.”

  “Oh, yeah? What?”

  “That it never occurred to Peritore to send someone to search the hayloft.”

  Sposìto threw up his hands.

  “What can I say? It happened.”

  No, there was something that didn’t add up.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You can ask, but I don’t know if I can answer it.”

  “What kind of net did they tell you to use for your fishing expedition? One with big meshes or little meshes?”

  “No comment. At any rate, I’ll give Peritore a ring and tell him to go back to the shed and check out the hayloft. There must be fingerprints on the bottle and the newspaper. Happy? While we’re on the subject, you didn’t touch anything, did you?”

  “No. I don’t think I did any damage.”

  Montalbano stood up.

  “I brought Signor Intelisano here with me. He owns the property in question. If you’d like to question him about the two Tunisians . . .”

  “I certainly do, thanks.”

  Back in his office, the inspector held a meeting with Fazio and Augello and told them the whole story. And he also mentioned Sposìto’s beating around the bush when they discussed it.

  “I think I know why he acted that way,” said Augello.

  “Tell me.”

  “He’s head of Counterterrorism, right? So it’s his job to find terrorist cells and discover in time whether some cell is planning an attack against us. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “But what if the people aren’t terrorists? What if it involves people who have no intention of doing us any harm and the weapons are supposed to be sent on to their native country to fight the government?”

  “Whether they’re terrorists or patriots, clandestine arms traffic is still a crime,” said Fazio.

  “Agreed. But Sposìto doesn’t know whether they’re terrorists or foreign patriots. You must admit the problem is rather complicated. And so he’s handling this with kid gloves.”

  “You may be right,” said Montalbano. “And if that’s the way it is, I’m convinced that Sposìto is hoping soon to raise the issue of conflicting jurisdictions. If they’re not terrorists, then it’s a case for the Secret Services. Whatever the case, he tried to rid me of the idea that the escape of the Tunisians and the mystery man was my fault. He said it was his team’s fault.”

  “So why would he do that?”

  “To get me to drop our investigation, which I had to admit was unauthorized, among other things.”

  “But we still don’t—” Augello cut in.

  “Mimì, just think for a second. Sposìto’s attitude with me means three things. The first is that he’s convinced I was indeed recognized by the man in the hayloft. The second—which stems directly from the first—is that this man is someone who knows me not just in passing but quite well, if he figured out who I was from my mustache, mole, and walk. The third is that the man in the hayloft may not be a foreigner but from Vigàta or somewhere nearby. In short, Sposìto was trying to keep me from formulating this argument, which would have made me more curious. At any rate, curious or not, now
that the Tunisians have disappeared, we have no more cards to play. So let’s talk about something else. Mimì, what have you got to tell me? Have you made contact with Valeria Bonifacio?”

  Augello smiled.

  10

  “Of course I made contact. Boy, did I ever!”

  “Don’t tell me . . .” Montalbano said in amazement.

  “No, we didn’t get that far. Don Juan himself couldn’t have. But I have to tell you the whole story from the start, because it’s interesting. This morning—it must have been around nine—I went to stake out Bonifacio’s house in my car, ready to wait a long time. She came out like a bat out of hell at ten, got in her car, and headed for Montelusa. I followed her, naturally. At the Clinica Santa Teresa, she turned onto the driveway and parked in the lot. I did the same as she was entering the clinic. By the time I got to the information desk, she was gone. And so I identified myself, and they told me that La Bonifacio had asked what room Signora Loredana di Marta was in. I didn’t know she’d been hospitalized. But I didn’t want to waste any time so I didn’t ask any questions. I took the elevator to the third floor, which was where I’d been told Loredana’s room was. As soon as I was in the hallway I heard some angry shouting. There was a man of about fifty, certainly di Marta, saying: ‘Forget about my wife! Don’t even think about her! I forbid you to see her! This is all your fault!’ To which La Bonifacio retorted: ‘Get out of here, cornuto!’ At which point di Marta grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her up against the wall. Luckily two nurses intervened. Di Marta went into his wife’s room, Valeria headed for the elevators. I managed to get back there before she did. And so we found ourselves inside the elevator together. Since she was crying, I asked her if someone she was close to was very ill. To make a long story short, I took her to the hospital bar. But she didn’t want to go in; she wanted to leave. So I persuaded her to come and sit at some other bar nearby that had tables outside. We were there for almost two hours.”

  “Well done, Mimì. But tell me something: How did you introduce yourself?”

  “As Diego Croma, attorney-at-law. I figured it was best to use the same name by which Loredana knows me.”