Voice of the Violin Page 11

  “Let me call my secretary, and you can listen to the tape recording of the call,” said the journalist, standing up.

  “I’m sorry, Nicolò. There’s no need.”

  11

  He tossed about in bed all night, unable to fall asleep. He kept seeing the scene of Maurizio falling to the ground and managing to throw his shoe at his tormentors, the simultaneously comical and desperate gesture of a poor wretch hunted down like an animal. “Punish me!” he had cried out, and everyone rushed to interpret that exclamation in the most obvious, reassuring manner possible. That is, punish me because I raped and killed, punish me for my sin. But what if, at that moment, he had meant something else entirely? What was going through his head? Punish me because I’m different, punish me because I loved too much, punish me for being born . . . One could go on forever, but here the inspector stopped himself, both because he didn’t like to slip into cheap philosophizing, and because he had suddenly understood that the only way to exorcise that obsessive image, and that cry, lay not in generic self-questioning but in examining the facts. To do this, one path, and only one, presented itself. And at this point he managed at last to shut his eyes for a couple of hours.

  “All of you,” he said to Mimì Augello, entering headquarters.

  Five minutes later, they were all standing before him in his office.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” said Montalbano. “This is not an official meeting, but a talk among friends.”

  Mimì and two or three others sat down, while the rest remained standing. Grasso, Catarella’s replacement, leaned against the doorjamb, listening for the phone.

  “Yesterday Inspector Augello, when he learned that Di Blasi had been killed, said something that hurt me. He said, more or less: If you’d remained on the case, today that kid would still be alive. I could have answered that it was the commissioner who’d taken the investigation away from me, and that therefore I bear no responsibility. And this, strictly speaking, is true. But Inspector Augello was right. When the commissioner summoned me and ordered me to stop investigating the Licalzi murder, pride got the better of me. I didn’t protest, I didn’t rebel, I basically gave him to understand that he could go fuck himself. And in so doing, I gambled away a man’s life. Because one thing’s certain, none of you would ever have shot down some poor guy who wasn’t right in the head.”

  They’d never heard him speak this way before and all looked at him flabbergasted, holding their breath.

  “I thought about this last night, and I made a decision. I’m going to resume the investigation.”

  Who was it that applauded first? Montalbano managed to turn his emotion into sarcasm.

  “I’ve already told you once you’re a bunch of fucking idiots, don’t make me say it again.” And he continued: “The case, as of today, is closed. Therefore, if you’re all in agreement, we’re going to operate underwater, with only our periscope showing. But I’m warning you: if they find out about this in Montelusa, it could mean real trouble for every one of us.”

  “Inspector Montalbano? This is Emanuele Licalzi.”

  Montalbano remembered that Catarella had told him the night before that the doctor had called. He’d forgotten.

  “I’m sorry, but yesterday evening I had—”

  “Oh, not at all, Inspector. Especially since everything has changed since yesterday.”

  “In what sense?”

  “In the sense that late yesterday afternoon I’d been assured that by Wednesday morning I could leave for Bologna with my poor Michela. Then early this morning the commissioner’s office called to tell me that they needed a postponement and the funeral would have to wait until Friday. So I decided to leave and come back Thursday evening.”

  “Doctor, you must have heard, of course, that the investigation—”

  “Yes, of course, but I wasn’t referring to the investigation. Do you remember the car we mentioned briefly, the Twingo? Could I perhaps talk to someone about reselling it?”

  “Tell you what, Doctor: I’ll have the car brought myself to our own personal mechanic. We did the damage ourselves and it’s only right we should pay for it. And if you like, I could ask the mechanic to try and find a buyer for it.”

  “You’re a fine man, Inspector.”

  “But tell me something, sir: what will you do with the house?”

  “I’m going to put that up for sale, too.”

  “Nicolò here. Q.E.D.”

  “Explain.”

  “I’ve been summoned to appear before Judge Tommaseo at four o’clock this afternoon.”

  “And what’s he want from you?”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve! What, you get me into this mess and you can’t figure it out? He’s going to accuse me of having withheld valuable testimony from the police. And if he ever finds out that I don’t even know who one of the witnesses is, then the shit is really going to hit the fan. That man is liable to throw me in jail.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Right. You can come visit me once a week and bring me oranges and cigarettes.”

  “Listen, Galluzzo, I’m going to need your brother-in-law, the newsman for TeleVigàta.”

  “I’ll tell him right away, Inspector.”

  Galluzzo was on his way out of the room, but curiosity got the better of him.

  “Actually, if it’s something I can know about too . . .”

  “Gallù, not only can you know it, you’ve got to know it. I need your brother-in-law to collaborate with us on the Licalzi story. Since we can’t work out in the open, we must take advantage of any help the private TV stations can give us. But we have to make it look like they’re acting on their own. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Think your brother-in-law’d be willing to help us?”

  Gallo started laughing.

  “Chief, for you, the guy would go on TV and say the moon is made out of Swiss cheese. Don’t you know he’s just dying of envy?”

  “Who does he envy?”

  “Nicolò Zito, that’s who. Says you make special considerations for Zito.”

  “It’s true. Last night Zito did me a favor and now he’s in trouble.”

  “And now you want the same to happen to my brother-in-law?”

  “If he’s game.”

  “Tell me what you want from him, it’s no problem.”

  “All right, you tell him what he’s supposed to do. Here, take this. It’s a photograph of Michela Licalzi.”

  “Man, what a beauty!”

  “Now your brother-in-law must have a photo of Maurizio Di Blasi somewhere in the studio. I think I saw them broadcast one when they reported his death. I want him to show both photos, one next to the other, on the one P.M. newscast, and on the evening report. I want him to say that since there’s a five-hour gap between when she left her friend at seven-thirty Wednesday night and when she was seen going into her house with a man shortly after midnight, your brother-in-law would like to know if anyone has any information on the movements of Michela Licalzi during that period. Better yet, if anyone saw her during that period in the company of Maurizio, and where. Is that clear?”

  “Clear as day.”

  “You, from this moment on, will bivouac at TeleVigàta.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’ll be there all the time, as if you were an editor. As soon as somebody comes forward with information, you show him in and talk to him. Then you report back to me.”

  “Salvo? It’s Nicolò. I’m going to have to disturb you again.”

  “Any news? Did they send the carabinieri for you?”

  Apparently Nicolò was in no mood for jokes.

  “Can you come to the studio immediately?”

  Montalbano was stunned to find Orazio Guttadauro, the controversial defense lawyer, legal counsel to every mafioso in the province and even outside the province, at the Free Channel studios.

  “Well, if it isn’t Inspector Montalbano, what a lovely s
ight!” said the lawyer as soon as he saw him come in. Nicolò looked a tad uncomfortable.

  The inspector eyed the newsman inquiringly. Why had he summoned him there with Guttadauro? Zito responded verbally:

  “Mr. Guttadauro was the gentleman who phoned yesterday, the one who was hunting.”

  “Ah,” said the inspector. With Guttadauro, the less one spoke, the better. He was not the kind of man one would want to break bread with.

  “The words that the distinguished journalist here present,” began the lawyer in the same tone of voice he employed in court, “used to describe me on television made me feel like a worm!”

  “Good God, what did I say?” asked Nicolò, concerned.

  “You used these exact words, and I quote: ‘unknown hunter’ and ‘anonymous caller.’ ”

  “What’s so offensive about that? There’s the Unknown Soldier . . .”

  “. . . and the Anonymous Venetian,” Montalbano chimed in, beginning to enjoy himself.

  “What? What?” the lawyer went on as if he hadn’t heard them, “Orazio Guttadauro, implicitly accused of cowardice? I couldn’t bear it, and so, here I am.”

  “But why did you come to us? It was your duty to go to Captain Panzacchi in Montelusa and tell him—”

  “Are we kidding ourselves, boys? Panzacchi was twenty yards away from me and told a completely different story! Given the choice between me and him, people will believe him! Do you know how many of my clients, upright citizens all, have been implicated and charged on the basis of the lying words of a policeman or carabiniere? Hundreds!”

  “Excuse me, sir, but in what way is your version different from Captain Panzacchi’s?” asked Zito, finally giving in to curiosity.

  “In one detail, my good man.”

  “Which?”

  “Young Di Blasi was unarmed.”

  “No, no, I don’t believe it. Are you trying to tell us that the Flying Squad shot him down in cold blood, for the sheer pleasure of killing a man?”

  “I said simply that Di Blasi was unarmed. The others, however, thought he was armed, since he did have something in his hand. It was a terrible misunderstanding.”

  “What did he have in his hand?”

  Nicolò Zito’s voice had risen in pitch.

  “One of his shoes, my friend.”

  While the journalist was collapsing into his chair, the lawyer continued.

  “I felt it was my duty to make this fact known to the public. I believe that my solemn civic duty requires . . .”

  Montalbano began to understand Guttadauro’s game. Since it wasn’t a Mafia killing, and he wouldn’t, by testifying, be harming any of his clients, he had a perfect opportunity to publicize himself as a model citizen and at the same time stick it to the police.

  “I’d also seen him the previous day,” the lawyer said.

  “Who?” Zito and Montalbano asked together, both lost in thought until that moment.

  “The Di Blasi kid, who else? The hunting’s good in that area. I saw him from a distance, I didn’t have binoculars. He was limping. Then he went inside the mouth of the cave, sat down in the sun, and began eating.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Zito. “Are you saying the man was hiding there and not at his own house, which was a stone’s throw away?”

  “What do you want me to say, my dear Zito? The day before that, when passing in front of the Di Blasi house, I saw that the front door was bolted with a padlock the size of a trunk. I am positive that at no point did he hide out at his house. Maybe he didn’t want to compromise his family.”

  Montalbano was convinced of two things: The lawyer was prepared to belie the assertions of the Flying Squad captain even as concerned the young man’s hideout, which meant that the charge against the father would have to be dropped, with grave prejudice to Panzacchi. As for the second thing, he needed confirmation:

  “Would you tell me something, sir?”

  “At your orders, Inspector.”

  “Are you always out hunting? Aren’t you ever in court?”

  Guttadauro smiled at him. Montalbano smiled back. They had understood each other. In all likelihood, the lawyer had never gone hunting in his life. Those who’d seen the incident and sent him on this mission must have been friends of the people Guttadauro called his clients. And the objective was to create a scandal for the Montelusa police department. The inspector had to play shrewdly; he didn’t like having these people as allies.

  “Was it Mr. Guttadauro who told you to call me?” the inspector asked Nicolò.

  “Yes.”

  Therefore they knew everything. They were aware he’d been wronged, they imagined he was determined to avenge himself, and they were ready to use him.

  “You, sir, must certainly have heard that I am no longer in charge of the case, which in any event should be considered closed?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There are no buts, sir. If you really want to do your duty as a citizen, go to Judge Tommaseo and tell him your version of the events. Good day.”

  He turned around and walked out. Nicolò came running after him and grabbed him by the arm.

  “You knew! You knew about the shoe! That’s why you told me to ask Panzacchi what the weapon was!”

  “Yeah, Nicolò, I knew. But I advise you not to mention it on your news program. There’s no proof that things went the way Guttadauro says, even though it’s probably the truth. Be very careful.”

  “But you yourself are telling me it’s the truth!”

  “Try to understand, Nicolò. I’d be willing to bet that our good lawyer doesn’t even know where the fuck the cave that Maurizio hid in is located. He’s a puppet, and his strings are pulled by the Mafia. His friends found something out and decided they could take advantage of it. They cast a sweep net into the sea and they’re hoping to catch Panzacchi, the commissioner, and Judge Tommaseo in it. That would make some pretty big waves. However, to haul the net back into the boat, they need somebody strong, that is, me, who they think is blinded by the desire for revenge. Now do you get the picture?”

  “Yes. What line should I take with the lawyer?”

  “Repeat the same things I said. Let him go tell it to the judge. He’ll refuse, you’ll see. But it’s you who will repeat to Tommaseo, word for word, what Guttadauro said. If he’s not a fool, and he’s not, he’ll realize that he, too, is in danger.”

  “But he had nothing to do with the killing of Di Blasi.”

  “But he signed the indictment against his father. And those guys are prepared to testify that Maurizio never hid in his father’s house at Raffadali. Tommaseo, if he wants to save his ass, has to disarm Guttadauro and his friends.”

  “How?”

  “How should I know?”

  Since he was in Montelusa anyway, the inspector decided to go to Montelusa Central Police, hoping not to run into Panzacchi. Once there, he headed immediately to the basement, where forensics was located. He walked straight into the office of the chief.

  “Hello, Arquà.”

  “Hello,” the other said, iceberg-cold. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was just passing by, and I became curious about something.”

  “I’m very busy.”

  “Of course you are, but I’ll only steal a minute of your time. I want some information about the grenade Di Blasi tried to throw at those police officers.”

  Arquà didn’t move a muscle.

  “I’m not required to tell you anything.”

  How could he be so self-controlled?

  “Come on, colleague, be a sport. I need only three things: color, size, and make.”

  Arquà looked sincerely baffled. His eyes were clearly asking whether Montalbano hadn’t gone completely mad.

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  “Let me help you. Black? Brown? Forty-three? Forty-four? Moccasin? Superga? Varese?”

  “Calm down,” said Arquà, though there was no need. He was sticking to the rule that one should try t
o humor madmen. “Come with me.”

  Montalbano followed behind him. They entered a room with a big, white half-moon table around which stood three busy men in white smocks.

  “Caruana,” Arquà said to one of the three men, “show our colleague Montalbano the grenade.”

  As this man was opening a metal cabinet, Arquà continued talking.

  “It’s dismantled now, but when they brought it here it was live and dangerous.”

  He took the plastic bag that Caruana held out to him, and showed it to the inspector.

  “An old OTO, issued to our army in 1940.”

  Montalbano was unable to speak. He studied the pieces of the grenade as if looking at the fragments of a Ming vase that had just fallen to the floor.

  “Did you take fingerprints?”

  “They were very blurry for the most part, but two of Maurizio Di Blasi’s came out very clearly, the thumb and index finger of the right hand.”

  Arquà set the bag on the table, put his hand on Montalbano’s shoulder, and pushed him out into the hallway.

  “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I had no idea the commissioner would take you off the case.”

  He was attributing what he thought was a momentary lapse of Montalbano’s mental abilities to the shock of his removal. A good kid, deep down, Dr. Arquà.

  The chief of the crime lab had been undoubtedly sincere, Montalbano thought as he drove down to Vigàta. He couldn’t possibly be that brilliant an actor. But how can one throw a hand grenade gripping it only with the thumb and index finger? The best thing that might happen if you threw it that way is that you’d blow your balls to bits. Arquà should have been able to get a print of much of the right palm as well. Given all this, where had the Flying Squad performed the feat of taking two of the already dead Maurizio’s fingers and pressing them by force against the grenade? No sooner had he posed the question, than he turned around and headed back to Montelusa.

  12

  “What do you want?” asked Pasquano as soon as he saw him enter his office.