Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 12

  Montalbano returned to the study, put the photos back in the first envelope, then grabbed the other one and emptied it out. It contained three photos. Same subject as the other one: a naked woman posing, first on her back, then on her belly, and then with her legs spread. The model was someone the inspector knew: Rosanna. But an affair between employer and maid wasn’t enough to explain their sudden flight. The whole story had to be a lot more complicated than that. The inspector pocketed the photo of Rosanna lying on her back, put the other pictures back in the envelope, then put the envelope back in the drawer. He took the list of firearms and opened the armoire. The custom-made cabinet was entirely lined inside with light-blue velvet. Only handguns: revolvers and pistols of every kind, size, and epoch. No carbines, no rifles. They were arranged in ten rows of four: three on the inside of the left-hand door, four at the back of the armoire, and three on the inside of the right-hand door. Each gun hung from three nails with golden plastic heads. A veritable exhibition. And there were forty of them, exactly as declared. Not one gun was missing. And there was room for another forty handguns. In the lower part of the cabinet there was a drawer, which the inspector opened. No ammunition of any sort, only holsters, swabs, and special oils. He closed the drawer and the cabinet, and was about to put the desk back in order when something began to nag at him, something to do with the gun cabinet. He went back and reopened both doors, and the drawer as well. This time he noticed that the space between the bottom panel of the cabinet and the drawer was too wide, a good eight inches. There must certainly be a secret compartment there. But where was the mechanism for opening it? The light coming in through the closed shutter seemed sufficient. He grabbed a chair, sat down in front of the open cabinet, and fired up a cigarette. After staring at it for a while, his vision started to blur. What if it was just a mistake in the design? No, impossible. Then all at once he realized he had solved the problem. Each gun was hung horizontally from three nails. Why, then, did the last gun on the back panel have four nails? He stood up, and pressed the three golden nailheads with his index finger. Nothing happened. When he pressed the fourth, he heard a sort of click, and a flat drawer, hidden between the bottom panel and the drawer, right where Montalbano had suspected, sprang forth. He opened it all the way. There was a pistol and a revolver, held fast by an arrangement of nails so that they wouldn’t move when the drawer was opened or closed. Next to the two guns was another set of three nails, also arranged as if to hold a gun, but empty. But the weapon’s shape remained impressed in the velvet. Montalbano picked up the pistol: It was American, and apparently lethal. But only apparently, because he immediately noticed that it had been rendered inoperable: The firing pin’s spring had been released. The same little trick had been performed on Rosanna’s revolver. And this serial number, too, had been filed off. He put the gun back. There were also three boxes of cartridges. One was open, and six were missing from it.

  He put everything back in order and went into the entrance. Signora Bufano was blasting her ears with “Guarda come dondolo, guarda come dondolo, con il twist.” He spotted a providential stool, put it under the window, opened the window, climbed up, hoisted himself up, closed the window, jumped down, and went out. Olé! That, ladies and gentlemen, was Salvo Montalbano, known to friends as “the acrobat.”

  The first thing the switchboard operator told him was that the Honorable Torrisi had been calling since the morning. He urgently needed to talk to the inspector.

  “Put him through to me when he calls back.”

  Fazio showed up a minute later.

  “How’d it go with Rosanna?”

  “Fine, Chief. She and the wife seem to be getting along. But she asked me at least four times when we’re going to decide to arrest Pino Cusumano. She’s obsessed, just aching to see the guy behind bars. Strange, don’t you think?”

  “What’s strange?”

  “What do you mean, Chief? First the girl is willing to kill somebody just to please her lover-boy, and just a few days later she wants to see him rot in jail?”

  “She feels betrayed. She told us Cusumano was supposed to get her out of hot water, and instead he’s abandoned her.”

  “Hmph. You know what? It makes me think of the opera.”

  “La donna è mobile, qual piuma al vento?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Without a peep, Montalbano stuck a hand in his jacket pocket, pulled out the photo of Rosanna lying naked on her back, and handed it to Fazio. Who took it, looked at it, and then dropped it on the table as if it were poisonous.

  “Matre santa!”

  He sat down, flabbergasted.

  “How did you get your hands on that, Chief?”

  “I just took it. There are two more, but I took this one because it was the most presentable.”

  “And where did you get it?”

  “I searched the home of Dr. Siracusa.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “Through a window.”

  “Like a thief?”

  “Like a thief.”

  “Then you’re wrong. ‘Search’ isn’t the right word.”

  Fazio wiped the sweat from his brow with a large checked handkerchief.

  “Chief, I’m telling you this dispassionately: One day or another you’re going to end up in jail. And I may be the one who has to put the cuffs on you. You took a really big chance, you know.”

  “I know, but it was worth the risk.”

  Fazio, a cop born and bred, pricked up his ears.

  “So tell me about it.”

  The inspector told him everything.

  “What do you think?” he asked when he’d finished.

  “One question, Chief. Why did Siracusa keep those illegal guns hidden?”

  “It’s part of the collector’s mentality. You see, those guns had almost certainly belonged to the Mafia, and may have even been used to kill people. He paid a lot of money for them. And every time he opened the secret door he felt a shudder of delight . . . So, what do you think of this new discovery?”

  “What can I say, Chief? Siracusa’s somebody who can’t control himself in a woman’s presence. So he loses his head over Rosanna. Brags about his guns, maybe shows them to her and explains how they work, Rosanna sleeps with him, but then starts demanding things. Like asking him to write the request for a visit with Cusumano in prison. So he does it for her. Then she asks him for a gun.”

  “No, she didn’t ask him for the gun. She just took it and then disappeared from the Siracusas’ home. When our announcement appeared on the Free Channel, Siracusa went and checked, saw that a revolver was missing, realized what had happened—it didn’t take much—that is, that Rosanna had screwed him, and so he flew into a panic and ran away.”

  “And when Rosanna went to talk to Pino, she must have told him she had a gun,” said Fazio. “But then why did she tell us she got the gun from the guy who brought her Cusumano’s messages?”

  Montalbano was about to answer when the phone rang.

  “It’s the Honorable Torrisi on the line,” said the operator.

  Before answering, the inspector said to Fazio:

  “It’s Torrisi. What did I tell you? Whoever was supposed to find out about Brucculeri’s arrest has found out. Now they’re trying to patch it up with flying colors. They realize that Cusumano has really fucked up.”

  “Montalbano here,” he said, picking up the receiver.

  “My dear Inspector! I’m so happy to hear your voice again!”

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’ve just come in from Rome, and I’m at the airport. I should be in Vigàta in an hour and a half at the most. Would that be too late for us to meet for lunch?”

  “Actually, I’ve already got an engagement.”

  “Dinner, then?”

  “I’m so sorry, but I’ve got a friend coming
.”

  Not even after a month of fasting on a desert island would he eat a crust of bread with that man.

  “Then shall I drop by around five this afternoon?”

  “If you like, I could come to your office.”

  Silence. The inspector realized what was going through the other’s head. Torrisi was weighing his options. For his dignity as a member of Parliament, it was better that Montalbano come to see him. But what would people think? If, on the other hand, he went to police headquarters, he could always say he simply wanted to inform himself as to the current state of local law enforcement. Montalbano was enjoying the honorable’s embarrassment immensely. He decided to prod him a little.

  “It’s only a friendly chat we’re talking about, correct?”

  Torrisi hesitated for a second, then concluded:

  “Thank you, Inspector, for your exquisite courtesy. But I think it’s more convenient for me to come to you.”

  “All right sir, as you wish. I’ll see you later, then.”

  He hung up.

  “There are some papers that need to be signed,” said Fazio.

  “Then sign them. Who’s preventing you?”

  “But, Inspector, it’s you who’s supposed to sign them!”

  “Oh really? Well, let me tell you something, so we’re on the same page. You have to tell me twenty-four hours in advance.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “That there are papers that need to be signed. It’ll give me a little time to get used to the idea. Know what I mean? If you tell me out of the blue, it’s traumatic.”

  10

  For starters a small octopus, ever so soft, a strascinasale, followed by a little fried nunnato; for the first course, pasta in squid ink; for the second, two roasted white bream of considerable size. A digestive-meditative walk along the jetty was in order. He started out in a cheerful mood. The honorable attorney-at-law Torrisi had rushed back from Rome, summoned by the Cuffaro family, who were alarmed mostly by the idiocy of their beloved scion, Pino, and so, around five o’clock that evening, there was going to be fun at the station. But when the inspector sat down on the flat rock under the lighthouse, his mood slowly changed. Perhaps it was the steady, monotonous background noise of the water lapping at the rocks that did it. But the fact was that he again had the uncomfortable feeling of being a puppet in the hands of a puppeteer. Someone who thought he was walking freely, with his own two legs, unaware that there were invisible strings pulling him forward. “We are puppets . . .” Who’d written that? Ah, yes, Pirandello. Which reminded him, he wanted to buy the latest book by Borges. And once that name entered his brain, it refused to leave. Borges, Borges, he kept repeating to himself. And he suddenly remembered a half page, perhaps less, by the Argentinian writer that he’d read sometime before. Borges was telling the story of a mystery novel in which everything arose from the utterly chance encounter, on a train, of two chess players who had never met before. The two men organized a crime and carried it out almost pedantically, successfully avoiding suspicion. It was a highly plausible plot, held together by logic, without a wrinkle. Except that at the end the writer adds a post scriptum in the form of a question. Namely: What if the encounter between the two men on the train was not a chance meeting? In the investigation the inspector was conducting, this sort of question hadn’t even occurred to him. Those few lines of Borges were an invaluable lesson in how to carry out an investigation. And in this case, too, he had to ask himself questions that might turn everything upside down, cast everything into doubt. For example: Why did Cusumano want Judge Rosato killed? (In fact the poor guy had already phoned a couple of times to find out how the investigation was going.) In a flash, Montalbano realized that Judge Rosato was the weak link in the whole chain. Or rather, the link he hadn’t understood. Or, better yet, the link he had taken for granted. He took a deep breath. At once the sea air entered his brain and blew away all trace of dust, cobwebs, or dirt. With his head now clear and shiny, he could start to think properly.

  It was a quarter to four when he got up from the rock and hurried back into town. Fazio was undoubtedly already back at headquarters, but the inspector knew where he lived. Should he inform him first? He decided that it would be a waste of time. He could tell him all about it afterwards. Fazio lived in the elevated part of town, in a horrendous high-rise of recent construction. Montalbano rang the buzzer. A woman’s voice answered.

  “This is Montalbano.”

  “Hello, Inspector. My husband is—”

  “At the office, yes, I know. But I need to talk to . . . the maid.”

  “All right. Fourth floor.”

  Fortyish and pleasant, Signora Fazio was waiting for him in the doorway.

  “Please come in.”

  She showed him into a room that was both a dining and drawing room.

  “As soon as she heard it was you, Rosanna went to change her clothes.”

  “How’s she been behaving?”

  “Very well, actually. She’s a good girl. She just lost her head over a bad apple.”

  Rosanna appeared, seeming a little awkward, and stopped in the doorway.

  “Hello,” she said.

  She’d put on the dress the inspector had bought for her.

  “Come in. I want to talk to you. Sit down.”

  Rosanna obeyed. Signora Fazio instead stood up.

  “Would you like a coffee?”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  “I’ll be in the kitchen, if you need anything.”

  The girl seemed extremely tense, a rope stretched to the breaking point, her taut lips starting to uncover her teeth and gums. These few hours in the Fazio home certainly hadn’t done her any good.

  “You got good news for me?” was her first question.

  “What kind of good news?”

  “D’jou arrest Cusumanu?”

  He wasn’t Pino anymore. Now she called him by his last name.

  “It’s just a matter of hours now. We’re going to arrest him, that’s for sure, but not for the reason you told us.”

  “An’ wha’d I tell you?”

  “That he wanted you to kill Judge Rosato.”

  “So you don’ think that’s true?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s true. Cusumano never gave you that name. You only remembered it because you’d heard it mentioned years ago in your home, when the judge was handling a suit your father had brought against a neighbor. And to prevent yourself from forgetting his name, you filled your purse with things that would remind you. You see, Rosanna, if Pino had really given you the judge’s name, you never would have forgotten it, because you were in love with him, as you told us yourself. That name would have been burned into your brain with letters of fire, and you wouldn’t have needed to resort to roses or strips of elastic.”

  “So who’d I wanna kill, then?”

  “Pino Cusumano.”

  He heard a barely perceptible clang, the sound of something breaking or being suddenly released—perhaps a spring in the armchair the girl was sitting in, as it was utterly impossible the sound came from inside Rosanna’s body, from her bundle of nerves taut as drums. Montalbano continued.

  “But he found a way to avoid being seen by you when he went to court. He was afraid. Because you went to see him in jail, thanks to that idiot Dr. Siracusa, and you told him you would kill him. That was your big mistake.”

  “It wasn’t no mistake.”

  Montalbano wasn’t in the mood for arguing. He continued.

  “A mistake because Cusumano got scared. He realized you meant it. The only problem was that if you had shot him, the revolver wouldn’t have fired. Which you had no way of knowing. But, being a smart girl, you made allowances for the possibility that your plan might not work, and so you invented the story of Cusumano wanting you to prove your love for him by killing Judge Rosato.
Which is what you told me. Therefore, if you carried out what you had in mind, Cusumano’s fate was sealed regardless: Either he died by your hand, or he would go to jail for incitement to commit murder. Except that’s not how things turned out. Now it’s your turn to talk.”

  Before she could manage to articulate any words, Rosanna opened and closed her mouth two or three times.

  “Can you ’splain to me why I would wanna kill Cusumano?”

  “Because he raped you.”

  Rosanna screamed and leapt forward. Montalbano couldn’t manage in time to get up. But this time the girl had no intention of harming him. She was on her knees, gripping his legs tight, her head on the inspector’s lap and rocking back and forth, wailing. A wounded animal. Signora Fazio appeared, having heard the scream. Only moving his lips, Montalbano said:

  “Water.”

  Signora Fazio returned with a jug and a glass and immediately left again. Slowly the inspector put his hand on Rosanna’s hair and started lightly stroking it. Then her wailing turned into weeping. They were not tears of despair, but of liberation. Only then did Montalbano ask her if she wanted some water. Rosanna nodded yes. But her hands were trembling too much, and she was able to drink only when Montalbano held the glass up to her mouth, as with a child.