Voice of the Violin Page 12

  “I need to appeal to our friendship,” Montalbano began.

  “Friendship? You and I are friends? Do we ever dine together? Do we confide in each other?”

  Dr. Pasquano was like that, and the inspector didn’t feel the least bit upset by his words. It was merely a matter of finding the right formula.

  “Well, if not friendship, then mutual esteem.”

  “That, yes.”

  He’d guessed right. It would be smooth sailing from here.

  “Doctor, what other tests do you have to run on Michela Licalzi? Are there any new developments?”

  “New developments? I told the judge and the commissioner long ago that as far as I was concerned, we could turn the body over to the husband.”

  “Oh, really? Because, see, the husband himself told me he got a call from the commissioner’s office saying that the funeral couldn’t be held until Friday morning.”

  “That’s their goddamn business.”

  “Excuse me, Doctor, for taking advantage of your patience. Everything normal with the body of Maurizio Di Blasi?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, how did he die?”

  “What a stupid question. A burst of machine-gun fire. They practically cut him in two. They could’ve made a bust of him and put it on a column.”

  “And the right foot?”

  Dr. Pasquano narrowed his beady eyes.

  “Why are you asking me about the right foot?”

  “Because I don’t find the left one very interesting.”

  “Right. He hurt himself, a sprain or something, couldn’t get his shoe back on. But he’d hurt himself a few days before he was killed. His face was all swollen from some kind of blow.”

  Montalbano gave a start.

  “Had he been beaten?”

  “I don’t know. He was either hit hard in the face with a stick or club or ran into something. But it wasn’t the policemen. The contusion dated from some time before that.”

  “From when he hurt his foot?”

  “More or less, I guess.”

  Montalbano stood up and held out his hand to the doctor.

  “Thank you. I’ll be on my way. One last thing. Did they inform you immediately?”

  “Inform me of what?”

  “Of the fact they’d shot Di Blasi.”

  Dr. Pasquano squinted his eyes so far that he looked as if he’d suddenly fallen asleep. He didn’t answer immediately.

  “Do you dream these things up at night? Do the crows whisper them in your ear? Do you talk to ghosts? No, they shot the kid at six in the morning. They didn’t inform me until around ten. Said they wanted to finish searching the house first.”

  “One final question.”

  “With all your final questions, you’re gonna keep me here till nightfall.”

  “After they turned Di Blasi’s body over to you, did anyone from the Flying Squad ask for your permission to examine it alone?”

  Dr. Pasquano looked surprised.

  “No. Why would they do that?”

  He returned to the Free Channel. He had to bring Nicolò Zito up to date on the latest developments. He was sure Guttadauro the lawyer would be gone by then.

  “Why’d you come back?”

  “Tell you in a second, Nicolò. How’d it go with the lawyer?”

  “I did what you told me to do. I suggested he go talk to the judge. He said he’d think about it. Then he added something curious, that had nothing to do with anything. Or so it seemed. You never know with these people. He said: ‘Lucky you, who live among images! Nowadays only images matter, not words.’ That’s what he said. What’s it mean?”

  “I don’t know. You know, Nicolò, they’ve got the grenade.”

  “God! So what Guttadauro told us is untrue!”

  “No, it’s true. Panzacchi’s a shrewd one, he’s covered himself very cleverly. The crime lab’s examining a grenade that Panzacchi gave them, and it’s got Di Blasi’s fingerprints on it.”

  “Jesus, what a mess! Panzacchi’s covered himself from every angle! What am I going to tell Tommaseo?”

  “Exactly what we agreed on. Except you shouldn’t appear too skeptical about the existence of the grenade. Understood?”

  To get to Vigàta from Montelusa there was, aside from the usual route, a little abandoned road the inspector was very fond of. He turned onto it, and when he’d reached a small bridge spanning a torrent that had ceased being a torrent centuries ago and was now merely a depression of stones and pebbles, he stopped the car, got out, and wended his way into a thicket at the center of which stood a gigantic Saracen olive tree, one of those twisted, gnarled ones that creep along the ground like snakes before ascending to the sky. He sat down on a branch, lit a cigarette, and started meditating on the events of the morning.

  “Mimì, come in, close the door, and have a seat. I need some information from you.”

  “Ready.”

  “If I seize a weapon from someone, say, a revolver or a submachine gun, what do I do with it?”

  “Usually, you give it to whoever’s standing closest to you.”

  “Did we wake up this morning with a sense of humor?”

  “You want to know the regulations on the subject? Weapons seized must be turned immediately over to the appointed office at Montelusa Central Police, where they are registered and then put away under lock and key in a small depository at the opposite end of the building from the forensics lab of, in this case, Montelusa. Good enough?”

  “Yes. Now, Mimì, I’m going to venture a reconstruction. If I say anything stupid, interrupt me. Here goes: Panzacchi and his men search Engineer Di Blasi’s country house. The front door, mind you, is bolted with an enormous padlock.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Mimì, don’t take advantage of the permission I just gave you. A padlock is not something stupid. I know it was there, period. They, however, think it might be a ruse—that is, they think Di Blasi senior, after supplying his son with provisions, locked him up inside so the house would appear uninhabited. He would go and free him after things cooled down a little. Suddenly one of the men spots Maurizio on a nearby hillside going into the cave. They go and surround the entrance, Maurizio comes out holding something in his hand, and one of the more nervous policemen shoots and kills him. When they realize the poor bastard was holding his right shoe in his hand because he could no longer fit it on his injured foot—”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Mimì, if you don’t knock it off, I’m going to stop telling you the story. When they see it’s only a shoe, they realize they’re in shit up to their necks. The brilliant operation of Ernesto Panzacchi and his dirty half-dozen is in danger of creating a terrible stink. After thinking long and hard, they realize the only way out is to claim that Maurizio actually was armed. Okay, but with what? And that’s where our Flying Squad captain has a brainstorm: a hand grenade.”

  “Why not a gun, which is more likely?”

  “Face it, Mimì, you’re just not on Panzacchi’s level. The captain of the Flying Squad knows that Engineer Di Blasi doesn’t have a license to carry a gun, nor has he ever reported owning any weapons. But a war memento, which you’ve got before your eyes each day, is no longer considered a weapon. Or else it’s packed away in an attic and forgotten.”

  “May I say something? In 1940 Engineer Di Blasi was about five years old, and if he was doing any fighting, it was with a popgun.”

  “What about his father, Mimì? An uncle, perhaps? A cousin? His grandfather? His great-grandfather? His—”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “The problem is, where does one find a war-surplus hand grenade?”

  “In the Montelusa police depository,” Mimì Augello said calmly.

  “Right you are. And the timing fits, because they didn’t notify Dr. Pasquano until four hours after Maurizio’s death.”

  “How do you know that? Okay, sorry.”

  “Do you know who’s in charge o
f the depository?”

  “Yes, and you know him, too: Nenè Lofàro. He worked here with us for a while.”

  “Lofàro? If I remember him correctly, he’s not the kind of person to whom you can say, ‘Gimme the key, I need a hand grenade.’ ”

  “We’ll have to look into how it was done.”

  “You go to Montelusa, Mimì. I can’t, since I’m under fire.”

  “All right. Oh, Salvo, could I have the day off tomorrow?”

  “You got some whore on your hands?”

  “Not a whore, a lady friend.”

  “But can’t you spend the evening with her, after you’ve finished here?”

  “She said she’s leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

  “A foreigner, eh? All right, good luck. But first you have to unravel this story of the hand grenade.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll go to Montelusa today, after I eat.”

  He felt like spending a little time with Anna, but once over the bridge, he shot past and went straight home.

  In his mailbox he found a large brown envelope that the postman had folded in two to make it fit in the box. There was no return address. Feeling hungry, Montalbano opened the fridge: baby octopus alla luciana and a very simple fresh tomato sauce. Apparently Adelina hadn’t had the time or the desire to make more. While waiting for the spaghetti water to boil, he opened the envelope. Inside was a color catalogue for “Eroservice,” featuring pornographic videocassettes for every single, or singular, taste. He tore it in half and tossed it into the garbage can. He ate and went into the bathroom, then came racing out, pants unzipped, like a character in a Larry Semon silent film. How had he not thought of it sooner? Had it taken the porno catalogue? He looked up a number in the Montelusa phone book.

  “Hello, Mr. Guttadauro? Inspector Montalbano here. Were you eating? Yes? I’m so sorry.”

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  “A friend of mine, talking of this and that—you know how these things happen—mentioned to me that you have an excellent collection of videocassettes of yourself hunting.”

  A very long pause. Apparently the lawyer’s brain was in high gear.

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Would you be willing to show me a few?”

  “I’m very particular, you know, about my possessions. But we could make an arrangement.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  They said good-bye as if they were the greatest of friends. It was clear what had taken place. Guttadauro’s friends—there had to be more than one—happen to witness the killing of Maurizio. When they see a policeman racing away in a squad car, they realize Panzacchi has hatched a plan for saving face and career. One of the friends then runs and equips himself with a video camera. And he returns in time to tape the scene of the policemen pressing the dead man’s fingerprints onto the hand grenade. Guttadauro’s friends now have a grenade of their own, though different in nature, and they send the lawyer into the field. A nasty, dangerous situation, which Montalbano absolutely had to find a way out of.

  “Mr. Di Blasi? Inspector Montalbano here. I need to speak to you immediately.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have serious doubts about your son’s guilt.”

  “He’s already gone.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. But his memory.”

  “Do what you want.”

  Utter resignation. A breathing, talking corpse.

  “I’ll be at your place in half an hour at the latest.”

  He was astonished to see Anna open the door for him.

  “Talk in a low voice. The signora is finally resting.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It was you who got me involved. I haven’t had the heart to leave her alone since.”

  “What do you mean, alone? Hasn’t anyone called for a nurse?”

  “Of course. But she wants me. Now come inside.”

  The living room was even darker than the time the inspector was shown in by Mrs. Di Blasi. He felt his heart sink when he saw Aurelio Di Blasi lying crosswise on the armchair. The man’s eyes were closed, but he’d sensed the inspector’s presence, and he spoke out.

  “What do you want?” he asked with that terrible, dead voice.

  Montalbano explained what he wanted. He spoke for half an hour straight and little by little saw the engineer sit up, prick up his ears, look at him, and listen with interest. He realized he was winning him over.

  “Does the Flying Squad have the keys to your villa?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Di Blasi said in a different, stronger voice. “But I had a third pair made some time ago. Maurizio kept them in his bedside table. I’ll go fetch them.”

  He was unable to get up from the armchair. Montalbano had to help him.

  He blew into headquarters like a gunshot.

  “Fazio, Gallo, and Giallombardo, come with me.”

  “Are we taking the squad car?”

  “No, we’ll go in mine. Is Mimì back?”

  He wasn’t back. They left in a hurry. Fazio had never seen him drive so fast. He got worried, not having a lot of faith in Montalbano’s driving abilities.

  “Want me to drive?” asked Gallo, who was apparently harboring the same concerns as Fazio.

  “Don’t bust my balls. We have very little time.”

  It took him about twenty minutes to drive from Vigàta to Raffadali. Once outside the town, he turned onto a country road. Mr. Di Blasi had carefully explained to him how to get to the house. They all recognized it easily, having seen it repeatedly on television.

  “Now, I’ve got the keys,” said Montalbano. “We’re going to go inside and do a thorough search. We’ve still got a few hours of daylight left, and we must take advantage of it. We have to find what we’re looking for before it gets dark, because we can’t turn on any lights. We don’t want anyone seeing the lights on from outside. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear,” said Fazio. “But what are we looking for?”

  The inspector told them, then added:

  “I hope I’m wrong, I really do,”

  “But we’ll leave fingerprints,” said Giallombardo, worried. “We didn’t bring gloves.”

  “We don’t give a fuck.”

  Unfortunately, the inspector hadn’t been wrong. After they’d been searching for an hour, he heard Gallo call him triumphantly from the kitchen. They all came running. Gallo was stepping down from a chair, a leather ammunition box in his hand.

  “It was on top of this cupboard.”

  The inspector opened it: inside was a hand grenade exactly like the one he’d seen in the crime lab, and a pistol that looked like the kind once issued to German officers.

  “Where were you guys? What’s in that case?” asked Mimì, curious as a cat.

  “And what have you got to tell me?”

  “Lofàro’s on sick leave for a month. He was replaced fifteen days ago by somebody named Culicchia.”

  “I know him well,” said Giallombardo.

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s not the type who likes to sit behind a desk keeping records. He’d sell his soul to go back in the field. He wants to make a career of it.”

  “He’s already sold his soul,” said Montalbano.

  “So, what’s in there?” Mimì asked, increasingly curious.

  “Candy, Mimì. Now listen up, all of you. When does Culicchia go off duty? Eight o’clock, right?”

  “That’s right,” Fazio confirmed.

  “When Culicchia leaves Montelusa Central, I want you, Fazio, and you, Giallombardo, to persuade him to get into my car. Don’t explain anything to him. Keep him guessing. As soon as he’s sitting down between you two, show him the ammunition box. Of course, he’s never seen it before, so he’s going to ask you what this whole charade is about.”

  “Come on, can’t somebody tell me what’s in there?” Mimì asked again, but nobody answered.

  “How come he won’t recognize it?
”

  The question came from Gallo. The inspector gave him a dirty look.

  “Haven’t you guys got any brains in your head? Maurizio Di Blasi was retarded, but he was a decent person, and he certainly didn’t have any friends who could provide him with weapons at the drop of a hat. The only place he could have found the grenade was at his country house. But they need proof that he took it from there. So Panzacchi, who’s a slyboots, orders one of his men to go to Montelusa to get two grenades and one wartime pistol. One of these he’ll claim was in Maurizio’s hand, the other he hangs on to, together with the pistol, until he can come up with an ammo box. Then he sneaks back into the Raffadali house and hides the whole kit and caboodle in the first place where somebody would look for it.”

  “So that’s what’s in the box!” exclaimed Mimì, slapping his forehead.

  “In short, that motherfucking Panzacchi has created a perfectly plausible scenario. And if someone should ask him why the other weapons weren’t found during the first search, he can claim they were interrupted when they spotted Maurizio going into the cave.”

  “What a son of a bitch!” said Fazio indignantly. “First he kills an innocent kid—because as captain he’s responsible even though he didn’t fire the shots himself—and now he wants to screw a poor old man just save his own skin!”

  “Let’s get back to what you have to do. Let this Culicchia simmer a little. Tell him the ammo box was found at the house in Raffadali. Then show him the grenade and the gun. Then ask him—as if out of curiosity—if all seized weapons are registered. And, finally, make him get out of the car together with you, carrying the weapons and ammo box.”

  “Is that everything?”

  “That’s everything, Fazio. The next move is his.”

  13

  “Chief? Galluzzo’s onna phone. He wants to talk to you in person. Whaddo I do, Chief? Put ’im through?”

  It was clearly Catarella, on the afternoon shift. But why did he say “in person” and not “in poisson”?