Voice of the Violin Read online

  “All right, put him through. What is it, Galluzzo?”

  “Inspector, some guy phoned TeleVigàta after they broadcast the photos of Mrs. Licalzi and Maurizio Di Blasi together like you asked. He says he’s positive he saw the lady with a man around eleven-thirty that evening, but the man was not Maurizio Di Blasi. He says they stopped at his bar, right outside Montelusa.”

  “Is he sure it was Wednesday night?”

  “Positive. He explained that he didn’t go to the bar on Monday and Tuesday ’cause he was out of town, and Thursday it’s closed. He left his name and address. What should I do, come back to the station?”

  “No, stay there until after the eight o’clock news. Somebody else might come forward.”

  The door flew open, slammed against the wall, and the inspector started.

  “C’n I come in?” asked Catarella, smiling.

  Without a doubt, Catarella had a problem with doors. Montalbano, confronted with that innocent face, suppressed the attack of nerves that had come over him.

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “This package jes now came f’you, and this personally ’dressed letter.”

  “How’s your course in pewters going?”

  “Fine, Chief. But they’re called computers, Chief.”

  Montalbano looked at him in amazement as he left the room. They were corrupting Catarella.

  Inside the envelope he found a few typewritten lines without a signature:

  This is only the last part. Hope it’s to your liking. If you want to see the whole video, call me whenever you like.

  Montalbano felt the package. A videocassette.

  As Fazio and Giallombardo had his car, he summoned Gallo to drive him in the squad car.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Montelusa, to the Free Channel studios. And don’t speed, I mean it. I don’t want a rerun of last Thursday.”

  Gallo’s face darkened.

  “Aw, it happens to me once and you start bellyaching the minute you get in the car!”

  They drove there in silence.

  “Should I wait for you?” Gallo asked when they got there.

  “Yes. This won’t take very long.”

  Nicolò Zito showed him into his office. He was nervous.

  “How’d it go with Tommaseo?”

  “How do you expect? He gave me a royal tongue-lashing, flayed me alive. He wanted the witnesses’ names.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I pleaded the Fifth Amendment.”

  “C’mon, there’s no such thing in Italy.”

  “Fortunately! Since anyone who pleads the Fifth in America still gets screwed anyway.”

  “How did he react when he heard Guttadauro’s name? That must have had a certain effect.”

  “He got all flummoxed. Looked worried to me. At any rate, he gave me an official warning. Next time he’s going to throw me in jail with no questions asked.”

  “That’s what I wanted.”

  “For me to get thrown in jail with no questions asked?”

  “No, asshole, for him to know that Guttadauro and the people he represents are mixed up in this.”

  “What’s Tommaseo going to do, in your opinion?”

  “He’ll talk to the commissioner about it. I’m sure he realizes he’s caught in the net, too, and he’s going to try to wiggle out of it. Listen, Nicolò, I need to view this cassette.”

  He handed it to him. Nicolò took it and inserted it in his VCR. It opened with a long shot showing a handful of men in the country, but their faces were unreadable. Two people in white smocks were loading a body onto a stretcher. Superimposed across the bottom of the image were the unmistakable words: “Monday 14.4.97.” Whoever was shooting the scene then zoomed in, and now one could see Panzacchi and Dr. Pasquano talking. There was no sound. The two men shook hands and the doctor walked out of the field of vision. The image then panned out to capture the six officers of the Flying Squad standing around their captain. Panzacchi said a few words to them, and they all walked off camera. End of show.

  “Holy shit!” Zito said under his breath.

  “Make me a copy.”

  “I can’t do it here, I have to go into the production studio.”

  “All right, but be careful: don’t let anyone see it.”

  I’ve viewed the sample. It’s of no interest. Do whatever you like with it. But I advise you to destroy it or use it in strictest privacy.

  Montalbano didn’t sign the note or write down the address, which he knew from the phone directory.

  Zito returned and handed him two cassettes.

  “This is the original and this is the copy. It came out only so-so. You know how it is, making a copy of a copy . . .”

  “I’m not competing for an Oscar. Give me a big brown envelope.”

  He slipped the copy in his jacket pocket and put the note and original in the envelope. He didn’t write any address on this, either.

  Gallo was in the car, reading the Gazzetta dello Sport.

  “Do you know where Via Xerri is? At number eighteen you’ll find the law offices of Orazio Guttadauro. I want you to drop off this envelope, then come back and get me.”

  When Fazio and Giallombardo straggled back into headquarters, it was past nine.

  “Oh, Inspector, what a farce, and a tragedy, too!” said Fazio.

  “What did he say?”

  “First he talked, and then he didn’t,” said Giallombardo.

  “When we showed him the ammo box, he didn’t understand. He said: What’s this? Some kind of joke? Eh, is this a joke? As soon as Giallombardo told him the box had been found at Raffadali, his face changed and started to turn pale.”

  “Then, when he saw the weapons inside,” interjected Giallombardo, who wanted to put in his two cents, “he had a fit, and we were scared he was gonna have a stroke right there in the car.”

  “He was shaking all over, like he had malaria. Then he got up, climbed over me, and ran away in a hurry,” said Fazio.

  “He was running like an injured hare, stepping this way and that,” concluded Giallombardo.

  “What now?” asked Fazio.

  “We’ve made our noise. Now we wait for the echo. Thanks for everything.”

  “Duty,” Fazio said dryly. And he added: “Where should I put the ammo box? In the safe?”

  “Yes,” said Montalbano.

  Fazio had a rather large safe in his room. It wasn’t used for documents, but for holding seized drugs or weapons before turning them over to Montelusa.

  Fatigue snuck up on him; his forty-sixth was just around the corner. He informed Catarella he was going home, but told him to forward any phone calls to him. Past the bridge he stopped the car, got out, and walked up to Anna’s house. And what if she was with someone? He tried anyway.

  Anna greeted him.

  “Come on in.”

  “Anybody there?”

  “Nobody.”

  She sat him down on the sofa in front of the television, turned down the volume, left the room, and returned with two glasses, one with whisky for the inspector, another with white wine for herself.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No,” said Anna.

  “Don’t you ever eat?”

  “I ate at midday.”

  Anna sat down beside him.

  “Don’t get too close; I can tell I smell,” said Montalbano.

  “Did you have a rough afternoon?”

  “Rather.”

  Anna extended her arm across the back of the sofa; Montalbano leaned his head back, resting the nape of his neck against her skin. He closed his eyes. Luckily he had set the glass down on the coffee table, because he fell at once into a deep sleep, as though the whisky had been drugged. He woke up with a start half an hour later, looked all around himself in confusion, realized what had happened, and felt embarrassed.

  “Forgive me.”

  “Good thing you woke up. My arm was full of pins and needles.”

/>   The inspector stood up.

  “I have to go.”

  “I’ll see you out.”

  At the door, very naturally, Anna placed her lips lightly on Montalbano’s.

  “Have a good sleep, Salvo.”

  He took a very long shower, changed his underwear and clothes, and called up Livia. The phone rang a long time, then the connection was suddenly cut off. What was that blessed woman doing? Was she wallowing in her sorrow over François? It was too late to call up her friend and get an update. He went and sat down on the veranda, and after a short while he decided that if he couldn’t get in touch with Livia within the next forty-eight hours, he would drop everything and everyone, grab a flight to Genoa, and spend at least one day with her.

  The ringing of the telephone had him running in from the veranda. He was sure it was Livia calling him, finally.

  “Hello? Am I speaking with Inspector Montalbano?”

  He’d heard that voice before, but couldn’t remember who it belonged to.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “This is Ernesto Panzacchi.”

  The echo had arrived.

  “What is it?”

  Were they on familiar terms or not? At this point it didn’t matter.

  “I want to talk to you. In person. Should I come to your place?”

  He had no desire to see Panzacchi in his house.

  “I’ll come to you. Where do you live?”

  “At the Hotel Pirandello.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Panzacchi’s room at the hotel was as big as a ballroom. Aside from a king-size bed and an armoire, it had two armchairs, a large table with television and VCR on top, and a minibar.

  “There hasn’t been time yet for my family to move down here.”

  At least they’ll be spared the trouble of moving twice, the inspector thought.

  “Excuse me, I have to take a piss.”

  “Look, there’s nobody in the bathroom.”

  “Well, I really do need to piss.”

  There was no trusting a snake like Panzacchi. When Montalbano returned from the bathroom, Panzacchi invited him to sit down in one of the armchairs. The captain of the Flying Squad was a stocky but elegant man with very pale blue eyes and a Tatar-style mustache.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Should we get right to the point?” Panzacchi asked.

  “As you like.”

  “Well, a patrolman came to see me this evening, a certain Culicchia, I don’t know if you know him.”

  “Personally, no, by name, yes.”

  “He was literally terrified. Apparently two men from your station threatened him.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “That’s what I believe I understood.”

  “You understood wrong.”

  “Then you tell me.”

  “Listen, it’s late and I’m tired. I went into the Di Blasis’ house in Raffadali, looked around a little, and with very little effort found an ammunition box with a hand grenade and a pistol inside. I’ve got them in my safe now.”

  “Jesus Christ! You’ve got no authorization!” said Panzacchi, standing up.

  “You’re going down the wrong road,” Montalbano said calmly.

  “You’re concealing evidence!”

  “I said you’re on the wrong road. If we keep talking about authorization and protocol, I’m going to get up, walk out that door, and leave you behind in the shit. Because that’s where you are, deep in shit.”

  Panzacchi hesitated a moment, weighed the pros and cons, and sat back down. He’d given it a shot, and the first round had gone badly for him.

  “You should even thank me,” the inspector went on.

  “For what?”

  “For having taken the ammunition box out of the house. It was supposed to prove where Maurizio Di Blasi found his hand grenade, right? Except that forensics wouldn’t have found Di Blasi’s fingerprints in there even if their lives depended on it. And how would you have explained that? By saying Maurizio had worn gloves? Can you imagine the laughter!”

  Panzacchi said nothing, his pale eyes looking straight into the inspector’s.

  “Shall I go on? Your first sin . . . actually, no, I don’t give a fuck about your sins, the first mistake you made was to hunt down Maurizio before being absolutely certain of his guilt. But you wanted to carry out a ‘brilliant’ operation at all costs. Then what happened happened, and you breathed a real sigh of relief. Pretending you were saving one of your men who mistook a shoe for a weapon, you concocted the story of the hand grenade, and to make it more credible, you went and planted the ammo box in the Di Blasi house.”

  “That’s all talk. If you go and say those things to the commissioner, rest assured he won’t believe a word of it. You’re spreading these rumors just to tarnish my reputation, to avenge yourself for the fact that the investigation was taken away from you and turned over to me.”

  “And what are you going to do about Culicchia?”

  “He’s coming with me to the Flying Squad offices tomorrow morning. I’ll pay the price he’s asking.”

  “And what if I take the weapons to Judge Tommaseo?”

  “Culicchia’ll say it was you who asked him for the key to the depository the other day. He’s ready to swear by it. Try to understand: he has to defend himself. And I suggested to him how to do this.”

  “So I’ve lost?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Does that VCR work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you play this tape?”

  He took it out of his pocket and handed it to him. Panzacchi didn’t ask any questions, but simply inserted the cassette. The images appeared, the captain of the Flying Squad watched them all the way through, then rewound the tape, extracted the cassette, and handed it to Montalbano. He sat down and lit a half-consumed Tuscan cigar.

  “That’s just the last part. I’ve got the whole tape in the same safe as the weapons,” Montalbano lied.

  “How did you do it?”

  “I didn’t make the tape myself. There were two men in the area who saw what was going on and filmed it. Friends of Guttadauro, the lawyer, whom you know well.”

  “This is a nasty development, totally unexpected.”

  “It’s a lot nastier than you can possibly imagine. It so happens you’re being squeezed between me and them.”

  “Allow me to say that their reasons I can understand perfectly well; it’s yours that don’t seem so clear to me, unless you’re motivated by feelings of revenge.”

  “Now you try to understand my position. I cannot, under any circumstances, allow the captain of the Montelusa Flying Squad to become a hostage of the Mafia. I can’t let you be subject to blackmail.”

  “Look, Montalbano, all I wanted to do was protect the good name of my men. Can you imagine what would have happened if the press had discovered we killed a man who was defending himself with a shoe?”

  “Is that why you implicated Maurizio’s father, who had nothing to do with the case?”

  “With the case, no, but with my plan, yes. As for possible attempts at blackmail, I know how to defend myself.”

  “I’m sure you do. You can hold out, which isn’t a very nice way to live, but what about Culicchia and the other six who’ll be put under pressure every single day? How long will they hold out? All you need is for one to crack, and the whole story comes out. I’ll give you a very likely scenario: As soon as they get sick of your refusals, the mob is liable to give a public viewing of their tape or send it to a private TV station that’ll jump at the scoop even if it means risking prison. And if that happens, the commissioner gets fried too.”

  “What should I do?”

  Montalbano looked at him in admiration for a moment. Panzacchi was a ruthless, unscrupulous player, but he knew how to lose.

  “You should disarm them, neutralize the weapon they’ve got in their hands.” He couldn’t resist ad
ding a malicious comment he immediately regretted. “This is not a shoe,” he said. “Talk about it, tonight, with the commissioner. Find a solution together. But I warn you: if you haven’t made a move by noon tomorrow, I’ll make my own move, in my own way.”

  He got up, opened the door, and went out.

  “I’ll make my own move, in my own way.” It had a nice ring to it. Just threatening enough. But what did it really mean? If, say, the captain of the Flying Squad were to get the commissioner on his side, and the latter in turn got Judge Tommaseo to join them, he, Montalbano, was as good as fucked. But was it possible that everyone in Montelusa had suddenly become dishonest? The antipathy a particular person might arouse is one thing; his character and integrity were another matter.

  He returned to Marinella full of doubts and questions. Had he been right to talk that way to Panzacchi? Would the commissioner accept that he wasn’t motivated by a desire for revenge? He dialed Livia’s number. As usual, no answer. He went to bed, but it took him two hours to fall asleep.

  14

  When he walked into the office, his nerves were so obviously frayed that his men judged it best to give him wide berth. Of all things the bed is the best. / If you can’t sleep you still can rest. So went the proverb, but it was wrong, for not only had the inspector slept only fitfully in his bed, he also woke up feeling like he’d run a marathon.

  Only Fazio, who was closest to him, ventured to ask a question:

  “Any news?”

  “I’ll be able to tell you after noon.”

  Galluzzo came in.

  “Inspector, yesterday evening I looked for you over land and sea.”

  “Did you try the sky?”

  Galluzzo realized this was no time for preambles.

  “Inspector, after the eight o’clock news report, somebody phoned. He said that Wednesday evening, around eight, eight-fifteen at the latest, Mrs. Licalzi stopped at his gas station and filled up her tank. He left his name and address.”