Voice of the Violin Page 14

“Okay. We’ll drive over there later.”

  He was tense, unable to set his eyes on a sheet of paper, and he kept looking at his watch. What if by noon nobody called from Montelusa?

  At eleven-thirty the telephone rang.

  “Chief,” said Grasso, “it’s Zito the newsman.”

  “Lemme talk to him.”

  At first he didn’t know what was happening.

  “Bat-ta-tum, bat-ta-tum, bat-ta-tum, tum-tùm-tumtùm,” said Zito.

  “Nicolò?”

  “‘Fratelli d’Italia, l’Italia s’è desta—’ ”

  Zito had started singing the Italian national anthem in a booming voice.

  “Come on, Nicolò, I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

  “Who’s joking? I’m about to read you a press release that was sent to me just a few minutes ago. Plant your ass firmly in your chair. For your information, this was sent to us, to TeleVigàta, and to five different newspaper correspondents. I quote:

  Montelusa Police Commissioner’s Office. For strictly personal reasons, Ernesto Panzacchi has asked to be relieved of his responsibilities as captain of the Flying Squad and to be placed on reserve. His request has been granted. Mr. Anselmo Irrera will temporarily assume the position vacated by Captain Panzacchi. As some new and unexpected developments have emerged in the Licalzi murder case, Inspector Salvo Montalbano of Vigàta police will assume charge of the investigation for its duration. Signed: Bonetti-Alderighi, Montelusa Police Commissioner.

  “We won, Salvo!”

  Montalbano thanked his friend and hung up. He did not feel happy. The tension had dissipated, of course; he’d got the answer he wanted. Still, he felt a kind of malaise, a profound uneasiness. He cursed Panzacchi sincerely, not for what he’d done, but for having forced him to act in a way that now troubled him.

  The door flew open, the whole staff rushed in. “Inspector!” said Galluzzo. “My brother-in-law called just now from TeleVigàta, they just got a press release—”

  “I know, I’ve already been told.”

  “We’re gonna go out and buy a bottle of spumante and . . .”

  Giallombardo, withering under Montalbano’s gaze, didn’t finish the sentence. They all filed out slowly, muttering under their breath. He had one foul disposition, that inspector . . .

  Judge Tommaseo didn’t have the courage to show his face to Montalbano and pretended to be going over some important papers, bent over his desk. The inspector imagined that at that moment the judge wished he looked like the Abominable Snowman, with a beard covering his entire face, though Tommaseo’s bulk fell short of the yeti’s.

  “You must understand, Inspector. As far as withdrawing the weapons-possession charge, there’s no problem, I’ve already called Mr. Di Blasi’s lawyer. But it’s not quite so easy for me to lift the complicity charges. Until proved to the contrary, Maurizio Di Blasi is self-convicted of the murder of Michela Licalzi. My prerogatives in no way permit me to—”

  “Good day,” said Montalbano, getting up and walking out.

  Judge Tommaseo came running after him in the corridor.

  “Inspector, wait! I want to clarify—”

  “There is nothing at all to clarify, Your Honor. Have you spoken with the commissioner?”

  “Yes, at great length. We met at eight o’clock this morning.”

  “Then you must surely be aware of certain details of no importance to you. Such as the fact that the investigation of the Licalzi murder was conducted like a toilet-cleaning operation, that young Di Blasi was ninety-nine percent innocent, that he was slaughtered like a pig by mistake, and that Panzacchi covered it all up. You can’t dismiss the weapons charges against the engineer and at the same time not start proceedings against Panzacchi, who actually planted the weapons in his house.”

  “I’m still examining Captain Panzacchi’s situation.”

  “Good. Examine it well. But choose the right scales, among the many you keep in your office.”

  Tommaseo was about to react, but reconsidered and said nothing.

  “Tell me something, for the sake of curiosity,” said Montalbano. “Why hasn’t Mrs. Licalzi’s body been turned over to her husband yet?”

  The judge’s embarrassment became more pronounced. He clenched his right hand in a fist and stuck his right index finger in it.

  “Uh, that was . . . yes, that was Captain Panzacchi’s idea. He pointed out to me that public opinion . . . In short, first the body was found, then Di Blasi died, then the funeral of Mrs. Licalzi, then young Maurizio’s funeral . . . Don’t you see?”

  “No.”

  “It was better to spread them out, over time . . . To relieve some of the pressure on people, all the crowding . . .”

  He was still talking, but the inspector was already at the end of the corridor.

  When he came out of the courthouse it was already two o’clock. But instead of returning to Vigàta, he took the Enna-Palermo road. Galluzzo had carefully explained to him how to find the filling station and bar-restaurant where Michela Licalzi had been seen. The station, located just three kilometers outside of Montelusa, was closed. The inspector cursed the saints, drove another two kilometers, then saw, on his left, a sign that said: TRUCKERS’ BAR-TRATTORIA. As oncoming traffic was heavy, the inspector waited patiently for someone to decide to let him turn, but, seeing there was no hope in heaven, he cut right in front of everyone, amidst a pandemonium of screeching tires, horn blasts, curses, and insults, and pulled into the bar’s parking lot.

  It was very crowded inside. He walked up to the cashier.

  “I’d like to speak with a Mr. Gerlando Agrò.”

  “That’s me. And who are you?”

  “Inspector Salvo Montalbano. You phoned TeleVigàta to say—”

  “Well, goddamn it all! Did you have to come right now? Can’t you see how busy I am?”

  Montalbano got an idea that struck him as brilliant.

  “How’s the food here?”

  “See those people sittin’ down? They’s all truckers. Ever seen a trucker go wrong?”

  At the end of the meal (the idea hadn’t been brilliant, but only good, the food remaining within ironclad limits of normality, with no flights of fancy), after the coffee and anisette, the cashier, who’d got a boy to take his place, approached Montalbano’s table.

  “Now we can talk,” he said. “Okay if I sit down?”

  “Of course.”

  Gerlando Agrò immediately had second thoughts.

  “Maybe it’s better if you come with me.”

  They went out of the building.

  “Okay. Wednesday, around eleven-thirty at night, I was here outside, smoking a cigarette, and I saw this Twingo pull in off the Enna-Palermo road.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’d bet my life on it. The car stopped right in front of me, and a lady, who was driving, got out.”

  “Would also bet your life it was the same woman you saw on TV?”

  “Inspector, with a woman like that, poor thing, it’s hard to make a mistake.”

  “Go on.”

  “The man, on the other hand, stayed in the car.”

  “How did you know it was a man?”

  “See, there was a truck with its headlights on. I was surprised, ’cause usually it’s the man that gets out and the woman who stays in the car. Anyway, the lady ordered two salami sandwiches and bought a bottle of mineral water. My son Tanino was at the cash register, the same kid who’s there now. The lady paid and went down these three steps here. But on the last step, she tripped and fell, and the sandwiches flew out of her hands. I went down the steps to help her up and I found myself face-to-face with the man, who’d gotten out of the car. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ the lady said. The guy got back in the car, she ordered two more sandwiches, paid, and they drove off in the direction of Montelusa.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Agrò. And I assume you can also say that the man you saw on television was not the same man who was in th
e car with the lady.”

  “Definitely not. Two totally different people.”

  “Where did the lady keep her money? In a large bag?”

  “No sir, Inspector. She didn’t have any bag. She had a little purse in her hand.”

  After the tension of the morning and the hearty meal he’d just eaten, fatigue came over him. He decided to go home to Marinella and sleep for an hour. Just past the bridge, however, he couldn’t resist. He stopped, got out, and rang the intercom. Nobody answered. Anna had probably gone out to see Mrs. Di Blasi. Perhaps it was just as well.

  At home, he phoned headquarters.

  “I want Galluzzo here at five with the squad car,” he said.

  He dialed Livia’s number, and it rang and rang to no avail. He dialed the number of her friend in Genoa.

  “Montalbano here. Listen, I’m starting to get seriously worried. It’s been days since—”

  “Don’t worry. Livia just called me a little while ago to let me know she was okay.”

  “Where on earth is she?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is she called Personnel and asked for another day off.”

  He hung up and the phone rang.

  “Inspector Montalbano?”

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “Guttadauro. My compliments, Inspector.”

  Montalbano hung up, undressed, got into the shower, then came out and threw himself down, still naked, on the bed. He fell asleep immediately.

  “Riiing, riiing,” a faraway sound chimed in his head. He realized it was the doorbell. He got up with effort, and went and opened the door. Seeing him naked, Galluzzo leapt backwards.

  “What’s the matter, Gallù? Think I’m gonna drag you inside and make you do lewd things?”

  “I’ve been ringing for the last half hour, Inspector. I was about to break down the door.”

  “Do that and you’ll have to pay for a new one. I’ll be back in a second.”

  The filling-station attendant was a thirtyish young man with tight curls, dark, sparkling eyes, and a solid, slender body. Though he was wearing overalls, the inspector could easily imagine him as a lifeguard on the beach at Rimini, playing havoc with the German girls.

  “You say the lady was on her way from Montelusa, and it was eight o’clock.”

  “Sure as death. I was closing up at the end of my shift. She rolled down her window and asked me if I could fill it up for her. ‘For you, I’ll stay open all night if you want,’ I said. She got out of the car. Jesus, was she ever a beauty.”

  “Do you remember how she was dressed?”

  “All in jeans.”

  “Did she have any luggage?”

  “She had a kind of large handbag, on the backseat of the car.”

  “Go on.”

  “I finished filling up her tank, I told her how much she owed me, and she paid me with a one hundred thousand lire bill, which she took from her pocketbook. As I was giving her change—I like to kid around with the ladies, you see—I asked her: ‘Anything special I can do for you?’ I sort of expected her to answer with an insult, but she just smiled and said: ‘For the special things I’ve already got someone.’ And she continued on her way.”

  “She didn’t turn back towards Montelusa? Are you sure of that?”

  “Absolutely certain. The poor thing, when I think of how she ended up!”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Oh, one more thing, Inspector. She was in a hurry. After I filled up her tank, she drove off really fast. See down there? It’s all straightaway. I watched her car till she rounded the bend. She was really speeding.”

  “I’d planned to come home tomorrow,” said Gillo Jàcono, “but since I got back today, I thought I’d check in with you right away.”

  A distinguished man in his thirties, with a pleasant face.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “I wanted to tell you that with something like this, you think about it over and over.”

  “Do you want to change the statement you made over the phone?”

  “Absolutely not. Although, after playing the thing over and over in my head, I would like to add one detail. But just to be safe, you probably ought to preface what I’m about to say with a very big ‘maybe.’ ”

  “Go ahead and talk.”

  “Well, the man was carrying his suitcase without effort, in his left hand, and that’s why I had the impression it wasn’t very full. Whereas with his right arm he was supporting the woman.”

  “Did he have his arm around her?”

  “Not exactly. She was resting her hand on his arm. It seemed to me—seemed, I repeat—as if she was limping slightly.”

  “Dr. Pasquano? Montalbano here. Am I disturbing you?”

  “I was making a Y-shaped incision in a corpse. I don’t think he’ll mind if I stop for a few minutes.”

  “Did you notice any signs on Mrs. Licalzi’s body that might indicate that she fell sometime before her death?”

  “I don’t remember. Let me take a look at the report.”

  He returned before the inspector could light his cigarette.

  “Yes. She’d fallen on one knee. But she was clothed at the time. In the abrasion on her left knee we found microscopic fibers from the jeans she was wearing.”

  There was no need for further confirmation. At 8:00 P.M., Michela Licalzi fills her tank and heads inland. Three and a half hours later she’s on her way back with a man. Sometime after midnight she’s seen with a man again, certainly the same man, walking towards her house outside Vigàta.

  “Hi, Anna. Salvo here. I dropped by your place early this afternoon, but you weren’t there.”

  “Mr. Di Blasi called and said his wife was unwell.”

  “I hope soon to have good news for them.”

  Anna said nothing, and Montalbano realized he’d said something stupid. The only news the Di Blasis might consider good was the resurrection of Maurizio.

  “Anna, I wanted to tell you something I discovered about Michela.”

  “Why don’t you come over?”

  No, he shouldn’t. He realized that if Anna brought her lips to his another time, no good would come of it.

  “I can’t, Anna. I have an engagement.”

  Good thing he was on the phone, because if he’d been right in front of her, she would have immediately realized he was lying.

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “I have figured out, with a convincing degree of certainty, that at eight o’clock Wednesday evening, Michela took the Enna-Palermo road. She may have been going to a town in the Montelusa province. Now, think hard before answering: as far as you know, did she have any other acquaintances in the area, aside from the people she knew in Montelusa and Vigàta?”

  The answer didn’t come immediately. Anna was thinking about it, as the inspector had asked.

  “Look—friends, I doubt it. She’d have told me. Acquaintances, on the other hand, yes, a few.”

  “Where?”

  “For example, in Aragona, and Comitini, which are both along that road.”

  “What kind of acquaintances?”

  “She bought her floor tiles in Aragona. And she got some other supplies that I can’t remember now in Comitini.”

  “Therefore only business dealings.”

  “I’d say so. But, you see, Salvo, you can go just about anywhere from that road. There’s a turn that goes to Raffadali, for one; the captain of the Flying Squad could have spun something out of that, too.”

  “Another thing: Sometime after midnight, she was seen in her driveway, after getting out of her car. She was leaning on a man.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The pause this time was very long. So long that the inspector thought they’d been cut off.

  “Are you still there, Anna?”

  “Yes. Salvo, I want to repeat, clearly, once and for all, what I said before. Michela was not the kind of woman who went in for fly-by-night affairs.
She confided to me that she was physically incapable of it. Will you understand that? She loved her husband. And she was very, very attached to Serravalle. She could not have consented, I don’t care what the coroner thinks. She was horribly raped.”

  “How do you explain that she didn’t call to let the Vassallos know she wouldn’t be coming to dinner at their house? She had a cell phone, didn’t she?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “I’ll explain. When Michela left you at seven-thirty, saying she was going back to the hotel, she was telling you the absolute truth at that moment. But then something happened that made her change her mind. And it can only have been a call to her cellular, since when she was traveling up the Enna-Palermo road, she was still alone.”

  “You think she was on her way to an appointment?”

  “There’s no other explanation. It was unexpected, but she didn’t want to miss that appointment. That’s why she didn’t call the Vassallos. She had no plausible excuse that might justify her not coming, and so the best thing was to give them the slip. Let’s set aside, if you want, the possibility of an amorous rendezvous; maybe it was a work-related appointment that somehow turned tragic. I’ll grant you that for the moment. But in that case I ask you: what could have been of such importance as to make her behave so rudely towards the Vassallos?”

  “I don’t know,” Anna said dejectedly.

  15

  What could have been so important? the inspector asked himself again after saying good-bye to his friend. If not love or sex, which in Anna’s opinion were out of the question, that left only money. During the construction of the house, Michela must have handled some money, and a fair amount at that. Might the key lie hidden there? The conjecture, however, immediately seemed to him without substance, a thread in a spider’s web. But he was duty-bound to investigate all the same.

  “Anna? Salvo again.”

  “Did your engagement fall through? Can you come over?”