The Overnight Kidnapper Page 15

  Bonfiglio tried to smile, but managed only a grimace.

  “I read somewhere that when we fall in love, our brains go to the dogs. Silvana in fact forgot to take into account that I knew what hotel she would be staying at in Tenerife. And so I called them and they told me that she’d left on the last day of July.”

  “Was it a nasty blow?”

  “I confess that I took it very hard. A double betrayal is hard to take, and hard to forgive.”

  “And you neither forgot nor forgave, it would seem.”

  Bonfiglio looked at him with a bewildered expression.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “That you lied to us several times.”

  “I did?!”

  “If you keep denying it, it’ll be worse for you. I’m telling you for your own good. You told us you hadn’t seen Di Carlo when he got back from Lanzarote. Do you confirm that?”

  “But . . .”

  “Do you confirm it or not?”

  Bonfiglio didn’t answer right away. He was thinking very hard. Then he sighed deeply and said:

  “I saw him the day he got back. He was with Silvana. I waited for them at the Palermo airport.”

  “We know all about that. You called Di Carlo and told him you’d found out about everything. What happened in Palermo?”

  “I was furious, I admit it. They’d taken me for a ride. She’d kept on calling me on the phone and sending me loving little messages while she was living it up with my best friend, who, moreover, had only been able to join her in the Canaries because I’d lent him the money. I’d been hoodwinked like an idiot. I can only imagine how they laughed behind my back!”

  “Tell me something: Did you also give Silvana the money for her vacation?”

  “No, she’d saved up for it herself, or so she said, at least. But now that I know what actually happened, I’m almost certain she got the money by other means, though it’s anybody’s guess how.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was blind with rage. I insulted Marcello, who knew perfectly well that as far as Silvana was concerned, I . . .”

  He trailed off, as though embarrassed.

  “Were you in love with her?”

  “I don’t know . . . It’s possible. The point is that I had confided in Marcello about it, I’d told him how Silvana was becoming more and more indispensable to me with each passing day . . .”

  “Did you threaten him?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Did you ask him to return the money he owed you?”

  “It was the last thing on my mind.”

  “What was Silvana doing as you two were arguing?”

  “Standing to the side, crying.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then, feeling afraid I might not be able to control myself any longer, I got in my car and drove away.”

  “Why did you fail to mention this meeting to us?”

  “Because you called me in after Marcello’s store had been set on fire and he’d gone missing. I was afraid that if you found out I had strong feelings of resentment towards Marcello, that I hated him, you might think that I . . .”

  “I understand. And in fact, Signor Bonfiglio, it’s my duty to inform you that you are in a rather difficult position.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean just what I said. It’s up to you to decide: Shall we continue, or would you like your lawyer to be present?”

  Bonfiglio thought this over for a moment.

  “If you’re not recording this, then it means it’s not an interrogation, and so I don’t need my lawyer.”

  “Thank you. Can you tell me how long you stayed in Palermo at your sister’s place?”

  “Until the day after I met Marcello at the airport, when my brother-in-law finally returned to Italy. He’d been abroad on a job, which was why I needed to be there.”

  “And where did you go next?”

  “I came back to Vigàta.”

  “But the last time, you told us—”

  “I was lying the last time.”

  “So how do we know you’re not lying now?”

  “Because you told me I’m in a difficult position. It’s better if I tell you the truth.”

  “What did you do once you got back here?”

  “For two days I holed up at home without seeing anyone. I needed to calm down in order to think clearly, so I could figure out a way to get even.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then, on the night of the second day, I got in my car and pulled up outside Silvana’s place. Marcello’s Porsche was parked just inside the gate. So I had an idea. I went to a self-service gas station, filled up two jerry cans with gasoline, and went back home. The next night, sometime after two in the morning, I went back to Silvana’s. My plan was to break a window of the Porsche, pour the gas into it, and set it on fire. But the car was no longer there . . .”

  He stopped.

  “And so?” asked the inspector.

  “I want to be totally sincere, even though I know what I’m about to say now will . . . In short, torching his car in the end seemed like a pointless gesture to me. I wanted to see them together . . . I had the keys to Silvana’s house. I took the jerry can, opened the front door, went into the entrance hall without making any noise—I didn’t even need to turn on the light because I knew the place by heart—went down the hallway, came to the bedroom but didn’t go in, stood there for a while, then realized there wasn’t anybody there.”

  “So you didn’t go into the bedroom?”

  “I repeat: I did not go in.”

  “So how did you know there wasn’t anyone there if, as you say, it was completely dark?”

  “Well, it was almost three o’clock in the morning, there were no cars on the road, and it was absolutely silent . . . Normally when people are asleep you can hear them breathing, can’t you? And then . . . there was something which . . . I don’t know how to put it . . . something I noticed . . . I don’t know . . . a strange, sickly sweet smell . . . very disturbing. So I left.”

  He stopped. He got up and took a step, then turned back and collapsed in the chair. He buried his face in his hands, then raised his head and looked the inspector in the eye.

  “Hard for you to believe that, isn’t it?” he said.

  Montalbano replied with another question.

  “When you approached the bedroom with the can of gasoline in your hand, was your intention to burn them alive?”

  “No,” Bonfiglio replied at once, with assurance.

  “Explain.”

  “It’s one thing to torch a car, no matter how expensive, and it’s another to set two human beings on fire.”

  “So what was your intention?”

  “To sprinkle the bed with gasoline and then let them see me with a lighted match in my hand. I wanted them to beg me to spare them, I wanted them to grovel at my feet, to humiliate themselves . . .”

  “And that would have been enough to satisfy you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Let’s move on to another subject. Do you own a gun?”

  “Yes. A Beretta 7.65.”

  “Have you got a permit for that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you got it on you?”

  “No. I carry it only when I’m going around with my jewelry sampler.”

  “We were told that Di Carlo was very jealously possessive of his car and that you were the only person he lent it to sometimes. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “But don’t you have a car of your own?”

  “I do, but Marcello’s car always made a better impression on the girls.”

  “Do you have only one checking account, or do you have several?”

  “I have three. M
y personal account is with the Credito Marittimo. The other two, where I deposit the earnings from the sale of jewels, are with the Banco Siculo and the Banca di Credito.”

  “Strange.”

  “Why?”

  “The three girls who were kidnapped worked at those banks.”

  “You find that strange? If you run a check, you’ll find that there are hundreds of customers at—”

  “Do you know Luigia Jacono?”

  “Of course. Not as a bank clerk, but as Marcello’s ex-girlfriend.”

  “And do you know Manuela Smerca and Michela Racco personally?”

  “Yes, they work at the Banca di Credito and the Banco Siculo. I sometimes joke around with them. So what?”

  “Two of these girls won’t rule out that you might be the one who kidnapped them. As you can see, I’m laying my cards down on the table, too.”

  Bonfiglio started laughing.

  “And what reason would I have for kidnapping young women?”

  Montalbano chose not to answer.

  “I would appreciate a clarification. During that time you were holed up at home, did you never go out?”

  “No, not once.”

  “So did you fast?”

  “I didn’t have much appetite, but, no, I didn’t fast.”

  “Did you order food from outside?”

  “No, I had canned food, bread sticks, crackers, that kind of thing.”

  “Did you have any visitors?”

  “I didn’t want to see anyone.”

  “And your neighbors didn’t . . .”

  “I don’t think they realized I was there.”

  “But you must have turned on the lights in the evening!”

  “No, I preferred being in the dark.”

  “Did you get any phone calls?”

  “Let me try and remember . . . Yes. Just one, from my accountant, the same morning I got back to Vigàta.”

  “We’re in a bad way, sir. You have no alibi.”

  “I realize that.”

  “And do you also realize you’ve lost Silvana along the way?”

  Bonfiglio looked at him in confusion.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When I told you that Di Carlo had probably been murdered at the girl’s house, you asked: ‘What about Silvana?’ After which, you haven’t brought her up again. Why not?”

  “It was you, with all your questions, who—”

  “What’s Silvana’s last name?”

  “Romano.”

  “How old?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “At my accountant’s office.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In Via Fratelli Rosselli, 2.”

  “Shall we go there now?”

  14

  The suggestion, perhaps because it was made so suddenly and unexpectedly, caught everyone off guard, and they sat there for a moment in stunned silence. Montalbano clearly saw a negative expression forming on Bonfiglio’s face.

  The first to react was Fazio, who said:

  “We can all fit in one car. Shall we take mine or Gallo’s?”

  “Let’s take yours.”

  Now apparently resigned to having to go out, Bonfiglio, before exiting the station, put his cap back on and wrapped his scarf around his neck. Fazio got into the driver’s seat with Augello beside him, while Montalbano and Bonfiglio settled into the backseat.

  Bonfiglio explained that Via Fratelli Rosselli was at the far end of Marinella. The first part of the street ran parallel to the beach, then turned left into the countryside, climbing up a small hill featuring Villa Ricciotto, among other things.

  This villa, which the owners inhabited only in the summer, had a small custodian’s cottage beside its grand entrance gate. The cottage, consisting of only a ground floor, had three rooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen.

  Silvana had been renting it for five years, ever since the custodian had moved directly into the villa itself.

  “But doesn’t Silvana own a car?” asked Montalbano.

  “No.”

  “So how does she go to work?”

  “The circle line passes by here. She’s also got a motor scooter.”

  “Where does she keep it?”

  “In the evenings she puts it inside the gate, for which she has the key. There’s not much traffic on this road. And at night nobody ever drives by. It would be very easy to steal it.”

  “The night you went into her house, was the scooter there?”

  “Yes, it was there.”

  They pulled up and got out of the car. The cottage looked like a toy house, just a little bigger. The small door had an even smaller window beside it, with its shutter closed, the whole behind an iron grate painted green.

  “Have you got the keys?”

  “Yes,” said Bonfiglio, “including the one to the gate.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Silvana forgot to ask for them back and I forgot to give them back.”

  From his pocket he extracted a large set of keys, singled out a very small key, turned it four times in the lock, then did the same with a Yale key, and finally the door opened.

  “Just a second,” said Fazio.

  And he distributed rubber gloves to everyone.

  “You go first,” Montalbano said to him.

  “Should I turn on the light or open the shutters?”

  “Turn on all the lights.”

  “You can come in,” Fazio said less than five minutes later.

  In the entrance hall was a coatrack, a mirror, a small settee, and a corner cupboard with a vase of fake flowers in it.

  Opposite the door was a corridor leading into the house. Montalbano immediately noticed some dark stains on the floor.

  “Be careful not to step on those. I think they’re bloodstains.”

  “I don’t feel well,” said Bonfiglio, stopping.

  “Deal with it,” Augello said to him, pushing him on.

  The first room on the right was a dining room, and the room on the left was a small sitting room with a sofa bed.

  All in perfect order.

  Then, also on the left, there was a perfectly clean kitchen and, past that, a bathroom.

  The last room on the right was the bedroom, and here things changed radically.

  “I’m not going in,” Bonfiglio said in a high-pitched voice as soon as he caught a glimpse of the room.

  And he remained standing in the hallway, staring at the wall, his face turning as red as a tomato.

  The room had an armoire with a mirror on the door, parallel to the double bed. Then there was a small vanity table with another mirror and creams, perfumes, and other assorted jars on it.

  On either side of the bed was a chair, near the foot, both upended and on the floor. One had men’s clothes on it, the other some women’s garments and underwear.

  On the floor was also the lamp that should normally have been on the bedside table nearest the armoire.

  The bed . . .

  The couple had apparently been sleeping in the nude, without any sheet on top, so hot had it been those nights.

  On one half of the bed was a large bloodstain, right under the pillow. Montalbano went and looked at it from up close.

  And he saw the hole made by the bullet that had killed Di Carlo and was probably now inside the mattress. It was the position Di Carlo was sleeping in that had made the bullet travel in the fashion it had; he had not been made to kneel on the ground.

  On the other half of the bed, where Silvana had been sleeping, he could see a great many tiny droplets of blood, as if it had been sprayed. But there was a great deal of blood, on the other hand, in the space between the bedside table and the armoire. It had not
only left a big spot on the floor but had also spattered on the wall and the mirror.

  But how had she been killed? Surely not by gunshot, since there were no signs of this anywhere, nor by stabbing, otherwise there would have been much more blood everywhere.

  Montalbano returned to the side where Di Carlo had slept.

  “You got a flashlight?” he asked Fazio.

  Fazio handed it to him. After making sure there were no stains on the floor in that spot, Montalbano knelt down to look under the bed.

  The first thing he noticed was a bullet shell. Clearly from the shot fired at Di Carlo.

  Then he saw a white rectangle that looked like an envelope. He crawled farther into the space. It was indeed an envelope, and he could read the address on it:

  Mr. Giorgio Bonfiglio, Esq.

  Via Ragusa, 6

  Vigàta (Montelusa)

  He didn’t touch it, but only crawled back out from under the bed.

  Fazio and Augello looked at him questioningly, but he didn’t want to say anything as long as Bonfiglio could hear.

  “There’s nothing more to see here. Come with me.”

  They all went out into the hallway. Bonfiglio was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. It was clear that he was running a high fever and having trouble standing up.

  “Would you like to go home for the rest of the day?” Montalbano asked him.

  “If I could . . .”

  “Just answer me a few more questions and I’ll let you go. As far as you know, did Silvana have a cleaning woman?”

  “Silvana preferred to do her own housekeeping. Every Saturday morning, however, a woman would come and do a thorough cleaning.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Grazia. I don’t know her last name.”

  “Does she have the keys to the house?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Thank you for your help. Fazio, please take the gentleman back to the station to pick up his car, then come back here. On the way there, alert everyone as to the situation here. Mimì, you go along with them, and stay at the station. I’ll ring you there if I need you.”

  He led the way to the entrance and, once they’d gone out, closed the door behind them.

  He needed to be alone to try to understand what that chamber of death had to say to him.