The Overnight Kidnapper Read online

  * * *

  He went and grabbed a chair from the sitting room, brought it into the bedroom, sat down, and contemplated the scene before him for many long minutes. It was as if he was looking at a stage set, though one still lacking actors.

  And so he started trying to imagine how the double murder might have unfolded.

  Marcello and Silvana have dinner at home . . . Sure about that?

  No, he wasn’t sure.

  He got up and went into the kitchen. Above the sink, two dishes and two glasses had been set out to dry . . . But that didn’t mean anything. They could have been washed ages ago . . . He opened the lower cupboards and found the waste can. Raising the lid, he was assailed by a stench of rot. It contained some leftover spaghetti and roast chicken, and some pear and apple peels . . .

  Yes, they had eaten at home.

  He went and sat back down. Afterwards, they must have watched a little TV and then gone to bed. They’d taken their clothes off, made love, and fallen asleep.

  At some late hour of the night, the killer enters the house without making the slightest noise. In his hand he’s probably got a travel bag of some sort . . . Wait a second.

  How did he get in?

  The inspector had noticed from the start that the small front door bore no signs of forcing around the locks. And Bonfiglio had, moreover, opened the door with no trouble at all. Therefore the killer had used original keys, or well-made duplicates.

  But how many sets of keys to that house were there in circulation?

  He got up and went into the entrance hall, where he’d seen Silvana’s purse on the settee. He grabbed it and opened it. Inside, among various other things, he found a small key and a Yale key together on a metal ring with a third key that must have been for the gate. He went and tried them in the door. They worked. He put them back in the purse, returned to the bedroom, and sat down again.

  But he immediately got up again, went up to one of the fallen chairs, bent down to pick up Di Carlo’s trousers, searched the pockets, and found the little key and the Yale and the third key to the gate, but no other sets of keys.

  And yet Di Carlo should have had the keys to his house, store, and car on him that night. If they weren’t there, then the killer must have taken them.

  But why had the killer left behind the keys to Silvana’s house?

  Easy: Because he already had a set. He didn’t need any extras.

  Bonfiglio, for example, wouldn’t have needed any.

  Montalbano sat back down. Imagining the killer standing in the entranceway, he didn’t want to give him Bonfiglio’s face yet. It was still too early for that. It would be a mistake at this time, one that might lead him astray.

  But one thing he was sure of: that despite the intense heat of those days, and those nights, the killer was wearing a jacket.

  Because the jacket was necessary to hide the pistol he was carrying, and the flashlight he needed in order to see.

  The flashlight was an absolute necessity. Even if the killer knew the apartment well, he didn’t know what side Marcello would be sleeping on, and what side Silvana.

  Having set down his bag in the entranceway, the killer begins to advance slowly, on tiptoe, down the hall . . . He has all the time in the world . . . Still in darkness . . .

  He reaches the spot where Montalbano’s chair is, and stops there.

  He now has the flashlight in hand. He turns it on, flashes the beam around the room, commits to memory the position of the chairs and the two people sleeping, then turns it off.

  He moves in slow motion along the foot of the bed, reaches out, touches the chair with Di Carlo’s clothes on it, pushes it aside, then goes up to the head of the bed and touches the nightstand. He stops.

  He hears the regular breathing of the sleeping couple.

  Normally when people are asleep you can hear them breathing, can’t you?

  Isn’t that what Bonfiglio said?

  The killer now passes the flashlight into his left hand, and with his right he extracts the pistol, which is ready to fire. He’d made sure to load it before leaving home, to avoid anyone hearing the clack of the metal when cocking it.

  He turns on the flashlight and brings the barrel up to the head of the sleeping Marcello, who’s lying on his stomach. He squeezes the trigger and turns off the flashlight.

  The blast wakes up Silvana, who opens her eyes to total darkness and doesn’t understand what is happening. Frightened, she asks:

  “Marcello, what was that?”

  The killer doesn’t give her time to turn on the light on the nightstand, but leaps into the air, over Marcello’s body, having meanwhile tossed the gun onto the bed, and, right arm extended, fist clenched, strikes the woman square in the face, smashing her nose. The blood sprays out. Silvana bolts out of bed, but with two punches the killer sends her flying against the wall between the nightstand and the armoire.

  A violent kick in the stomach sends her sliding across the floor, whereupon the killer grabs her by the hair, pulls her up onto her feet, holding her with one hand and punching her repeatedly with the other, taking pleasure each time his fist strikes her and sinks into her flesh.

  And the savage pummeling goes on and on until the killer collapses, exhausted, onto the young woman’s now lifeless body and lies there for a spell, panting, as just after having made love.

  Stop right there.

  Review what you have just imagined.

  The killer shoots, turns off the flashlight, leaps over Marcello’s lifeless body . . .

  But why does he do that?

  He could easily keep the flashlight on, point the gun at the girl, and shoot her dead . . . Or, rather, he could keep the gun trained on her, walk around the bed, and then start to . . .

  But why does he want to murder her with his own hands?

  And why is he so keen not to waste even a second to take possession of her—indeed, to seize possession of Silvana’s flesh with his hands?

  Maybe because he’s hungry for that flesh, or because he can no longer bear the thought of not destroying that flesh . . .

  So if this reconstruction is correct, then the killer’s aim was not to kill Marcello—who was just an obstacle to be eliminated, indeed to be leapt over, in order to get at his real target: Silvana.

  Let us continue.

  The killer gets up, turns on the light, still wearing his rubber gloves, and looks at himself in the armoire mirror. His jacket, shirt, trousers, and shoes have Silvana’s blood spattered all over them.

  He recovers the pistol and flashlight and puts them in a shopping bag he’s brought along. He takes off his gloves and stuffs them into his pocket.

  He then goes into the entrance hall, opens his travel bag, and takes out all its contents: a pair of trousers, a shirt, a pair of tennis shoes, and a pair of new gloves. He puts the shopping bag in the little suitcase along with his jacket, which he has removed in the meantime.

  He puts on the new gloves, turns the light in the entrance hall off, and opens the front door. The car is as he left it, backed up against the front door, with its trunk unlocked. He opens the trunk, runs into the bedroom, picks up Silvana’s corpse, and puts it into the trunk, which he has lined with cellophane to prevent as much blood as possible from staining it. He does the same with Marcello’s body.

  He locks the trunk; goes back into the house; locks the front door; returns to the bedroom and gets the keys to Marcello’s store, home, and car; goes into the bathroom; and looks at himself in the mirror. He takes the towel just inside the door, wraps it around his hand, turns on the tap in the sink, but does not wash his face; he only wipes away the spots of blood one by one with a corner of the moistened towel.

  He then goes back into the entrance hall, takes off his shoes, shirt, and trousers, and stuffs them all into the travel bag. He puts on the clean set of clothin
g.

  Then he starts roaming about the house, opening the drawers of the armoire, the small desk in the living room, and the two nightstands . . . He grabs all the photos with Silvana in them, whether alone or with others, as well as every letter, postcard, or document he can find . . . It all ends up in the small suitcase.

  Not only must Silvana’s body disappear, but every trace of her existence, the very memory of her, must disappear. It has to be as if she’d never walked the face of this earth.

  He closes the suitcase, reopens the front door, turns off all the lights, grabs the suitcase, goes out, locks the front door with both keys, opens the car, puts the little suitcase in the backseat, sits down at the wheel, and drives off.

  It is still the middle of the night. He has plenty of time to come back and get Di Carlo’s car.

  * * *

  Montalbano stood up, grabbed the chair, and took it into the living room. He resumed thinking.

  By the sight of it, Di Carlo’s corpse must not have been wrapped in the room where he was killed, but in some safe place at the killer’s complete disposal. Now, assuming that . . .

  The ringing of the doorbell gave him a start and pulled him out of his meditations. He went to open the door. It was Fazio.

  “Did you summon the circus?”

  “Yessir. But, since there aren’t any corpses here, I didn’t call Pasquano. Prosecutor Tommaseo is on holiday; Dr. Platania will be coming in his place.”

  They went and sat down in the living room. Fazio looked at the inspector and smiled.

  “What is it?”

  “Mind if I ask a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What was under the bed?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I could tell from your face.”

  “There was a bullet shell.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. There’s also an envelope and probably a letter inside.”

  “Were you able to read the address?”

  “Yes. It’s addressed to Giorgio Bonfiglio.”

  “Holy shit! Did you read it when you were alone here?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s ninety-nine percent certain that that letter is useless.”

  “What are you saying!”

  “Think for a second. Bonfiglio had the keys to this place. He could come and go as he pleased.”

  “True.”

  Fazio paused and then went back on the attack.

  “And what would be the one percent chance that letter would be useful to us?”

  “The date of the postmark. If the letter was written at the very end of August, it would mean that Bonfiglio probably received it on one of the first days of September. And it would constitute proof that he was here when Marcello and Silvana came back from Lanzarote.”

  “But he’s already told us himself that he came here one night with a can full of gasoline!”

  “Yes, but he’s always maintained that he didn’t go into the bedroom that night, but remained in the doorway. Therefore, if the postmark on the letter is the right one—but only in that case—Bonfiglio has to tell us whether he came here twice or, if he only came that night with the jerry can, how the letter was able to fly in a rightward curve from the doorway where he was standing and end up under the bed.”

  Fazio changed the subject.

  “You once said that you were almost certain that Silvana was stabbed to death. Whereas it would seem she was beaten to death with somebody’s bare hands. What made you think of a knife?”

  “It was a kind of free association of ideas. It’s possible the knife wounds the killer inflicted on Luigia Jacono made me think of that, as well as the fact that Di Carlo was murdered by gunshot. The difference in the treatment of the two victims indicates a difference of feeling towards them on the killer’s part: revenge for Di Carlo, pure hatred for Silvana. The killer wanted to enjoy the pleasure of killing the woman with his bare hands, to feel her die.”

  The doorbell rang. Fazio went to open the door and returned moments later.

  “They’re all here: Forensics and Dr. Platania. Should I go with them?”

  “Okay.”

  A few minutes later Platania came into the sitting room.

  He and Montalbano knew and liked each other.

  “Feel like filling me in on this horror story? I’m completely in the dark.”

  It took Montalbano about an hour to tell him everything. Then Fazio returned.

  “Forensics are done.”

  “Did they find the letter that was under the bed?” asked Platania.

  “Yes.”

  “Please bring it to me.”

  Fazio went out and returned with a plastic bag containing a letter. He handed it to the prosecutor, who opened it, took out the envelope, looked at the address, and read it.

  “It’s on the letterhead of Hermès Jewelers of Milan. They’re informing Bonfiglio that the exhibition of the new collection for representatives only will be held on the twenty-ninth and thirtieth of September. The letter is dated August the twenty-ninth.”

  He put the sheet of paper back into the envelope, slipped the envelope back into the plastic bag, zipped this closed, and handed it to Fazio.

  “Please return this to them.”

  That one percent chance that Montalbano had mentioned might well turn out to have sealed Bonfiglio’s fate.

  15

  When Forensics had finished taking photos and samples and performing their various rituals and finally left, Platania suggested to Montalbano and Fazio that they stay a little longer at Silvana’s house to discuss the best way to proceed with Bonfiglio.

  “The fact that we still haven’t found Silvana’s body rather limits the investigation’s sphere of action,” he said. “The only relatively concrete piece of evidence we have against him is the letter we found under the bed. It is dated the twenty-ninth, but, unlikely as it would sound, he could claim he got it on the morning of the thirty-first, came here immediately afterwards, for whatever reason, and then left for Palermo in time for the couple’s arrival from Lanzarote. This letter bears some weight, that is undeniable, but not so much weight as to tip the scales against him.”

  Platania had a point.

  “What do you suggest?” asked Montalbano.

  “For now, that we play strictly by the rules, to avoid any objections being raised further down the line. This afternoon I’ll personally send him a notice of investigation advising him to choose a lawyer who should get in touch with me at once.”

  “Then what?”

  “Immediately afterwards, I’ll ask to interrogate Bonfiglio, and in the meantime I’ll send you a search warrant for Bonfiglio’s apartment and another to sequester his car.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why’? Given the tremendous mess he’s made, I’m hoping we’ll find some article of clothing with bloodstains on it. Meanwhile Forensics can check the trunk to see—”

  “I’m sorry, but I think a search will prove useless. Bonfiglio has had all the time in the world to get rid of everything he was wearing when he committed the murders and to remove all trace of blood in the trunk.”

  “Well, I’m going to try just the same. Did you, Montalbano, say that Bonfiglio got inside using his own set of keys?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you make sure to confiscate those keys?”

  He’d completely forgotten.

  “I . . .”

  “Already taken care of,” said Fazio, pulling them out of his jacket pocket. “I had him turn them over to me when I gave him a ride home.”

  For once, Montalbano didn’t get miffed at hearing Fazio say “Already taken care of.”

  * * *

  “If we do as Platania says,” said Fazi
o as he was driving the inspector to Enzo’s, “we’ll drown in a sea of red tape and waste a lot of time.”

  “Yeah, but in the meantime we can get a leg up on the red tape,” Montalbano retorted.

  “How’s that?”

  “He certainly didn’t go about wrapping the corpse at Silvana’s house, nor at his own place in town. We have to try and find out if Bonfiglio has some sort of isolated warehouse space or garage at his disposal, or maybe a summer home . . . It’s very important we find out, and it’s something you can do even today, this afternoon.”

  The trattoria’s metal shutter was halfway down. It really was too late.

  “Anyone there?” the inspector asked, crouching under the shutter.

  “I’ll be right with you, Inspector,” Enzo called from inside, after recognizing Montalbano’s voice.

  He raised the shutter.

  “Sorry to bother you, Enzo, but is there still time to get a bite to eat?”

  “My wife and I are just now sitting down to eat, and we’d be honored to have you join us.”

  After lunch, he went straight to the station. It was past four o’clock.

  “Is Inspector Augello in?”

  “Yeah, ’e’s onna premisses, Chief.”

  “Send him to me.”

  He filled Mimì in on the letter and Platania’s decision. When he’d finished, Mimì grimaced.

  “You got a problem with something?”

  “This story about the letter doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of the way Bonfiglio is. You describe him as a lucid person, with a brain that works just fine, who weighs the pros and cons of every move he makes. And I, who’ve known him for a long time, agree with you.”

  “And so?”

  “And so, even assuming he lost the letter, how is it that, careful as he is, he didn’t notice that it was no longer in his possession? And if he did notice, then he would have to have realized he lost it at Silvana’s house. So my question is: Why didn’t he just go back and get it? He had all the time he needed to do so.”