The Dance of the Seagull Page 16

  “If it’s nice outside, I go out on the balcony at four in the morning.”

  “Did you see anything this morning?”

  “This morning, just before five, a little van came up and stopped in front of the main door. A man got out and rang the buzzer. I’s leaning way out to get a good look at ’im. I wanted to see whose number he’d buzzed. A minute later the front door opened an’ Signura Matilde came out an’ started talking to him. As they was talkin’ Signor Di Mattia came out. He works in Ravanusa, so he’s gotta leave early. Then the man went inside and came back out with a big telescope that he put in his van. Signura Matilde also gave him a package. The guy took it, drove away, an’ the signura closed the door again.”

  “What floor does Signor Di Mattia live on?”

  “Fourth floor. I’m sure his wife’s there.”

  “Signora Di Mattia?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano, police.”

  “Please come in. My husband’s not here. He works in—”

  “Ravanusa, I know. Does your husband have a cell phone?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Could you give me the number?”

  He went back down to the porter’s lodge. The sleeping man was snoring even louder. Mimì was sitting at a small table with some papers scattered in front of him.

  “I’ve had a look at these and found something interesting.”

  “What?”

  “That just four days ago, the porter’s wife deposited five thousand euros in the bank. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

  “Listen, Mimì, there are a number of new developments we need to talk about. You wait here for the prosecutor, coroner, Forensics, and the rest of those clowns, and I’ll see you later at the station.”

  “Can’t you give me a hint of these new developments?”

  “It’d be better when we had a little time.”

  “And where are you going now?”

  “I’m not gonna tell you, or you’ll get envious. What time did you tell Rizzica to come in?”

  “I told him to come around noon, but he said he’d be busy all morning. He’ll be by around four in the afternoon.”

  The inspector made his way through the crowd, cursing the saints. A TV reporter tried to buttonhole him, but he told him to go to hell, then got in his car and drove off. Turning down a narrow, deserted side street, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Di Mattia’s number.

  “Signor Di Mattia? Inspector Montalbano here, police.”

  “What is it, Inspector?”

  “Are you aware that the concierge of your building has been murdered?”

  “Yes, my wife called and told me. And just now she called back to tell me she gave you my cell phone number.”

  “Listen, Signor Catalfamo told me you went out this morning around five.”

  “As always.”

  “When you went downstairs, was the front door to the building open or closed?”

  “It was closed, but poor Signora Matilde was about to open it, because someone had just buzzed outside.”

  “Did you notice anything strange?”

  “Well, strange, no, not really. Signora Matilde had just put a large telescope in the entrance to be taken away.”

  “Did she say whose it was?”

  “I asked her myself. She said it belonged to Signor Manzella, who’d called her the day before and said he would send a small van to come and pick it up. And, in fact, when I went out, I stopped for a second to retie my shoelace and saw Signora Matilde talking to the driver of the van. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Isn’t five o’clock in the morning a little early to come and get a telescope?”

  Smart man, Signor Di Mattia.

  Now he had to go to Manzella’s other home. But he’d already forgotten the address Fazio had given him. The only thing was to call him.

  “Fazio? Montalbano here.”

  “I recognized you, Chief.”

  “How are you?”

  “Good.”

  “Any news?”

  “This morning one of our police doctors came and then went off to talk to Dr. Bartolomeo.”

  “What did they decide?”

  “That an ambulance is going to come this evening around six and take me to Palermo.”

  “Why Palermo?”

  “Because he says I have to remain under strict surveillance for another three or four days. Then I can leave. But our doctor says I need a good twenty days at the very least to fully recover.”

  “So much the better for you.”

  “I’m going to spend my convalescence in Vigàta, Chief.”

  “So? That way I can come and see you every so often.”

  “Every so often? I’m gonna come to the station every day, just like I was on the job.”

  Montalbano said nothing. Without Fazio around, he felt as if one of his arms had been cut off.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have the time to come and say hello.”

  “Listen, Chief, since my wife’s coming to see me in Palermo tomorrow morning, she’ll bring your gun back to you this evening at the station.”

  “All right. Well, goodbye then. Ah, I almost forgot! Could you tell me that address Manzella gave you again?”

  “Sure. Via Bixio 22.”

  “Thanks, Faz. Take care, and I’ll see you soon.”

  He decided to make another call immediately. He glanced at his watch: ten-thirty.

  Too bad if he woke her up.

  “Ciao, Angela. Montalbano here.”

  “Ciao, Salvo.”

  She sounded still asleep.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “No, I just got up, but I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

  “Then I’ll let you go. I just wanted to know whether your friend had called yet to find out what had happened between us and what I told you.”

  “Not yet. But I’m sure he’ll be calling soon.”

  “Listen, I wanted to let you know that Fazio’s going to be picked up by ambulance this evening around six and taken to Palermo.”

  “Am I supposed to tell them that, too?”

  “Yes. It’s why I called you.”

  “What exactly do you want me to say?”

  “Tell them I called to hear your voice and find out if you’d had a good sleep, things like that, and in the course of the conversation I mentioned the ambulance. That should work, no?”

  “Yes, I think so. Listen, since I get off work at ten tonight, I was thinking it’ll be too late to go out to eat at a restaurant.”

  “I’ll have something made here.”

  “Then I’ll just come to your place in my car. And stay until four.”

  “All right.”

  And while he was at it . . .

  “Adelì? Montalbano here.”

  “Wha’ izzit, Isspector?”

  “Could you please change the sheets on my bed? And then why don’t you go ahead and set up the sofa with a mattress and three chairs the way you do? And cook me up something nice for this evening, and make a lot of it.”

  And while he was still at it . . .

  “Catarella? Montalbano here.”

  “Yessir, Chief.”

  “I need you to search through the files for two guys who probably have records.”

  “Jess a sec, Chief, whiles I git a pin and paper. Whass the names?”

  “The first is Angelo Sorrentino. Write it down correctly. Did you write it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Repeat it for me.”

  “Ponentino.”

  “No, not Ponentino! Shit! Sorrentino. Like someone who was born in Sorrento. Don’
t you know the song?”

  “Chief, if I sing the song, i’ comes out Surrientino.”

  Finally, after the inspector had cursed a number of saints, Catarella got it right.

  “An’ whatta ’bout th’other one, Chief?”

  “His name’s Vittorio Carmona. Did you get that?”

  “Cammona, Chief.”

  “No, not Cammona, but Carmona, with an r!”

  “An’ wha’d I say? I said Cammona wit’ an r!”

  “Listen, when you find them, don’t put the files on my desk. Give ’em to me personally in person when I get back.”

  15

  He had utterly no idea where Via Bixio was. And he didn’t dare ask Catarella, who would surely have thought he’d said Via Piscio. He had a map of Vigàta that he kept with him in the car. He took it out of the glove compartment and studied it. The index of street names said it was in box C4. It was like playing Battleship. Naturally, and predictably, a piece of the map had been torn away, the very part that contained box C4. But the inspector managed to figure out that Via Bixio was past San Giusippuzzo, in a district that was almost open country.

  It took him about half an hour to get there. Number 22, Via Bixio, which at a certain point turned into an out-and-out dirt road, was a tiny one-story house surrounded by what must have once been a cross between a kitchen garden and a yard but was now in a state of total abandon. In front was a wrought-iron gate, left open. Montalbano went in and down the little path to the house. The door was locked, and the windows too. There was a doorbell, which he rang and rang, but nobody came. Seeing that the closest house was a good fifty yards away and there wasn’t a single car to be seen anywhere all the way to the horizon, he pulled out of his jacket pocket a special set of keys a burglar friend of his had given to him. On his fourth try, the door came open, and he leapt backwards, just as he had done when Signor Catalfamo had opened the door. But this time it wasn’t garlic he smelled. It was the bittersweet and thoroughly unpleasant odor of blood, which he had smelled so many times before. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, holding his breath. He felt the wall, searching for the light switch, found it, and flipped it on. He was in a living room whose furniture had all been pushed up against the walls. Alone in the middle of the room was a wicker chair, completely darkened with dried blood. Blood had also been spattered all over the walls, furniture, and floor. A real slaughter. The chair stood at the center of a broad circle of brown blood, as if someone had gone round and round it . . .

  Suddenly Montalbano understood what they had done in that room. For a second he saw the scene with his own eyes, and an irrational, unbearable fear came over him. Instinctively, he took a deep breath, and the terrible smell triggered a violent wave of nausea. He stepped back, opened the door, closed it, got back in the car, and left. But after a minute or two he had to stop. He got out and vomited.

  “Ahh Chief! I gots the files ’ere y’axed me ’bout fer Cammona wit’ a r an’ Ponentino whose rill name’s Sorrentino. Ah, an’ afore I ferget, Signor Gargiuto called. ’E says as how as soon as you’s onna premisses a call.”

  “Cat, I didn’t understand a word you said. Who’s supposed to call, me or Gargiuto?”

  “Youse, Chief.”

  “But if I don’t even know who this Gargiuto is, how am I supposed to call him?”

  “You don’ know ’im, Chief? You rilly mean ’at?” Catarella asked, looking at him in amazement.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Whattya mean, Chief? Y’tol’ me ’e’s asposta, he meanin’ Gargiuto, ’e’s asposta give yiz, yiz bein’ youse, Chief, a answer ’bout you givin’ ’im a litter wroten in so much as . . .”

  Gargiulo of Forensics!

  “I got it, I got it. Listen, is Inspector Augello in?”

  “’E jess call sayin’ as how ’e’s gonna be on ’is way in a half hour.”

  “As soon as you see him, tell him to come to my office.”

  “What can you tell me, Gargiù?”

  “I can give you a quick answer right away, Inspector. For a more thorough analysis I’m going to need three or four days.”

  “Just give me the quick answer for now.”

  “The handwriting’s not natural.”

  “You mean it’s faked?”

  “Absolutely not. I mean it’s purposely made to look the way it does.”

  “By whom?”

  “By whoever wrote it.”

  “Let me get this straight, Gargiù. The person writing the letter didn’t like the handwriting mother nature gave him, and so he forced himself to write differently?”

  “Something like that. So the author of the letter, a man—”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “If I tell you this G is a man, he’s a man, believe me. But a man who’s forcing himself to write with a feminine handwriting. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Now, in three or four days, when—”

  “Listen, Gargiù, don’t bother. You’ve already told me enough. Thanks, I really appreciate it, and please send the letter back to me right away.”

  “I’ll have an officer run it over to you right now.”

  “So, what’s the news?” Augello asked, coming in after Montalbano had been signing papers for a good half hour.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. So, how’d it go yesterday with Signora Manzella?”

  “She identified the body.”

  “How did she react to the news?”

  “Let’s just say she was mildly displeased.”

  “Didn’t I tell you the news wouldn’t be quite so bad for her? She’s not only going to inherit, she’s going to get married straightaway.”

  “So, what’s the news?” Augello repeated.

  “The first thing is that you should postpone Rizzica’s visit till tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this afternoon, no later than five, you have to be at Fiacca Hospital, where Fazio’s staying. I want you to bring Gallo and Galluzzo with you, and make sure you’re well armed.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Around six an ambulance is going to come and get Fazio and take him to Palermo.”

  “So?”

  “You three are going to be his escort. But discreetly. Don’t attract any attention. I want you to take your own car. If they still want to eliminate him, this is their last chance.”

  “But do you seriously believe—”

  “Yes, Mimì, I seriously do. They already proved it a second time at the hospital.”

  “And how would they do it this time?”

  “I can tell you, with ninety percent certainty, that there’ll be a big, metallic blue car following the ambulance. If you see it, beware! It’s them. They might even try to cause an accident, and in the confusion try to kill Fazio. And I’ll tell you something else: it’s the same car from which the gunmen shot the porter’s wife this morning.”

  “Holy shit! And how do you know about this car?”

  Now came the hard part. It was absolutely imperative that he keep Angela out of the picture. She had to remain completely invisible. If he compromised her in any way at all, the girl could consider herself dead.

  “I happened to talk with the nurse who chased away the guy who had slipped onto Fazio’s ward. She gave such a good description of him to Fiacca’s Chief Inspector Caputo that he was able to identify him in no time.”

  “So who is he?”

  “His name is Vittorio Carmona. Fugitive, wanted for three murders. A member of the Sinagra clan. Have a look at his file.”

  He pulled it out of a drawer. The other file, Sorrentino’s, he’d hidden at the bottom, under a stack of papers. No one must see it. He would stick it in his pocket befo
re leaving and then burn it at home.

  “Nice, honest-looking face,” commented Augello, giving the file back to him. Then he asked:

  “So how did you know about the car?”

  “I talked to the employee at the hospital parking lot, you know, the guy at the gate. Inspector Caputo hadn’t gotten around to it,” he said, in the heartfelt hope that Mimì wouldn’t talk to either the employee or Inspector Caputo.

  “Are we gonna talk about the porter’s wife?” Mimì asked.

  “You have any ideas about her?”

  “Yup.”

  “Let’s hear ’em.”

  “When Manzella left the telescope there, the porter’s wife must have become curious. So one night she got up and looked at it. And she must have seen something that put her in a position to blackmail someone. And whoever it was paid up at once, just to keep things quiet. Then they went into Manzella’s apartment and took the binoculars and telescope, and as soon as it was daylight, they killed her.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Where?”

  “The second part.”

  “Explain.”

  “Mimì, I’ve got two witnesses who can testify that it was Signora Matilde herself, the porter’s wife, who gave the telescope and binoculars to a guy who came around five-thirty in the morning, in a van.”

  “Then that changes every—”

  “And there’s more. Signora Matilde told one of the witnesses that Manzella had called her the day before, and she was having the stuff sent to his new address.”

  “Imagine that! The guy’d been already dead for days!”

  “So the question is this: if she wasn’t having the stuff sent to its rightful owner, who was she sending it to? Think about it.”

  Mimì thought about it for a minute and then came to the logical conclusion.

  “To whoever she was blackmailing!”

  “See? You can be pretty good when you put your mind to it!”

  “But by doing that, she got rid of the only potential evidence she had!”

  “How much did she have in the bank, Mimì?”

  “Five thousand euros.”