Rounding the Mark Read online

  “How long have you been following me?”

  “Since yesterday evening. After Miss Ingrid dropped you off at home, I didn’t leave right away. I decided to wait a bit. I had a feeling you might go out again. Which you did. I managed to follow you easily up to Spigonella, then I lost you. You’d think I ought to know the area by now. It took me almost an hour to find your car.”

  Montalbano looked down. The sea had swelled with the rising wind, which already smelled of the imminent dawn. If not for Fazio, he would surely still be down on the beach, half conscious. It was Fazio who had picked up the damned binoculars, put him on his feet, practially carried him on his shoulders, and forced him to react. He had, in other words, saved him. He took a deep breath.

  “Thanks.”

  Fazio didn’t answer.

  “But you never came here with me,” the inspector continued.

  Again Fazio said nothing.

  “Will you give me your word?”

  “Yes. But will you give me yours?”

  “What for?”

  “Promise me you’ll go see a doctor. As soon as possible.”

  Montalbano swallowed this bitter pill.

  “Promise,” he said, getting up.

  He was convinced he would keep his word. Not because he feared for his health, but because one cannot break a promise made to one’s guardian angel. And he resumed the climb.

  He had no problem driving along the still deserted streets, dogged by Fazio’s car behind him. There’d been no convincing his sergeant that he could easily make it home by himself. Slowly, as the sky began to brighten, the inspector began to feel better. The day looked promising. They went into his house.

  “Jesus Christ! You’ve been robbed!” yelled Fazio as soon as he saw the state the rooms were in.

  “No, it was me. I was looking for something.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a good thing you did, or you would have torn down the walls!”

  “Listen, Fazio, it’s almost five. I’ll see you at the office sometime after ten, okay?”

  “Okay, Chief. Get some rest.”

  “And I want to see Inspector Augello, too.”

  After Fazio left, the inspector wrote a note to Adelina, in block letters:

  ADELINA, DON’T BE ALARMED. THE HOUSE HAS NOT BEEN ROBBED. PLEASE TIDY UP BUT DON’T MAKE ANY NOISE BECAUSE I’M SLEEPING. PLEASE MAKE ME SOMETHING TO EAT.

  He opened the front door and stuck the note to it with a push-pin, so the housekeeper would see it before she came in. He unplugged the phone, went in the bathroom, took a shower, dried himself off, and lay down on the bed. The terrible bout of weakness had miraculously passed. In truth, he felt a bit tired, but no more than usual, and it had, after all, been a rough night, there was no denying it. He ran a hand over his chest, as if to check if the two terrible pangs had left some kind of mark, some kind of scar. Nothing. No wound opened, no wound healed. Before falling asleep, he had one last thought, with all due respect to his guardian angel: was it really so necessary to see a doctor? No, he concluded. He really saw no need for it.

  17

  He showed up at the office at eleven, all slicked up and, if not smiling, at least not in a bearish mood. The hours of sleep had actually rejuvenated him. He could feel all the gears in his body working at maximum efficiency. Of the two terrible chest pains of the night before and the weakness that had followed, not a trace. In the doorway he nearly bumped into Fazio, who was coming out, and who, upon seeing him, stopped short and eyed him up and down. The inspector let him eye.

  “You look good this morning,” was the verdict.

  “I changed foundation cream,” said Montalbano.

  “No, the truth of the matter is that you, Chief, have nine lives, like a cat. I’ll be right back.”

  The inspector went and stood in front of Catarella.

  “How do I look to you?”

  “Whattya want me to say, Chief? Like a god!”

  When you came right down to it, this much-maligned cult of personality wasn’t really such a bad thing.

  Mimì Augello also looked well rested.

  “Did Beba let you sleep last night?”

  “Yes, we had a good night. In fact, she didn’t want me to come to work today.”

  “Why not?”

  “She wanted me to take her out, since it’s such a beautiful day. Poor thing, lately she never leaves the house anymore.”

  “Here I am,” said Fazio.

  “Close the door and we can begin.”

  “I’m going to give a general summary,” Montalbano began, “even though you already know some of the details. If there’s anything that doesn’t make sense to you, let me know.”

  He spoke for half an hour without interruption, explaining how Ingrid had recognized D’Iunio and how his parallel investigation into the African boy had slowly converged with the investigation of the nameless drowned man. Then he described what Fonso Spàlato had told him in turn. When he came to the point where Marzilla got scared shit-less after dropping off Jamil Zarzis and another man at the villa, he interrupted himself and asked:

  “Are there any questions?”

  “Yes,” said Augello, “but first I must ask Fazio to leave the room, count slowly to ten, then come back inside.”

  Without a peep, Fazio got up, went out, and closed the door.

  “The question is this,” said Augello, “when are you going to stop acting like an asshole?”

  “In what sense?”

  “In every sense, for Chrissake! Who do you think you are, the night avenger? The lone wolf? You’re a fucking police inspector! Have you forgotten? You reproach the police for not obeying the rules, and you’re the first to break them! You go out on a dangerous mission, and you bring along not one of us, but a Swedish lady! It’s insane! You should have informed your superiors of all these things, or at least filled us in, instead of going out and playing the bounty hunter!”

  “So that’s what’s bugging you?”

  “Why, isn’t that enough?”

  “No, it’s not, Mimì. I’ve done worse.”

  Mimì’s jaw dropped in horror.

  “Worse?”

  “And ten,” said Fazio, reappearing.

  “To continue,” said Montalbano. “When Ingrid cut in front of Marzilla’s car, he thought we were his boss and were going to liquidate him, perhaps because at this point he knows too much. He pissed his pants as he begged me not to kill him. And without even realizing it, he blurted out his boss’s name: Don Pepè Aguglia.”

  “The builder?” asked Augello.

  “That’s him, all right,” Fazio confirmed. “There are rumors around town that he’s been loan-sharking.”

  “We’ll take care of him very soon—tomorrow, in fact—but somebody should keep an eye him starting now. I don’t want him to slip away.”

  “Leave him to me,” said Fazio. “I’ll put Curreli on his tail. He’s a good one.”

  Now came the hard part of the story, but he had to tell it.

  “After Ingrid brought me home, I decided to go back to Spigonella and have a look at the villa.”

  “Alone, naturally,” Mimì said sardonically, stirring in his chair.

  “I went there alone and I came back alone.”

  This time it was Fazio’s turn to squirm in his chair. But he didn’t open his mouth.

  “When Inspector Augello asked you to leave the room,” said Montalbano, turning to him, “it was because he didn’t want you to hear him calling me an asshole. Would you like to call me one, too? You could form a little chorus.”

  “I would never dare, sir.”

  “Well, if you don’t want to say it, I give you permission to think it.”

  Reassured by Fazio’s silence and complicity, he described the little harbor, the grotto, and the iron door with the internal staircase. He also talked about the crabs that had eaten the flesh off Errera’s corpse.

  “Okay,
that’s the part that’s already happened,” he concluded. “Now we need to think about a course of action. If the information I’ve received from Marzilla is correct, tonight there will be more arrivals, and since Zarzis has taken the trouble to come this far, it means there’s new merchandise for him on the way. We have to be there the moment it arrives.”

  “All right,” said Mimì. “But, whereas you know everything about this villa, we know nothing about either the villa or its surroundings.”

  “Have a look at the video I made of it from the sea. Torrisi’s got it.”

  “That’s not enough. I’m going to go there in person, I want to see for myself,” Mimì decided.

  “I don’t like it,” Fazio cut in.

  “If they spot you and get suspicious, we blow the whole thing,” the inspector seconded him.

  “Calm down, both of you. I’ll go with Beba, who’s been wanting a breath of sea air. We’ll take a nice long stroll and see what there is to see. I don’t think they’ll get alarmed if they see a man and a pregnant woman walking along the beach. We can meet back here by five at the latest.”

  “All right,” said Montalbano. Then, turning to Fazio, “Listen, I want the core squad ready. A few trusted, decisive men. Gallo, Galluzzo, Imbrò, Germanà, and Grasso. You and Augello will be in command.”

  “Why, won’t you be there?” asked Augello in amazement.

  “I’ll be there, but I’ll be down below, in the little harbor, to stop anyone who tries to escape.”

  “Well, Augello will command the squad, ’cause I’m coming with you,” Fazio said dryly.

  Surprised by his tone, Mimì glared at him.

  “No,” said Montalbano.

  “Look, Chief—I—”

  “No. This is a personal matter, Fazio.”

  This time Mimì glared at Montalbano, who was glaring at Fazio, who was glaring right back. It looked like a scene from a Quentin Tarantino movie, except that they were aiming their eyes instead of guns at each other.

  “Yes, sir,” Fazio said at last.

  To dispel the bit of tension still in the air, Mimì Augello asked a question:

  “How will we know for sure whether or not there will be any landings tonight? Who’s going to tell us?”

  “You could find out from Commissioner Riguccio,” Fazio suggested to Montalbano. “They usually have a pretty clear picture of the situation by six P.M.”

  “No, I’ve already asked Riguccio too many things. He’s a true cop and might get suspicious. No, I think I know of another way. The harbor authority. They’re the ones who receive all the information from the fishermen and patrol boats and pass it on to the commissioner’s office. What information there is to be had, that is, since often nobody knows anything about these illegal landings. Do you know anyone at the harbor office?”

  “No, Chief.”

  “I do,” said Mimì. “Until last year I used to spend time with a lieutenant from the office, who’s still around.”

  “Good. When can you go talk to this guy?”

  “This woman, you mean,” Mimì corrected him. “But don’t get the wrong idea. I tried, but there was nothing doing. We’ve remained friends. As soon as I get back from Spigonella, I’ll take Beba home and go look her up.”

  “And what are we going to do about Marzilla, Chief?”

  “After Spigonella, we’ll cook his goose along with Aguglia’s.”

  Opening the refrigerator, he got a nasty surprise. Adelina had tidied up the house as requested, but all she’d made to eat was half a boiled chicken. What kind of bullshit was this? That was a dish for the sick! For someone awaiting last rites! A horrible suspicion occurred to him—that is, that Fazio had told the housekeeper he’d been unwell and therefore should eat lightly. But how could he have told her, if the phone was unplugged? Via carrier pigeon? No, this was clearly some sort of vendetta on Adelina’s part, for the mess he’d left the house in. On the kitchen table he found a note he hadn’t noticed when he’d made himself coffee.

  Youl half to make your bed yourself coz your sleping in it now.

  He sat out on the veranda and swallowed down the boiled chicken with the help of an entire jar of pickles. As soon as he’d finished, the phone rang. Apparently Adelina had plugged it back in. It was Livia.

  “Salvo, finally! I was so worried! I must have called ten times last night, right up to midnight. Where were you?”

  “Sorry. We had to do a stakeout and—”

  “I’ve got some good news for you.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “I’m coming tomorrow.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’ve done and said so much that they gave me three days.”

  Montalbano felt a wave of happiness sweep over him.

  “So, aren’t you going to say something?” asked Livia.

  “What time do you get in?”

  “Noon. At Punta Raisi.”

  “I’ll either come myself or send someone to get you. I’m so . . .”

  “Come on. Is it so hard for you to say it?”

  “No. I’m so happy.”

  Before lying down—because he suddenly felt like taking a nap—he had to tidy up the bedroom or he wouldn’t be able to close his eyes.

  Mimì straggled back in well past six o’clock, and Fazio came in behind him.

  “You took your time, I’d say,” Montalbano chided him.

  “But I’ve got some good stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “First of all, these.”

  He took ten or so Polaroid snapshots out of his pocket. Every one of them showed a smiling, pregnant Beba in the foreground, and the villa at Spigonella, shot from every possible angle, in the background. In two or three of them, Beba was actually leaning against the bars of the entrance gate, which was locked shut with a chain and big padlock.

  “But did you tell Beba what you were doing there, and who was inside that villa?”

  “No. What need was there? This way she acted more naturally.”

  “So you didn’t see anyone?”

  “Maybe they were watching us from inside, but we certainly didn’t see anyone outside. They want to give the impression that the house is uninhabited. See that padlock? It’s all for show, because one could easily slip a hand through the bars and open the gate from the inside.”

  He selected another photo and handed it to the inspector.

  “This is the right-hand side of the house. There’s an external staircase leading to the upper floor, and that large door below must be the garage. Did Ingrid mention whether the garage is connected to the rest of the house?”

  “No, the garage is a separate space without any doors except its entrance. There is, however, an internal staircase between the ground floor and the upstairs, though Ingrid never actually saw it, since the only access to it was through a door D’Iunio said he didn’t have the key to. And I’m sure there’s another staircase leading from the ground floor down to the grotto.”

  “At a glance, the garage looks like it could hold two cars.”

  “Well, there’s definitely one in there. The one that ran over the little boy. Speaking of which, when we catch these people, I want that car examined by Forensics. I’d bet my family jewels that they find the kid’s blood on it.”

  “What do you think happened?” Fazio asked.

  “Simple. The kid realized—I’m not sure how—that he was up against something horrible. So he tried to escape the minute he got off the boat. It was my fault he didn’t succeed on the first try. They took him to Spigonella, and there he must have discovered the staircase leading to the grotto. I’m sure that’s how he escaped. Somebody caught on and sounded the alarm. So Zarzis got in the car and looked for him until he found him.”

  “But this Zarzis only arrived yesterday!” said Augello.

  “As I understand it, Zarzis comes and goes. He’s always around when it’s time to sort out the merchandise and pick up the money. Like now. He runs all these operation
s for his boss.”

  “I want to talk about the landings,” said Mimì.

  “You have the floor,” said Montalbano.

  The idea that he had Zarzis within reach gave him a sense of well-being.

  “My lady friend told me it’s a real state of emergency. Our sea patrols have intercepted four overloaded, dilapidated craft headed towards Seccagrande, Capobianco, Manfia, and Fela, respectively. They only hope those boats manage to land before they sink; at this point, rerouting them or transferring the refugees to other vessels is out of the question. All our people can do is stay close behind them and be prepared to rescue the refugees if one or more of the boats should capsize.”

  “I get it,” said a pensive Montalbano.

  “You get what?” asked Mimì.

  “These four landings have been set up as decoys. Seccagrande and Capobianco are to the west of the Vigàta-Spigonella area, and Manfia and Fela are to the east. The sea off Vigàta-Spigonella is therefore momentarily without surveillance, the coast too. Any fishing-boat aware of this momentary corridor could easily land on one of our beaches without anyone noticing.”

  “So?”

  “So, my dear Mimì, that means Zarzis is going to go pick up his merchandise out on the water, with the dinghy. I don’t remember if I mentioned that there’s a two-way radio inside the villa. With that, they can stay in continuous contact and meet at a fixed spot. Did your lieutenant—”

  “She’s not mine.”

  “Did she tell you what time they were expecting these boats to reach land?”

  “Around midnight.”

  “That means you and the rest of the team should be ready at Spigonella by ten at the latest. Here’s what we’ll do. There are two signal lights on the rocks at the entrance to the little harbor. These will come on right before the dinghy goes out, and will be turned on again when it returns. I think these lights, and the moving barrier, are operated by a third man, the guardian of the villa. You’re going to have to go easy at first—that is, you can’t neutralize the guardian until after, I repeat, after he’s turned on the beacons for the dinghy’s reentry. Then you’ll have very little time. Once Zarzis and his helper are back in the house, you’ll take them by surprise. But be careful: they’ll have children with them, and they’re capable of anything. Now coordinate your actions between yourselves. I’m going out. Good luck, and may you bear only sons.”