Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases Read online

  “A pittance. About twenty million lire.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly a pittance.”

  “But I can prove that I had nothing to do with burning down the hotel.”

  “How?”

  “Do you know Curatolo, the engineer?”

  Montalbano looked over at Fazio.

  “He’s the biggest real estate developer in the province,” said Fazio.

  “Last week he phoned me personally, wanting me to sell him the hotel. He offered me thirty million. He’s interested in the fact that the area’s suitable for building. So why would I want to set fire to the hotel and risk going to prison? If you don’t believe me, you can call up Curatolo himself and see whether or not I’m telling the truth.”

  2

  His argument was airtight. And this cleared him of any suspicion that he might be the culprit.

  Still, the story of the engineer deserved at least to be checked out. With the current lust there was for buildable areas, one could not rule out the possibility that someone had resorted to dangerous measures.

  “So how did you respond to Curatolo’s offer?”

  “I didn’t say yes, and I didn’t say no.”

  “So you waffled?”

  “No, sir. He didn’t want an immediate answer. He gave me fifteen days to think about it . . .”

  “And now you’ll accept his offer?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “If there hadn’t been a fire, what would you have told him?”

  “I probably would have said no. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “If you’re thinking it was Engineer Curatolo who did it, to force me to sell the lot, you’re dead wrong. He’s not that kind of man.”

  The inspector looked at Fazio, who nodded at him, as if to confirm what Ciulla had said. Discarding that hypothesis, he immediately thought of another. He decided to broach the question head-on, without beating around the bush.

  “The area where your hotel stood is Sinagra turf. Do you pay the racket?”

  Ciulla didn’t seem the least bit shocked by so direct a question.

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  Montalbano reacted harshly.

  “Don’t you lie to me!”

  “Inspector, the Mafia knows who has money and who doesn’t. But now and then they do ask me to do them a favor, and I oblige them.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They’ll ask me if someone can stay at the hotel for a night or two, free of charge.”

  “But do you take down their names?”

  “Always. The terms of our arrangement are clear, and they’ve always respected them. I’ve never hidden any fugitives or people like that.”

  At this point Montalbano remembered something he’d seen the night before.

  “Why were all your customers on the upper floors? Aren’t there any rooms on the ground floor?”

  “I can explain that. The ground floor consisted of a kitchen and a dining room that we closed years ago, then a small sitting room for customers, the office, two bathrooms, room number one, room number two, and the small room that caught fire. The two guest rooms are big and each has its own sitting area. I stay in room number one, while number two is almost always vacant, because it costs more than the others. The customers were all staying on the second floor for the simple reason that it’s easier that way for the housekeeper to clean the rooms.”

  “Is there a parking lot?”

  “Yes, behind the building, and it’s pretty big.”

  “Is there a guard?”

  “No. And since it’s not guarded and out in the open, sometimes the neighbors park there, too. I just look the other way and don’t say anything.”

  “Is there a back entrance to the hotel?”

  “Yessir. It gives onto the parking lot.”

  “Let me get this straight. So any passerby on the street could just walk across the parking lot and come right up to the window of the storeroom without anyone stopping him?”

  “That’s exactly right.”

  “Were the registers and guest cards destroyed?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Were the people who were there last night regular customers?”

  “Four of them were; two were not.”

  “Do you by any chance remember their names?”

  “Of course. I have a list for reimbursements from the damages. Only one doesn’t want to be reimbursed, because he didn’t lose anything, but I still know his first and last names.”

  “Please do me a favor and get Detective Fazio a copy of this list before the day is out.”

  “I can dictate it to him right now. I have an excellent memory.”

  “Where were the customers finally lodged?”

  “At the Hotel Eden.”

  “Now just bear with me a little longer. Tell me exactly what was in that storeroom.”

  “Sheets, pillowcases, towels, napkins, clothes . . . and toilet paper, rags, mops . . .”

  “All flammable stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the door usually locked?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How many people used to take what they needed from the storeroom?”

  “Just one person, the housekeeper Ciccina, who’s my only steady employee. She’s very reliable and has been working for me for ten years. When we need an extra hand, I summon another housekeeper, Filippa. But yesterday only Ciccina was around, and she always goes home in the evening.”

  “Does Ciccina smoke?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you don’t think that a customer, or perhaps a stranger, could have gone into that room?”

  “Through the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would have noticed.”

  “One last question: Was there anyone among your clients last night you weren’t supposed to charge?”

  Ciulla immediately understood what he meant.

  “Yes. One.”

  “Is his name on the list?”

  “Of course.”

  “Please point it out to Fazio. Who was it that told you he should get special treatment?”

  “I got a call from Elio Sanvito.”

  “Signor Ciulla, for me that’s enough for now. Please go with Fazio into his office. Good-bye, and thank you for your cooperation.”

  * * *

  “What’s going through your head?” asked Augello.

  “If the fire chief says there’s something that doesn’t add up, he must have a reason. After talking to Ciulla we can rule out Ciulla himself, Engineer Curatolo, and the Mafia from the list of possible suspects. You think that’s nothing?”

  “It’s a start. But where do the customers come in?”

  “Isn’t it possible that whoever set fire to the hotel might have had something against one of them?”

  “It’s possible, but it seems a little crazy to me that someone would commit a massacre just to kill one person.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened.”

  Fazio came back a few minutes later.

  “Did he dictate the list to you?”

  “Yes. But it’s not enough for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Ciulla remembers their first and last names, but they’re all from out of town and he doesn’t know where any of them live. And he can’t remember their phone numbers, either. But all the details are on the list he drew up for the reimbursements. He’s bringing it to me in fifteen minutes, and I’ll have a copy made.”

  “Who’s Elio Sanvito?”

  “Somebody from the Sinagra family. A kind of business representative. He manages what we might call their legitimate businesses.”

  “And who was the guy he
brought to Ciulla’s attention?”

  “His name is Ignazio Scuderi, but I don’t know him.”

  The whole affair was going to take a while to untangle. Montalbano glanced at his watch.

  “Listen, it’s getting late for me. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  That evening Livia said nothing when the inspector took her out to eat at a restaurant west of Vigàta, the one on the beach at Montereale whose specialty was the quantity, variety, and excellence of their antipasti.

  Only towards the end of the meal did Montalbano mention the possibility that the fire at the hotel might be a case of arson. She then asked the most logical and natural question.

  “Do you suspect the owner?”

  The inspector gave her a summary of what he’d been able to gather from his talk with Ciulla.

  “So you’re imagining that someone set fire to the storeroom from outside, through the window?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Something’s coming back to me,” Livia said then. “At the time I didn’t give it much importance, but now that you say . . .”

  “Did you see something strange?”

  “Well, you’d just gone into the hotel, and I was watching you from inside the car when a car came really fast down the street on one side of the hotel, drove straight towards me, then made a left turn.”

  “You mean, in the direction of Montelusa?”

  “Yes.”

  “I also heard a car start up and then drive off really fast. It’s possible the guy who started the fire was inside.”

  Livia looked uncertain.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know why, but I’m not sure it was a man at the wheel. But it’s just an impression.”

  “I can’t see a woman starting a fire like that.”

  “I must be mistaken.”

  * * *

  The following morning Fazio came into work a little late, but to make up for it he had some interesting news.

  “Chief, I have to tell you immediately that of the six customers on Ciulla’s list, two are still in Vigàta and the others have left. However, I got the addresses and phone numbers for all of them.”

  “All right, then, let’s start with those two. Who are they?”

  “One of them’s Ignazio Scuderi and he’s a mechanic in Palermo; the other is Filippo Nuara, and he’s a grain merchant from Favara. Scuderi is the person Ciulla said was sent to the hotel by Elio Sanvito, the Sinagra guy.”

  “We’re going to have to look into this Scu—”

  “I’ve already gathered a lot of information, Chief. Scuderi is a specialist who works for a Palermo company dealing in refrigerator trucks. He came to inspect and overhaul the trucks the Sinagras use to transport fish. I don’t think he was involved in setting the fire.”

  Montalbano looked disappointed.

  “And what can you tell me about the grain merchant?”

  “Here things are a little less clear. What’s a grain trader doing in a town like Vigàta, where nobody’s exported any grain for over thirty years?”

  “Did you find an answer to that question?”

  “I rang up Ciulla and he told me this Nuara is a sort of regular customer who comes at the same time every month and stays for three days. When I asked him whether he gets any phone calls or meets with people, Ciulla said no. Since Nuara hadn’t yet come out of his hotel, I told Gallo to stay close to him and report to me where he goes and who he meets with.”

  “And the four who’ve left, what can we do about them?”

  “Chief, one of these four is a commercial traveler from Palermo; the second is a land surveyor who lives in Caltanissetta; the third is a real estate agent from Trapani; and the fourth a lawyer from Montelusa. All we can do is write to their local police stations for information.”

  “Are you kidding me? It’ll take ’em three or four months just to answer, and that would already be asking a lot!”

  “So what do you plan to do?”

  “You’ve got the names, haven’t you? And we’ve got friends all over Sicily, haven’t we? Then let’s turn to these friends privately. If we get any information worth taking seriously, we’ll go in person to check it out. But let’s not waste any time. In Palermo, I’ve got Inspector Lanuzza.”

  “In Caltanissetta, I’ve got Detective Truscia,” Fazio countered.

  Montalbano kept up his end.

  “In Trapani there’s Lo Verde. And Montelusa’s no problem, there’s an embarrassment of riches there.”

  There was a knock at the door. It was Gallo.

  “Why’d you come back?” Fazio asked him.

  “’Cause I did what I was supposed to do, and then I figured there was no point in continuing to tail the guy. I left Nuara as he was paying his hotel bill. He had a cab waiting for him and was about to leave.”

  “What did he do over the course of the morning?”

  “He went out, called a cab, was driven to a florist’s shop, bought a big bouquet of flowers, got back in the cab, went to the cemetery, put the bouquet down on a grave, said a prayer, and then went back to the hotel.”

  “Did you look at the name on the tombstone?”

  “Yes. Giovanna Nuara née Rossotto.”

  “Call the church associated with it and ask the priest there whether they said a Mass yesterday for the soul of Signora Nuara.”

  Fazio called and confirmed. The poor husband, explained the priest, came every month to visit his dead wife.

  3

  The first to answer Montalbano’s confidential request was Pippo Lo Verde of Trapani, who phoned at five p.m. the following day.

  “Salvo, you wanted to know something about a real estate agent named Saverio Custonaci. Here’s what I found out.”

  “Tell me.”

  “To tell you over the phone exactly what Custonaci does would be a little complicated. All I can say is that he’s a person of interest, from your standpoint. Would you like to see with your own eyes what kind of man he is?”

  “Very much.”

  “He’s a methodical man and dines at the same restaurant every night. Where, among other things, one eats very well. All right if we meet at eight-thirty at the Bar Libertà?”

  “Quite all right. Listen, would you mind if I brought my girlfriend along?”

  “Not at all! On the contrary. That way I’ll get to meet her.”

  * * *

  Livia was very pleased to be invited. And she immediately hit it off with Lo Verde.

  As they were walking to the restaurant, Lo Verde explained to Montalbano that Custonaci had been a skillful real estate agent in his youth, appreciated by everyone for his honesty and above all because during the negotiations over a sale, he knew how to remain neutral and impartial in his judgment.

  So it was that one day, Sabato Sutera, a known mafioso who had an ongoing dispute with another mafioso, Ernesto Pilato, got the idea to ask Custonaci to serve as a kind of arbitrator to their quarrel. Custonaci accepted and brought his assignment to a conclusion that left both parties satisfied. Ever since that time, Custonaci had remained a mediator, but was no longer an agent. The interests for which he mediated no longer involved property but the sort of prickly disputes that arose between competing Mafia families and risked taking a bad turn.

  And his fame grew so great that it spread beyond the confines of the province. By now he was summoned to every part of Sicily to work his magic.

  “So he must certainly have gone to Vigàta to settle a dispute between the Sinagras and the Cuffaros,” Lo Verde concluded.

  And maybe the Cuffaros were not so satisfied with the results and mounted a nice little attack on him, thought Montalbano.

  But he said nothing.

  Apparently Lo Verde had set things up so that t
he table he’d reserved would be right next to that of Custonaci, who was already seated, waiting for his first course and looking around at the other clients, when the three of them came in.

  He was a chubby man of about sixty, with an open, cordial face and an affable air that inspired confidence in the person in front of him. He dressed like a peasant, in fustian jacket and trousers, but had the manners of the well-bred. To the greeting of a man who’d just come in, he replied with a smile that looked somewhere between episcopal and paternal. He was perfectly calm and at ease.

  It wasn’t at all the attitude of someone who’d just been through an attack on his person.

  “Is he alone?” Montalbano asked Lo Verde.

  “Do you mean, does he have an escort?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, he never does.”

  This confirmed the inspector’s impression. Custonaci was not the target of the fire.

  Meanwhile, the mediator had started eating.

  Montalbano kept an eye on him, while eating in turn. And when he realized that Custonaci, having finished his fruit course, was getting ready to leave, he shot to his feet and, before the amazed eyes of Lo Verde and Livia, went over to the man’s table.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you.”

  Custonaci showed no sign of surprise.

  “No trouble at all, Inspector Montalbano.”

  “Do you know me?”

  “By sight, until a moment ago. Now I have the honor of knowing you in person. Please sit down.”

  Montalbano sat down.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector? Ask me anything you like,” said Custonaci, encouraging him with a smile.

  “Thank you, you’re very kind. You were in Vigàta the other night, when the hotel you were staying in—”

  “Yes, that was quite unpleasant. And it might have gone worse for me, had room number two not been occupied. That’s the one I usually ask for. It has a little sitting room that allows me to receive the people who come to meet me on so-called neutral ground.”

  Montalbano felt slightly bewildered.