The Overnight Kidnapper Page 21
“No . . . she didn’t . . .”
“In fact, he got such a good, close look at him that we’ve been able to put together an artist’s reconstruction.”
Virduzzo was having trouble speaking.
“But . . . but how . . . how could the killer not have noticed?”
“The watchman was crouching behind a bush . . . When nature calls, you know . . .”
“But wasn’t it dark out?”
“It was. But there was a full moon, and the killer, moreover, was lit up by—”
“So he recognized Bonfiglio?” Virduzzo nervously interrupted him.
“Well, that’s just the problem. In his opinion, it wasn’t Bonfiglio. Which leaves us high and dry. We’re having him look at a few people who knew your daughter. Actually, since you’re here . . . Fazio, would you? . . .”
Fazio stood up and went out of the room. Virduzzo was visibly uneasy. He’d started sweating and kept his head down, eyes fixed on his shoes. Montalbano caught a whiff of a sour, unpleasant smell of sweat. A few minutes later, Fazio returned in the company of Augello and Patrolman Lovecchio, who was wearing the uniform of a private security company. Virduzzo didn’t budge.
“Signor Virduzzo,” said Montalbano, “would you please stand up?”
Virduzzo rose, keeping his head bowed all the while. Patrolman Lovecchio cast a quick glance at the inspector and immediately understood the message Montalbano had sent him with his eyes.
“Signor Virduzzo, please look at Signor Cammarata,” said the inspector.
The stench of sweat had become unbearable. Ever so slowly, as if it cost him tremendous effort, Virduzzo raised his head. The patrolman looked at him.
“No, it wasn’t him,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Thank you, you can go now. Mimì, you stay.”
Virduzzo collapsed in his chair like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly cut.
“You’ll have to forgive me, Signor Virduzzo,” said Montalbano. “But this was just a formality that couldn’t be avoided, though I already knew how it would turn out.”
Virduzzo seemed to recover almost immediately. He straightened his shoulders and spoke again in a steady, self-assured tone of voice.
“I understand perfectly. No hard feelings,” he said with a smile.
Now! the inspector said to himself. Now that he’s relaxing, now that he feels he’s out of danger, now that he’s lowered his defenses . . .
“Just tell me one thing,” he said.
“Of course,” said Virduzzo.
“Your housekeeper probably told you that the television report described how Silvana was killed . . .”
“Yes, she did. With the killer’s bare hands. With punches and kicks.”
“You’re wrong,” said the inspector, almost gently.
“About what?”
“The newsman never said how Silvana was killed, because he didn’t know.”
In a fraction of a second, everything came crashing down.
Virduzzo sprang to his feet and backpedaled until his back was to the wall, drawing a pistol with his right hand.
“Everybody freeze!” he ordered.
Despite the threat, Montalbano stood up.
“Give me the gun!” he shouted.
By way of reply, Virduzzo shot at him, but the pistol misfired. Virduzzo didn’t have time to fire again because Mimì Augello, who was the one closest to him, dealt him a powerful kick in the cojones, and then a second, even harder kick square in the face as the man was doubled over in pain.
Fazio handcuffed him and pulled him to his feet. With his face now a bloody mask, Virduzzo started yelling:
“Silvana was mine! Mine! Can you understand that? She belonged to me!”
“Throw him into the holding cell,” the inspector ordered.
“And she deserved to be killed like the slut she was!” Virduzzo continued as Fazio and Augello dragged him out of the room.
Montalbano closed the door so he wouldn’t have to hear him anymore.
Author’s Note
This is one of the very few cases of Montalbano’s that did not grow out of a news story. As it is therefore entirely a product of my invention, it is unlikely that anyone would recognize him- or herself in any of the characters or situations. Should this somehow come to pass, however, the responsibility for such an unfortunate occurrence will have to be attributed to chance.
Notes
in Via dei Fiori there wasn’t a flower to be seen for love or money: Fiore (pl. fiori), in Italian, means “flower.”
“The rooster’s turned into a monkey!”: Gallo, in Italian, means “rooster.”
How heavy the snow weighs on these boughs: From “Neve” (Snow), by Attilio Bertolucci (1911–2000), father of the well-known filmmaker.
“They were preparing their sweets for the second of November a bit in advance. I saw mostazzoli, apple-branches, deadbones, marzipan fruits . . .”: The second of November is il giorno dei morti, the “day of the dead,” known as All Souls’ Day in the English-speaking world, and on this day Italian pastry shops specialize in confections commemorating the day, with such things as sugary “death’s heads,” “deadbones,” and so on.
Notes by Stephen Sartarelli
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