Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases Page 22

  “Were you able to see whether he keeps his customary bicycle inside or outside?”

  “Outside. Attached to a pole with a little chain.”

  “So, are you going to tell us about this plan of yours?” the inspector prodded him.

  “My plan is the following: Tonight we post one of our men outside his place from midnight to five a.m. As soon as Gangitano comes out and grabs his bike, our man will follow him, without being seen, and when the guy breaks into some building to rob somebody, our guy will wait for him outside and arrest him when he comes out with the booty still fresh in his pockets.”

  “Okay,” said Montalbano. “We’ll do as you say. Even though I’m totally convinced it will only be a waste of time. Fazio, you decide which cop to send.”

  * * *

  The following day Officer Crispino confirmed that Gangitano stayed in his garage the whole night, and Officer Misuraca said the same thing the day after that.

  On the other hand, on the morning of that second day, at around nine o’clock, a certain Signora Adelaide Tripepi came into the station. She owned a fruit-and-vegetable stand with prices that would have made a high-society jeweler blanch.

  She was rather upset and speaking in less than the most elegant of fashions.

  “The fuckin’ asshole ripped me off for five thousand lire!”

  With some effort they managed to learn that the previous evening, before going to bed, Signora Adelaide had put ten thousand lire in her purse, because she had to make a payment the following day.

  “Where do you keep it?”

  “Keep what? The purse? When I go to sleep I put it on a chair at the foot of the bed.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “No, sir, I live with my husband. But he works as a night watchman, so he’s not there during the night.”

  “Go on.”

  As soon as she got to the market that morning, the signora realized there was only five thousand lire left in her purse.

  “Don’t you think it’s possible the other five thousand could have fallen out on your way to the market?”

  “But I live in Via Lampedusa, which is a long way from the market! I always take the car to go there. If the money had fallen out like you say, I would have found it in the car, don’t you think?”

  “Where did you say you lived, Signora?”

  “Via Lampedusa, number one.”

  Montalbano, Augello, and Fazio all exchanged glances. This was clearly the work of Gangitano.

  “Fazio, please take the lady’s statement, then call Officer Misuraca and bring him back here to me.”

  * * *

  “Misuraca, tell us exactly what you saw from your observation post.”

  “It was a good lookout point, Inspector. I could surveil the rolling garage door and the bicycle tied to the pole.”

  “Did you walk around the garage before taking up your position?”

  “Yes. It has no rear exit.”

  “Not even a window?”

  “There’s a little window.”

  “With a grate over it?”

  “No.”

  “Now think hard. Could a thin man pass through it?”

  Misuraca thought about this for a moment.

  “Maybe, if he practiced.”

  “And that’s exactly what our friend Gangitano did,” the inspector concluded. “And since he couldn’t take his bicycle, he went and robbed a house on the same street as his, just a short walk away. Didn’t I tell you, Mimì, that he’s a very clever, experienced man? At any rate, we’ll carry on. We’ll post two guards now, even though I’m sure nothing will happen tonight.”

  * * *

  And indeed nothing happened that night, as far as the thief was concerned.

  Something big did occur, however, and pushed the case of the burglaries into the background.

  That night, the twenty-year-old daughter of a wealthy entrepreneur from Montelusa with powerful political friends was kidnapped for ransom. The commissioner was under severe pressure to get the girl freed as quickly as possible, and therefore he ordered all the police commissariats in the province to devote all their efforts to the case.

  And so the surveillance on Gangitano was lifted.

  “But, really, what, in concrete terms, are we supposed to be doing about this kidnapping?” Augello asked Montalbano.

  “What do you want me to say, Mimì? Go around and talk to the usual informants, send a few of our patrols out into the countryside, stop and question a few suspects . . .”

  “And keep your eyes and ears wide open . . .” Fazio continued.

  Augello shook his head.

  “I don’t think that’s going to get us anywhere.”

  “Those are orders, Mimì.”

  * * *

  Five evenings later, Montalbano went home, scarfed down the sarde a beccafico Adelina had made for him, then ducked into the bathroom to wash his hands.

  Walking past his bedroom he noticed there was something that didn’t look right. Taking a better look, he realized what it was.

  The framed photo of Livia that she’d wanted him to keep on his bedside table was gone.

  It must have fallen on the floor.

  Going over to the nightstand, Montalbano looked carefully at the floor around it.

  No photo.

  It wasn’t under the bed, either.

  Where could it have gone?

  Then he thought that perhaps it had fallen as Adelina was dusting, the glass had broken, and the housekeeper had taken it to get repaired.

  Unable to resist, he decided to call her up.

  Adelina swore up and down that the whole time she was in the house, the photo was on the bedside table.

  After wasting another half hour searching for it in the most unlikely places, he phoned Livia.

  “Did you by any chance take that picture of you back home with you?”

  “Why would I do that? I put it on your bedside table.”

  “Well, it’s no longer there.”

  “Have you looked under the table and bed?”

  “Of course!”

  “Adelina must have removed it because she hates me.”

  “I guess that must be it,” said Montalbano, cutting things short.

  He didn’t feel like getting into an argument over Adelina. Also because—even though he didn’t want to admit it—Livia was probably right.

  The following morning, when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Livia’s picture on the bedside table.

  And he understood everything.

  * * *

  When he got back home the following evening he set the table out on the veranda and ate what Adelina had prepared for him. Then he went back inside, sat down in front of the TV, and watched a spy movie in which he understood not a thing. At a quarter to midnight, he rang Livia.

  “Did you find my picture?”

  “Yes, it had fallen behind the nightstand.”

  At midnight he turned out all the lights in the house, but instead of going to bed, he went and sat out on the veranda. He’d brought his cigarettes and lighter out with him, but since it was a dark night he decided not to smoke. The red dot of the burning cigarette end would have been visible from a distance.

  He sat outside in the pitch darkness without moving, ears pricked up and ready to catch the slightest sound.

  In spite of this, he still didn’t hear him arrive. He didn’t become aware of his presence until the man was on the veranda, one step away from him. He’d been quieter than a cat.

  “Good evening.”

  “Good evening.”

  “Were you waiting for me?”

  “Of course. After your little comedy with the photo . . . Have a seat.”

  Gangitano sat down beside him on the bench.
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  “Forgive me for taking the liberty of entering your house, but it would have been careless to phone you at the office, and I thought that this way you would understand that I needed to talk to you in person, with no one else around.”

  “Well, here I am. Now talk.”

  “There’s no point in dragging this out with you, so I’ll get straight to the point. The other evening, when I saw that you’d lifted the surveillance, I went back to work.”

  He called burglary “work.” And, if you really thought about it, for a professional thief, burglary was indeed work.

  “I wanted to break into the home of Mascolo, the lawyer. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard about him. He’s a two-bit lawyer of little worth. He normally defends small-time hoods, purse snatchers . . .”

  “I think he’s biting off more than he can chew.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Listen to me for a minute. The lawyer is separated from his wife and lives alone. When I went into his house I heard him snoring in the bedroom. I headed for that room, but when I got to the door, I heard a telephone ring. To me it was like a machine-gun burst, believe me. I froze. The lawyer turned on the light and answered the phone, which was on his bedside table. He couldn’t see me, because I was outside the room. I clearly heard everything he said. And I can repeat it to you word for word. And this is why I decided to come here to your place and tell you everything.”

  He paused.

  “Kidnapping has always seemed to me like a most cowardly thing to do, especially kidnapping a woman or child.”

  Montalbano held his breath. He was afraid to interrupt Gangitano’s monologue.

  “First the lawyer said, ‘Hello?’ and then sat there in silence, listening. Then all at once he started yelling, saying that the girl must not be moved for any reason, that the place where they were hiding her was perfectly safe, and that to take her to the Faraci grotto would be insane, with all the patrols everywhere making rounds . . . Then he calmed down and said that he would write the ransom letter and send it himself within three days. And he hung up. He turned off the light, and a short while later was snoring again.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I left.”

  “Did you steal anything?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I realized that if he noticed that a stranger had been in his house, he might become suspicious that the person had overheard his phone call.”

  “Very well done.”

  “Thank you. And now, with your permission . . .”

  Montalbano heard him standing up.

  “Wait.”

  “What is it?”

  “You do realize, don’t you, that the information you’ve given me isn’t enough to allow me to make a move?”

  “Dear Inspector, I did what I was able to do.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “What else do you want from me?”

  “To go back into Mascolo’s house.”

  4

  Gangitano was taken aback. Then he said:

  “Well, if that’s an order . . .”

  “When did you go into Mascolo’s house?”

  “Night before last.”

  “When exactly did he tell his playmates that he would write and send the ransom letter?”

  “Three days later.”

  “So there’s still time.”

  “To do what?”

  “Maybe the letter’s still there, in the house. It’s the only evidence we have at this point. But you’ll have to go back there again tonight.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” said Montalbano, not letting him finish. By now he’d made up his mind and there was no way he would change it. “Have you got all your tools with you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And for once you should go without your bicycle.”

  “It’s too far to go on foot.”

  “Want to take my car?”

  “But I don’t know how to drive!”

  “I’ll take you myself.”

  Gangitano felt like he’d entered a madhouse.

  “What? You’ll take me to commit a burglary?”

  “There won’t be any burgling.”

  “So what are we going there to do?”

  “You only have to see if you can find the letter or some other thing that will connect the lawyer to the kidnapping. If you do see it, then leave it right where it is and come and tell me.”

  “Come to the police station?”

  “What police station?! I’ll be waiting for you in my car, outside the lawyer’s front door.”

  “So, you’ll be my lookout, sort of?”

  “Exactly. Now let’s not waste any more time.”

  Before going out, the inspector put a piece of paper in his pocket with the phone numbers of the coordinator of the investigation into the kidnapping, Vice Commissioner Martorana.

  * * *

  Antonio Mascolo, attorney-at-law, lived on the second floor of a five-story building not far from the center of town, at number 5 on a short but wide street that was called, for reasons unknown, Via Stromboli. It was a street of shops and stores and therefore all they saw were metal shutters. There was nobody about. The inspector looked at his watch. It was a few minutes before two.

  Gangitano dug a small metal ring out of his jacket pocket with some ten or so strangely shaped keys attached to it.

  “That’s all you’ve got?” asked Montalbano, slightly disappointed.

  “Yes. But if you know how to use them, they work miracles.”

  Then he looked at the inspector and said:

  “I’m going in.”

  “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  “I hope you’re not just going to arrest me when you see me running out.”

  “No need to worry about that.”

  Gangitano got out and walked up to the front door. Montalbano didn’t have time to count to ten before the guy was already inside with the door closed behind him.

  And at that moment the inspector, who until then had felt calm and untroubled, suddenly began to feel extremely nervous.

  By ten after two he’d already looked at his watch a good twenty times.

  By two-twenty he’d smoked seven cigarettes.

  By two-thirty he began to feel itchy all over his body, as if he’d been bitten by a thousand ants.

  By two-forty he was biting his nails thinking that the lawyer had woken up, caught Gangitano, and . . .

  He had to save him.

  He didn’t think twice. Opening the glove compartment, he grabbed his revolver, got out of the car, and dashed to the front door. He was going to press every buzzer until someone answered.

  At that very moment the door came open, and Gangitano appeared before the inspector.

  “What the hell are you doing, Inspector? Get back in the car!”

  Mortified, Montalbano obeyed, sticking his gun in his jacket pocket. Gangitano sat down beside him.

  “I wasn’t able to find anything at all—that’s what took me so long. But then, when I was about to give up, I found it.”

  “Found what?”

  “The letter.”

  Montalbano had to restrain himself from hugging the man.

  “Where was it?”

  “In the pocket of an overcoat hanging in the vestibule. It was already in its envelope, which isn’t sealed, however. Since I had a flashlight with me and was wearing gloves, I took it out and started reading the first few words. He definitely wanted to send it this morning.”

  “All right. Now come with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “To the lawyer’s bedroom—at which point you’ll slip away.”

 
* * *

  Montalbano was amazed at the skill with which Gangitano manipulated his strange keys. He was a real master. Ten minutes later they were in the vestibule of the lawyer’s apartment. They could hear him snoring, even from that distance. Montalbano, who wasn’t wearing gloves, signaled to Gangitano to take the letter out of the coat pocket and open it so he could read it. Gangitano grabbed the envelope, pulled out the letter, and held it in front of the inspector’s eyes, lighting it up with his flashlight. The first line, written in block capitals, was quite enough:

  IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR DAUGHTER ALIVE AGAIN . . .

  He had Gangitano put it back in the envelope and then whispered to him:

  “Now get out of here.”

  Without a word, the man opened the door, went out, and closed it again without a sound. Montalbano found himself in utter darkness. He advanced slowly, guided by the lawyer’s snoring.

  When he got to the bedroom, he took out his gun, feeling the wall with the other hand until he found the light switch, which he flicked on.

  Mascolo the lawyer kept right on snoring. The inspector sat down in a chair at the foot of the bed, then took his pistol and knocked the butt against a spot on the blanket that corresponded with the lawyer’s knee.

  Mascolo finally woke up, eyelids fluttering, sat up in bed and, seeing the barrel of a handgun pointed at him, put his hands up in terror.

  “Who—who are you?”

  “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you keep perfectly quiet, or I’ll shoot you,” Montalbano said coolly.

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t do anything to me,” said the lawyer. “I’ve got three million in the—”

  “I’m not interested in your money.”

  Mascolo became even more terrified.

  “Then what do you want?”

  Montalbano didn’t answer. He just stood up, took from his pocket the piece of paper with Vice Commissioner Martorana’s number on it, and dialed it from the phone on the man’s nightstand.

  “Martorana? Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you at this hour of the night, but I’m calling about the girl who was kidnapped. I think I’ve located one of the gang. I suggest you go within the next fifteen minutes to Via Stromboli, number five, in Vigàta. The name on the buzzer outside is Mascolo, attorney-at-law. Come by yourself, no sirens or squad cars, and you may just manage to catch them all by surprise. I’ll wait for you here. Hurry.”