Patience of the Spider Page 5

  Maybe it was a chance encounter that went bad.” The boy had a good head on his shoulders.

  “How old are you, young man?”

  “Twenty-three. You can call me Francesco, if you want.

  You’re old enough to be my father.”

  With a pang to the heart, Montalbano realized that, at this stage of his life, he would never be the father of a kid that age.

  “Are you a student?”

  “Yes, in law. I graduate next year.”

  “What do you want to do in life?”

  He asked only to relieve the tension.

  “The same thing you do.”

  Montalbano thought he hadn’t heard right.

  “You want to join the police force?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like it.”

  “I wish you the best of luck. Listen, to get back to your rapist hypothesis . . . which, mind you, is only a hypothesis.”

  “Which I’m sure you’d already thought of.”

  “Of course. Did Susanna ever mention people making lewd propositions, obscene phone calls, things like that?”

  “Susanna’s very reserved. She certainly got a lot of compliments, wherever she went. She’s a beautiful girl. Sometimes she would repeat them to me, and we would laugh about it. If there was any cause for worry, I’m sure she would have mentioned it to me.” “Her friend Tina is convinced Susanna ran away of her own volition.”

  Francesco gave him an astonished look, mouth open.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “A sudden breakdown. The pain and tension caused by her mother’s illness, the physical strain of caring for her, the stress of studying for exams. Is Susanna a fragile girl?” “So that’s what Tina thinks? She obviously doesn’t know Susanna! Susanna’s nerves are bound to give out, that much is certain, but it’s equally certain the breakdown won’t come until after her mother dies! Until that moment, she will stay at her bedside. Because once she gets something in her head, and she’s convinced she’s right, she becomes so determined that . . .

  She’s anything but fragile! No, believe me, that’s an absurd hypothesis.”

  “Speaking of which, what is Susanna’s mother sick with?”

  “To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I don’t know what’s wrong with her. A couple of weeks ago, Susanna’s uncle, Carlo, the doctor, had some sort of consultation with two doctors—one who’d come down from Rome, the other from Milan—and in the end they all threw their hands up. Susanna explained to me that her mother is dying of an incurable dis-ease: the refusal to live. A kind of fatal depression. When I asked the reason for this depression—since I believe there always has to be a reason—she answered evasively.” Montalbano steered the conversation back to the girl.

  “How did you meet Susanna?”

  “Purely by chance, in a bar. She was with a girl I used to go out with.”

  “When was this?”

  “About six months ago.”

  “And you hit it off straightaway?”

  Francesco gave a broad smile.

  “It was love at first sight.”

  “Do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make love.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “At my place.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “I live with my father. But he’s away a lot, often travels abroad. He’s a wholesaler in lumber. Right now he’s in Russia.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “They’re divorced. My mother’s remarried and lives in Siracusa.”

  Francesco opened and then closed his mouth, as if he wanted to add something.

  “Go on,” Montalbano prodded him.

  “But we don’t . . .”

  “Say it.”

  The kid hesitated. It was clear he felt embarrassed talking about something so private.

  “You’ll see,” the inspector continued, “when you become a policeman yourself, you too will have to ask indiscreet questions.”

  “I know. I merely wanted to say that we don’t do it very often.”

  “She doesn’t want to?”

  “No, not exactly. I’m always the one who asks her to come to my place. But every time I’ve felt as though, I don’t know, she seemed distant, or absent. It was like she went along with it just to please me. I realized that she’s very affected by her mother’s illness. And I felt ashamed to ask her . . . Just yesterday afternoon . . .” He broke off, then made a strange face, as though per-plexed.

  “How strange . . .” Francesco muttered.

  The inspector pricked his ears.

  “Just yesterday afternoon?” he pressed.

  “She was the one who suggested we go to my place. And I said yes. We didn’t have much time, since she’d been at the bank and then had to go to Tina’s to study.” The kid still looked bewildered.

  “Maybe she wanted to reward you for your patience,” said Montalbano.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Because this time, for the first time, Susanna was present. Entirely present. With me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Sorry, but you said that before meeting you, she’d been to the bank. Do you know why she went?”

  “She had to withdraw some money.”

  “And did she?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know how much?”

  “No.”

  So why had Susanna’s father said that she had only thirty euros, at the most, in her pocket? Maybe he didn’t know she’d been to the bank? The inspector stood up, and the young man did the same.

  “Okay, Francesco, you can go. It’s been a real pleasure to meet you. I’ll give you a ring if I need you.” He held out his hand, and Francesco shook it.

  “Could I ask you one thing?” the boy asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Why, in your opinion, was Susanna’s motorbike parked that way?”

  This Francesco Lipari would make a good cop, no doubt about it.

  o o o

  He phoned Marinella. Livia had just come in and was happy.

  “You know what?” she said. “I’ve just discovered a fabulous place. It’s called Kolymbetra. Just think, it used to be a great big pool, originally carved out by Carthaginian prisoners.” “Where is it?”

  “It’s right there, near the temples. Now it’s a kind of vast garden of Eden, just recently opened to the public.”

  “Did you have lunch?”

  “No, just a panino at Kolymbetra. How about you?”

  “Nah, all I had was a panino, too.”

  The lie had come out spontaneously, without warning.

  Why hadn’t he told her he’d gorged himself on couscous and mullets, violating the sort of diet that Livia was forcing him to follow? For what reason? Perhaps a combination of shame, cowardice, and a desire to avoid a quarrel.

  “Poor thing! Will you be back late?”

  “I really don’t think so.”

  “Then I’ll cook something.”

  Here was the instant punishment for his lie. He would ex piate his sin by eating a dinner prepared by Livia. Not that she was a terrible cook, but her dishes tended toward the flavorless, the spiceless, the lightest of light, the I-can-but-I-can’t-really-taste-it. Instead of actually cooking, Livia hinted at cooking.

  He decided to drop in at the villa to see how things were going. He drove off, and then, as he drew near, he noticed that traffic was getting heavy. In fact there were a good ten cars parked along the road that ran along one side of the villa, and in front of the closed gate six or seven people jostled about, videocams on their shoulders, trying to get a good shot of the lane and the garden. Montalbano closed the windows of his car and drove forward, wildly honking his horn, until he nearly crashed into the gate.

  “Inspector! Inspector Montalbano!”

  Muffled voices called out to him; some asshole photographer blinded him with a burst of flashes. Lu
ckily the Montelusa policeman standing guard recognized him and opened the gate. The inspector drove his car inside, pulled up, and got out.

  He found Fazio sitting in the usual armchair in the living room, pale-faced, hollow-eyed, and looking generally very tired. His eyes were closed, head thrown back and resting against the back of the chair. A variety of gadgets were now attached to the phone, including a tape recorder and headset.

  A uniformed policeman, not from the Vigàta force, was standing near a French door, thumbing through a magazine. The moment the inspector entered, the telephone rang. Fazio leapt up, and in the twinkling of an eye had donned the headset, started the tape recorder, and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  He listened for a moment.

  “No, Mr. Mistretta is not at home . . . No, please don’t insist.”

  He hung up and saw the inspector. He removed the headset and stood up.

  “Oh, Chief! The phone’s been ringing nonstop for the last three hours! My head is numb! I don’t know how it happened, but everybody, all over Italy, knows about this disappearance, and they’re all calling to interview the poor father!” “Where’s Inspector Minutolo?”

  “He’s back in Montelusa, packing an overnight bag. He’s gonna sleep here tonight. He just left.”

  “What about Mistretta?”

  “He just went upstairs to be with his wife. He woke up about an hour ago.”

  “He was able to sleep?”

  “Not for long, but he was given something. At lunchtime his brother the doctor showed up with a nurse who’s going to spend the night with the sick wife. Then the doctor gave his brother a shot of sedative. You know,Chief, there was some kind of argument between the two brothers.” “He didn’t want the shot?”

  “Well, that too, but first Mr. Mistretta got upset when he saw the nurse. He told his brother he didn’t have the money to pay her, to which his brother replied that he would pay for it himself. Then Mistretta started crying, saying he was reduced to living on other people’s charity . . . Poor man, I really do feel sorry for him.” “Listen Fazio, sorry or not, tonight you’re going to clock out, go home and get some rest. Okay?”

  “Okay, okay. Here’s Mr. Mistretta.”

  The sleep hadn’t done him any good. He was swaying as he walked, weak-kneed and hands trembling. Seeing Montalbano, he became alarmed.

  “Oh my God! What’s happened?”

  “Nothing, I assure you. Please don’t get excited. But since I’m here, I’d like to ask you a question. Do you feel up to answering?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you. Do you remember that this morning you told me Susanna could only have had thirty euros, at the most, on her? Was that the amount your daughter usually went around with?” “Yes, I can confirm that. That’s more or less how much she usually had on her.”

  “Did you know that she went to the bank yesterday afternoon?”

  Mistretta looked stunned.

  “In the afternoon? No, I didn’t know. Who told you that?”

  “Francesco, Susanna’s boyfriend.”

  Mr. Mistretta looked sincerely bewildered. He sat down in the first chair that came within reach and ran a hand over his brow. He was trying very hard to understand.

  “Unless . . .” he muttered.

  “Unless what?”

  “Well, yesterday morning I told Susanna to go to the bank to see if some back payments had been credited to my pension. The account is in both of our names, mine and hers. If the money was there, she was supposed to withdraw three thousand euros and pay off some debts that, frankly, I didn’t want to think about anymore. They weighed on my mind.” “What kind of debts, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I dunno, the pharmacy, some shopkeepers . . . Not that they ever put any pressure on us, but it was I who . . . But, when Susanna came home around noon, I didn’t ask her whether she’d been to the bank, so maybe . . .” “. . . Maybe she’d forgotten to do it and didn’t remember until the afternoon,” the inspector finished his sentence for him.

  “I’m sure that’s what happened,” said Mistretta.

  “But that means that Susanna had three thousand or more euros on her person. Which isn’t a whole lot, of course, but to an imbecile . . .”

  “But she would have paid the bills with it!”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because when she came out of the bank she . . . stopped to talk with Francesco.”

  “Oh.”

  Then he clapped his hands together. “But . . . we can call and check . . .”

  Mistretta got up wearily, went over to the phone, dialed a number, then spoke in a voice so soft that all they could hear were the words:

  “Hello? Bevilacqua Pharmacy?”

  He hung up almost at once.

  “You were right, Inspector, she didn’t stop at the phar macy to pay off our outstanding bill . . . And if she didn’t go to the pharmacy, she probably didn’t go anywhere else.” Then all at once, he cried out:

  “O Madonna mia!”

  It seemed impossible, but his face, which was pale as could be, somehow managed to turn even paler. Montalbano worried that the man might be having a stroke.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Now they won’t believe me!” Mistretta moaned.

  “Who won’t believe you?”

  “The kidnappers! Because I told a journalist—”

  “What journalist? Did you talk to journalists?”

  “Yes, but only to one. Inspector Minutolo said I could.”

  “But why, for the love of God?”

  Mistretta looked at him, befuddled.

  “Wasn’t I supposed to? I wanted to send a message to the kidnappers. . . . To say that they were making a terrible mistake, that I haven’t got any money to pay the ransom . . . And now they’re going to find three thousand . . . Can you imagine, a young girl going around with all that money in her pocket?

  They’ll never believe me! Poor . . . girl . . . My poor daughter!” Sobbing prevented him from going on, but as far as the inspector was concerned, he’d said more than enough.

  “Good day,” Montalbano said.

  And he stalked out of the living room, in the grips of an uncontrollable rage. What the hell was Minutolo thinking when he authorized him to make that declaration? He could already imagine how the newspapers, television, and everybody else would embroider the story! The kidnappers now would likely turn nasty, and the person who would suffer the most would be poor Susanna. Assuming there was, in fact, a ransom to be paid. From the garden, he called to the policeman who was reading near the French door.

  “Go tell your colleague to hold the gate open for me.” He got in his car, turned on the ignition, waited a few seconds, then took off like Schumacher in a Formula 1 race.

  The journalists and cameramen scattered in every direction, cursing.

  “What is he, crazy? Is he trying to kill us?” Instead of continuing down the same road he’d come in on, he turned left onto the dirt road where the motorbike had been found. And in fact the road was impassable for a normal vehicle. He had to drive as slowly as possible and continually perform complicated maneuvers to keep the wheels from plunging into huge trenches and hollows of the sort one might find between dunes in the desert. But the worst was yet to come. Less than half a mile before the outskirts of town, the road was cut off by an enormous excavation pit. Apparently one of those “roadworks ahead” that in Italy have the peculi-arity of always lying ahead even when the whole world has passed them by. To get past it, Susanna must have got off her motorbike and walked it around the pit, or else had to make an even wider detour, since those who’d passed through before her had, by dint of going repeatedly back and forth, created a kind of bypass trail through the open countryside. But what did it mean? Why had Susanna taken this route? He had an idea. With a series of maneuvers so exacting and numerous that his injured shoulder began to ache again, he t
urned the car around and headed back. The dirt road was starting to seem endless when at last he came to the main road and stopped. It was getting dark. He couldn’t make up his mind. It would take at least an hour to do what he wanted to do, which meant that he would return home late, likely sparking a squabble with Livia. And he was in no mood for that. On the other hand, what he wanted to do was merely a routine check, which anyone at the station could do. He started the car back up and drove back to headquarters.

  “Summon Inspector Augello to my office at once,” he ordered Catarella.

  “Chief, he in’t poissonally here.”

  “Who is?”

  “Want their names in flabbetical order?”

  “Whatever order you like.”

  “Okay, there’s Gallo, Galluzzo, Germanà, Giallombardo, Grasso, Imbrò . . .”

  He chose Gallo.

  “What can I do for you, Chief?”

  “Listen, Gallo, I want you to go back to that dirt road where you took me this morning.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “There’s ten or so little country houses along that road. I want you to stop at every house and ask if anyone knows Susanna Mistretta, or if they saw a girl pass by last night on a motorbike.” “All right, Chief, I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”

  “No, Gallo, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I want you to go there immediately and then ring me at home.”

  o o o

  He arrived home feeling a little worried that Livia might give him the third degree. And indeed she started the questioning at once, after greeting him with a kiss that seemed a bit dis-tracted to him.

  “So why did you have to go in to work?”

  “Because the commissioner put me back on duty.” And he added, as a precaution, “But only temporarily.”

  “Do you feel tired?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Did you have to drive?”

  “I had the squad car take me around.”

  End of interrogation. Some third degree! This was a piece of cake with icing.

  05

  “Did you watch the news?” he asked in turn, seeing that the danger had passed.

  Livia replied that she hadn’t even turned on the television.

  He would therefore have to wait for the ten-thirty edition of TeleVigàta News, since Minutolo must surely have chosen to speak to the station that was always pro-government regardless of who was in power.