The Overnight Kidnapper Read online

  Montalbano remained silent.

  “What do you think about it?” asked Fazio.

  “Your hypothesis might make sense, but on one condition: that Di Carlo has an accomplice.”

  “An accomplice? And who would that be?”

  “The girl he’s in love with.”

  “But it’s possible he hasn’t told her about any of this.”

  “But in that case the girl would have come and reported him missing, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said Fazio, disappointed. “Still, I don’t know why, but I get the feeling this story is more complicated than it appears.”

  “I agree,” said Montalbano.

  At that moment Augello came in looking triumphant and holding two small cellophane bags in his hand.

  “In addition to the little hoop, Forensics also found a little ring in the trunk of the torched car. Here they are.”

  He set the two small bags down on the inspector’s desk.

  Montalbano looked at them.

  “The little hoop must belong to Manuela, while the little ring belongs to Enzo’s niece,” he said in the end.

  Mimì looked at him in shock.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Mimì, I don’t have magical powers. The explanation’s quite simple, really. Enzo told me today, when I went to eat at his restaurant. Now I’m going to give you an assignment that you’re sure to enjoy. Take your little cellophane bags and show them to the two women. If they acknowledge the objects, it will confirm definitively that that car was used for the kidnappings.”

  “I’ll go right now,” said Augello, picking up the little bags and heading for the door.

  “Wait a second,” said the inspector, stopping him in his tracks. “In your recent past as a whoremonger . . .”

  “I never went to prostitutes,” Augello objected.

  “In your past life as a womanizer, then, did you ever meet a man named Giorgio Bonfiglio?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Is he trustworthy?”

  “If you tell me why you’re so interested, I can probably give you a better answer.”

  Montalbano told him everything.

  Mimì stood there for a moment in thoughtful silence, then spoke.

  “Professionally speaking,” he said, “meaning, as a representative for producers of fine jewelry, I think he’s beyond reproach. As a man with a long habit of bullshitting women, on the other hand, he’s certainly told some pretty big lies. You should probably also know that he’s a gutsy, inveterate poker player who can bluff with the best of ’em.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Augello went out. Fazio looked over at Montalbano.

  “Assuming you feel like telling me, why did you ask him for information on Bonfiglio?”

  “Remember the salesman at his store who said that Marcello had met the girl here in Vigàta in early June?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And remember that Signora Daniela told us that her brother Marcello had spoken to her about a wonderful girl shortly thereafter?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Because Bonfiglio told us he learned of the existence of this girl from a phone call Marcello made to him from Lanzarote in August. Now, think this over carefully: Does it seem logical to you that Marcello would talk about this with his sister and his salesman but not with his bosom buddy and closest friend?”

  “You’re right . . .”

  “There are only two possible explanations. The first is that Marcello did talk to him about her but Bonfiglio, for reasons we don’t know yet, has an interest in pretending he doesn’t know the girl. The second possible explanation is that Marcello in fact did not talk to him about her. So the question is: Why not? And here we might venture the fairly logical explanation that in revealing the girl’s name Marcello would have provoked a strong reaction from his friend, and so, fearing such a reaction, Marcello has postponed it for as long as possible.”

  “Are you imagining some kind of violent reaction?”

  “Not necessarily, but don’t forget that Bonfiglio has lent Marcello money, and a tidy sum at that, which so far has only been returned in part.”

  “Which of your two hypotheses do you think is the more likely scenario?”

  “Right off the top of my head I would say that Marcello told him about the girl in June.”

  The telephone rang.

  “Chief, sorry to distoib yiz in yer affice an’ all, bu’ ’ere’s a call onna line fer Fazio who ain’t in ’is affice but in yers.”

  Fazio said a few things over the phone and then hung up.

  “That was Signora Daniela, who’d just spoken with her husband.”

  “And what have they decided?”

  “They would rather wait two or three more days before filing a missing persons’ report.”

  “So, knowing Marcello, they’re being careful. At any rate, missing persons’ report or not, we’ll move ahead just the same.”

  The phone rang again.

  “Chief, ’at’d be Signor Pitruzzo onna line, an’na heretoforesaid wantsa—”

  “Put him on.”

  Montalbano instinctively looked at his watch. It was twenty past six. Virduzzo sounded troubled.

  “Inspector Montalbano, I’m sorry, but it’s beginning to seem like everything is conspiring to prevent us from meeting.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to come here at six?”

  “Yes, but I won’t be able to come.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because unfortunately I had to go to Montelusa, to the emergency room. And there’s a long wait.”

  “Did something happen to you?”

  “Nothing new, but I’m feeling very dizzy and can no longer stand up.”

  Adelina’s skillet blows were therefore quasi-lethal.

  “Shall we say tomorrow morning at nine?” Montalbano suggested.

  “All right. I can’t wait to talk to you. Thank you.”

  He hung up. It mustn’t be anything important; otherwise, Virduzzo, dizzy or not, would have come.

  Fazio turned to the subject of interest to him.

  “So, how should we proceed about Di Carlo?”

  “We’ll start with our usual strategy. You find out what people are saying around town. Ask as many people as you can what—”

  The phone rang for the third time.

  “Man, what a pain in the ass!” the inspector exclaimed, picking up the receiver.

  Catarella’s voice was breathless and trembling.

  “Ahh, Chief, ’ere’s some scary-soundin’ guy’s askin’ f’help an’ I don’ unnastand . . .”

  “Put him on,” said Montalbano, turning on the speakerphone.

  “Help . . . help . . . for heaven’s sake, please help me . . .”

  It was the voice of an elderly or sick man, a feeble, desperate voice. Fazio leapt out of his chair.

  “Try to stay calm. And please tell me your name and where you live,” said the inspector.

  “Wait just a minute . . . no, no, I can’t do it, I can’t remember what my name is . . .”

  “Try to make an effort, please. What is your name?”

  “I’m confused . . . wait . . . it’s coming to me . . . ah, yes, that’s it . . . my name is Jacono . . . help . . .”

  “Try to remain as calm as possible and tell me where you live.”

  “I live in the country . . .”

  “Yes, but where, exactly?”

  “I think the district is called Zicari . . . no . . . no . . . wait . . . Ficarra . . . Ficarra district . . . come quickly . . . hurry . . . help . . .”

  Fazio repeated to himself, “Jacono, Ficarra district,” as if to commit it to memory, and dashed out of the room.

  �
�Signor Jacono, can you hear me?”

  “I don’t understand . . . don’t understand . . .”

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “My daughter . . . my daughter hasn’t come . . .”

  “Did you have an appointment with your daughter?”

  “No . . . no appointment . . .”

  Fazio came back in.

  “Gallo’s ready. He’s figured out where the guy lives.”

  “How long will it take to get there?”

  “With Gallo, about fifteen minutes.”

  “Signor Jacono, don’t worry, don’t get upset, just stay where you are and don’t do anything. We’ll be at your house shortly.”

  “Come quick . . . quick . . .”

  They ran out of the station house, got into the car, and Gallo took off like a rocket, putting the siren on.

  Turning off the main road to Montereale, they took the first country road on the right and then turned left at an intersection. And very nearly crashed straight into an empty car poorly parked on the shoulder.

  Fazio hurled a few curses at whoever had left the car there.

  “We’re already in the Ficarra district here,” said Gallo.

  “Stop in front of the second house,” said Fazio.

  The second house was right on the road. The yard was in back.

  It was a two-story house and looked well maintained. The front door was closed, while an upstairs window was open.

  They got out of the car.

  “Be quiet and keep your ears peeled,” said Montalbano.

  Then he shouted as loudly as he could:

  “Signor Jacono! We’re here!”

  In the deep silence that followed, all three of them distinctly heard a faraway voice.

  “Help! Help!”

  It was coming from the open window.

  “Let’s break down the front door,” said Fazio.

  “Wait a second,” said Gallo, studying the front of the house carefully. “I think I can manage to climb up to that window.”

  And before the inspector could stop him, he was already standing on top of the iron grate over a ground-floor window beside the door, which he’d used as a ladder; then, grabbing onto an external drainpipe, he set one foot atop the arch over the door, put all his weight on that foot, and sprang forward, seizing hold of the windowsill with both hands.

  “The rooster’s turned into a monkey! Well done!” Montalbano said in admiration.

  With one last effort Gallo hoisted himself up and sat down on the windowsill. He glanced inside the room and said:

  “There’s a man lying on the floor groaning. I don’t see any blood. There’s also a wheelchair here. I think he’s paralytic and must have fallen. Let me give him a hand and then I’ll come down and let you guys in.”

  * * *

  It took Jacono more than half an hour to calm down a little and tell them what had happened to him.

  Fazio had found a box of chamomile tea in the kitchen and made him a double dose.

  Jacono, whose first name was Carlo, was seventy-seven years old and had been a business executive. He enjoyed a comfortable retirement, sharing a home with his daughter Luigia, aged thirty-eight, who worked as a clerk at the Banca Cooperativa di Vigàta and got off work at half past four. He had another daughter as well, Gisella, who lived with her husband in Montereale. During the day a housecleaner by the name of Grazia looked after Signor Jacono.

  But that afternoon something strange had happened that had never happened before. Luigia had called his cell phone at four thirty-five and told him he could send Grazia home, because she was on her way there.

  Jacono, not feeling well, had lain down in bed with his clothes on, trusting his daughter to be punctual, since she was never so much as a minute late for anything, said good-bye to the housekeeper, and remained there alone.

  But at half past five, seeing that Luigia hadn’t come home yet, he tried calling her on her cell phone. Which was turned off. He tried again two or three more times, always with the same result.

  And so he tried calling Gisella, his other daughter, but her line was busy.

  Feeling restless and afraid, he tried to get up and sit in the wheelchair but fell to the floor.

  Luckily he hadn’t lost his grip of the cell phone, and that was how he’d been able to call the police.

  “Was your daughter on her way here in her car?”

  “Of course.”

  “What kind of car is it?”

  “A Volkswagen Polo. License number BU 329 KJ.”

  Gallo and the inspector exchanged glances, and they understood each other at once. The awkwardly parked car they’d almost hit at the intersection was a Polo.

  6

  “Papà! Papà!” a woman called from the road.

  Gisella had arrived, having been alerted by Fazio.

  Montalbano got up, left the room almost running, and stopped the woman before she started climbing the stairs to go to her father’s bedroom.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Your father called us here. He’d fallen and wasn’t able to—”

  “Oh, my God! What’s happening? On my way here I saw my sister’s car stopped at the crossroads. Where is she? And how is Papa?”

  “Listen to me for a moment. Your father is very upset but is all right. Just don’t tell him about your sister’s car.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he would just get more upset. And he’s practically in a state of confusion. Do you have a recent photo of Luigia?”

  “A photo?! What on earth is going on? Where is Luigia?”

  “At the moment I’m unable to tell you anything. But, please, the photo.”

  “There are some in her room.”

  “Then please go upstairs and get one before going into your father’s room, and you can give it to me when you see me out.”

  They went upstairs. Montalbano went into Jacono’s room, and Gisella continued on down the hallway.

  “Your daughter Gisella is here. She’s just gone to the restroom for a moment. We’re going to go now, Signor Jacono, since we know you’ll be in good hands.”

  “And what about Luigia? . . . Where’s Luigia? Why is she so late?” Jacono wailed.

  “Signor Jacono, please don’t worry. We’ll let you know as soon as we have any news of your daughter.”

  Gisella, meanwhile, had arrived, and ran at once into her father’s arms to comfort him.

  “We’ll be seeing you, signora,” the inspector said to her.

  “Let me show you out,” said Gisella.

  * * *

  Montalbano didn’t even have time to settle his buttocks down comfortably in the seat and buckle his safety belt before Gallo was screeching to a halt, nose to nose with the Polo.

  It was starting to get dark.

  Montalbano jumped out and grabbed the handle to the driver’s-side door of the Polo, which immediately came open. The key was in the ignition, with other keys hanging from the chain. On the passenger’s seat was a rather elegant purse.

  The inspector picked this up, opened it, and looked inside. The woman’s cell phone was there, turned off, along with a wallet with two hundred euros, some lipstick, a handkerchief, and another set of keys.

  “Boys,” he said, “I am convinced we are looking at a third kidnapping.”

  “What can we do?” Fazio asked anxiously.

  Montalbano handed him the purse. Then he took the key out of the ignition, locked the car doors with another key, and gave these as well to Fazio.

  “Let’s hurry back to Vigàta. Once we’re across town, you, Fazio, go into the station and inform the commissioner’s office. Gallo and I will continue on to Montelusa.”

  “What are you goin
g to do?”

  “We can’t keep these kidnappings secret any longer. I’m going to spill all the beans on TV.”

  * * *

  Nicolò Zito, editor in chief of the Free Channel’s news department, was a friend of the inspector’s and made himself immediately available.

  It took them only fifteen minutes to record an interview. Then they played it back and watched.

  Zito appeared first, saying:

  “We will now broadcast an important request by Chief Inspector of Vigàta Police Salvo Montalbano.”

  The inspector appeared on-screen.

  “We have reason to believe that this woman whose face you see in this photograph”—and here Montalbano’s face disappeared and in its place appeared the photo Gisella had given him, as the inspector continued speaking in the background—“was the victim of a kidnapping that took place this afternoon between four-thirty and five o’clock, along the country road that leads from the Vigàta–Montereale provincial road to the district of Ficarra.”

  Montalbano’s face returned.

  “Anyone who may have seen anything unusual at the time and place mentioned, we ask you please to inform the Vigàta police. The woman in question was driving a Volkswagen Polo, which was found at the spot where she was abducted. Thank you.”

  The camera then pulled back until Zito was visible beside the inspector.

  “Inspector Montalbano, do you think we are looking at a kidnapping for ransom?”

  “Unfortunately no, which makes the whole case more difficult. We are dealing with a maniac here, one who abducts his victims and—”

  “Are you saying there have been other such cases?”

  “Yes. Two others.”

  “Did the abductor harm the victims?”

  “So far he hasn’t hurt any of his victims. He limits himself to rendering them unconscious with chloroform, but doesn’t steal anything and doesn’t even touch their clothes. But we can’t rule out that he might change his methods.”

  “Thank you, Inspector Montalbano.”