The Overnight Kidnapper Read online

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ll broadcast it on the ten o’clock news and then run it again on the midnight edition.”

  * * *

  “Fazio in?”

  “Nah, Chief, ’e’s atta scene o’ the kidnappin’ insomuch as the guy’s o’ the Flyin’ Squat wannit ’im onna scene an’ axed ’im to come cuz ’e knew more stuff ’n ’em, ’em meanin’ the Flyin’ Squat. But Isspecter Augello’s ’ere onna premisses.”

  Montalbano went and knocked on the door to Mimì’s office, went in, and sat down.

  “Both of the girls recognized their belongings. So we can conclude the car was used for the abductions,” said Mimì.

  “Apparently he’s changed cars,” the inspector said bitterly.

  “Yeah, I’d heard the latest good news. So I got down to work.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I am now in a position to tell you that there have been no reports of stolen cars.”

  “That doesn’t mean the abductor is using his own. He may just have robbed another whose owner hasn’t noticed yet that his car has been stolen.”

  “Were you expecting this third abduction?”

  “Yes, Mimì, which is why I just can’t find any peace.”

  “But what fault is it of yours?”

  “Oh, it’s my fault, all right—man, is it ever!”

  “In what sense?”

  “You see, Mimì, the first two abductions were carried out in exactly the same way. A car stopped by the side of the road with its hood up and a man bent over seeming to be working on the engine. At that point I should have issued a warning to all women driving alone not to stop if they saw such a scene. If I had given that simple warning, this third kidnapping would never have happened.”

  “Well, in my opinion, it’s actually good you didn’t do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you would have sowed panic, and who knows? Maybe some poor joe whose car broke down would’ve been lynched by a mob.”

  The inspector told him about the appeal he’d made on television. Augello glanced at his watch. It was past nine.

  “I’ll make you an offer,” he said. “Since someone’s going to have to wait around for phone calls, and so there’s a chance we’re going to have to spend the night here, what do you say if I go home now, and you stay here, and at three o’clock this morning, I’ll come in and relieve you?”

  “Offer accepted,” said Montalbano, getting up and going out.

  From his office he rang Catarella.

  “Come into my office for a second, Cat, would you?”

  Catarella came running.

  “Yer orders, sah!”

  “Cat, I’m going to have to stay here tonight till three a.m. I’ll be waiting for some important phone calls. At what time do you get off?”

  “At ten, Chief.”

  “And who takes over for you?”

  “Intelisano, Chief.”

  “When Intelisano comes in, tell him to come into my office before he goes on the job.”

  “Chief, beckin’ yer partin’ an’ all, but I’m not gonna tell Intelisano nuttin’.”

  Montalbano couldn’t believe his ears. Was the end of the world nigh? Catarella refusing to carry out an order?

  “Cat, what’s got into you?”

  “Wha’ss gat inna me izzat if yer gonna be here till tree a’clack, I’m gonna stay ’ere till tree a’clack, too, an’ even till four, an’ if you—”

  “Okay, okay,” the inspector cut him off. “But I want you to be careful with those phone calls. Don’t ask any questions and pass them straight to my office. Oh, and, while you’re at it, send someone down to buy four panini and two beers. What kind of panini do you want?”

  “Wit’ salami, Chief.”

  “Me, too. Here, let me give you the money.”

  “Oh, Jesus, what fun!” Catarella cried out, practically with tears in his eyes.

  “What’s so fun?”

  “Eatin’ panini an’ salami wit’ yiz, Chief!”

  Fazio came in as Catarella was going out.

  “Any news?” Montalbano asked.

  Fazio gestured dejectedly.

  “Forensics took the car to Montelusa to see if they could find any fingerprints; the Flying Squad is combing the area, but I don’t think they’ll find anything.”

  It was ten o’clock.

  “Come with me,” Montalbano said to him.

  They went into Augello’s office, which had a television, and turned it on. Zito had placed the inspector’s public appeal at the front of the newscast, right after the logo and credits.

  They watched it and then turned off the set.

  “I’m available if you want to man the phone in shifts,” Fazio offered.

  “Already taken care of,” said Montalbano.

  It gave him immense satisfaction to utter the very same phrase Fazio used all too often, which normally got terribly on his nerves. He continued:

  “You can go home now and come back in at eight tomorrow morning. That way Mimì can go home and get a little sleep.”

  * * *

  The first phone call, which came in at ten-forty, was not the one he’d been expecting, and it made him choke on his panino.

  “Ahh, Chief, Chief! Ahh, Chief!”

  This lament was normally Catarella’s refrain whenever “Hizzoner the C’mishner” called.

  “Is it the commissioner?”

  “Yeah, Chief, iss ’im poissonally in poisson! An’ ’is voice sounds like a lion roarin’!”

  “Well, let’s let him roar! Put him on.”

  “Montalbano!”

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Montalbano!”

  Had His Honor the commissioner gone deaf or something?

  “I’m right here!” said the inspector, raising his voice.

  “I’ve just found out—purely by chance, mind you—from a local television station, that it took you three abductions before you deigned to inform the proper authorities, which means that you kept the first two hidden. Is that correct?”

  He had no choice but to say yes. He hadn’t alerted “the proper authorities” because he’d completely forgotten to do so.

  “Yes, Mr. Commissioner, but, you see—”

  “No buts!”

  “Is it all right if I say ‘if’ instead of ‘but’?”

  “Don’t try to make light of this! It’s really not the right time!”

  “I would never presume to—”

  “I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock sharp!”

  And he hung up.

  Montalbano took a sip of beer from his can and called up Livia to inform her of the situation.

  When they’d finished talking, he came to the conclusion that, between one panino and the next, a cigarette would fit in quite nicely. Should he go outside to smoke it, or break the rules and smoke it in his office?

  He decided on the middle path. He got up, went over to the window, opened it, and smoked his cigarette with his elbows propped up on the windowsill.

  The telephone rang. He ran over and picked up the receiver.

  “Am I speaking with Inspector Montalbano?”

  It was the cold-congested voice of a middle-aged man.

  “Yes, I am he.”

  “I wanted to tell you that that woman, who is a terrible sinner and a common slut, will suffer the punishment she deserves amidst the flames of hell. Her fate is irrevocably sealed by now. You will never see her again.”

  “Mind telling me who this is, speaking?”

  “You, too, wretched sinner, will meet the same end.”

  “But who is speaking?”

  “The King of the Light.”

  “Then please ge
t me the King of the Gas, because they overcharged me on the last bill.”

  And he slammed the receiver down.

  He had better get used to it, however, because he was sure to receive more crank calls as the night wore on. An appeal like the one he’d made on TV was like honey to flies—an irresistible invitation for the unhinged, the pathological liars, and those with too much time on their hands.

  Half an hour later—after he’d spent the time on a crossword puzzle—the telephone rang.

  “My name is Armando Riccobono, and I would like to speak with Inspector—”

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  “This is about that kidnapping you talked about on the Free Channel.”

  “Did you see something?”

  “I think so.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I have a house in Ficarra. This afternoon I got in my car to drive to Vigàta. It was probably around quarter to five or a little later. When I got to the intersection that leads to the provincial road, I saw, on the other side of the same road, just past the intersection, a car stopped with its hood raised. When I turned left I saw Signora Luigia in her car, coming up. And that’s what I had to say.”

  The timing corresponded.

  “Were you able to see whether there was also a man near the stopped car?”

  “I didn’t see anyone. If there was a man bending down under the raised hood, I wouldn’t have been able to see him from where I was.”

  “Thank you, Signor Riccobono. Could you please leave me your telephone number?”

  Montalbano wrote the number down on a piece of paper, thanked the man, and hung up.

  Riccobono’s testimony meant that the third abduction was carried out using the exact same strategy as the other two. Could one still consider the fact that the third woman also worked in a bank a coincidence?

  The telephone rang again. It was Fazio.

  “Chief, did you watch TeleVigàta?”

  That was another local television station.

  “No, why?”

  “Because they aired an emergency news broadcast in which they gave the names of the three women who’d been abducted and also mentioned that all three worked in banks.”

  Montalbano launched into a litany of curses.

  “How the hell did they find out?”

  “They said they’d received an anonymous phone call.”

  “Logically speaking, the only person who could have made that call was the abductor himself.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. But for what purpose?”

  “To put us on the wrong track.”

  “And what track would that be?”

  “To have us and the whole town believe that this is some form of action against the banks.”

  “So why do you think that’s not the right track?”

  “First, because the thought’s being put in our heads by the abductor himself. Second, for the reason we’ve already said: How are these overnight kidnappings doing any harm to the banks? They’re not. On top of everything else, the first two women abducted didn’t even miss a single hour of work.”

  When he’d finished talking to Fazio, he picked the crossword puzzle back up but didn’t have time to read a definition before the telephone called him back to duty.

  “This is the CABC calling!” said an imperious voice.

  What the hell was the CABC? Some Canadian TV station?

  “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “The CABC!”

  “And what does that stand for?”

  “It stands for Clandestine Anti-Bank Coalition. Do you want to know what our goal is?”

  “Sure, why not?” the inspector asked benevolently.

  “Our goal is to terrorize everyone who works at banks, so they will resign and the banks will be forced to close for lack of personnel. You should know that the CABC is a worldwide, international organization which—”

  The inspector hung up and went back to his crossword puzzle.

  Nothing else happened. Dead calm.

  * * *

  Mimì Augello showed up at three-oh-five. He was still half-asleep and constantly yawning.

  “Get any interesting phone calls?” he asked.

  “No, except for one from a certain Riccobono.”

  He’d just finished telling him about that phone call when the phone rang again.

  “Shall I answer, or should you?” asked Mimì.

  “You get it. But, if you don’t mind, turn on the speakerphone.”

  “My name is Roscitano . . . I would like to speak immediately with the head of the police station, what’s his name . . . Montalbano.”

  The man sounded rather agitated.

  “You can tell me. I’m Inspector Augello.”

  “Well, when I went down into the garage to get my car I saw, on the ground, in front of the rolling shutter, a woman completely naked and covered in blood and moaning in pain.”

  “Did she say what her name was?”

  “She won’t speak! She just groans. I think she’s in shock. My wife brought her into our house.”

  “Tell us where you live.”

  “Just a kilometer past the Scala dei Turchi, on the provincial road to Montereale.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “It’s hard to miss. It’s a little red house with a turret, right on the sea.”

  “We’ll be right over.”

  “Listen, is it okay if I leave in the meantime?”

  “Why? Where do you have to go?”

  “To Palermo, to pick up my son, who’s arriving on the mail boat from Naples.”

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

  “Are you kidding me? But my son—”

  “If you’re not there when I get to your house, I will have you arrested the moment you enter Palermo.”

  The man cursed, and Mimì hung up.

  “Come on,” said Montalbano. “Let’s get moving.”

  “We can take my car,” said Augello.

  * * *

  “Come on inside. It’s right this way,” said the fat, fiftyish Signora Agata Roscitano, leading them towards the bedroom. “I washed the poor girl and disinfected her wounds. There must be at least thirty of them . . .”

  Montalbano stopped in his tracks.

  “What do you mean, thirty?”

  “Oh, I mean thirty, maybe even more. Made with the tip of a knife but not very deep. I’m a trained nurse, and I know what I’m talking about. Only the girl’s face was spared. She’s resting now, so please be quiet.”

  They tiptoed into the room and approached the bed.

  The inspector recognized her at once.

  It was Luigia Jacono.

  7

  The young woman kept moaning softly, thrashing about in her sleep.

  “Let’s let her rest,” said Montalbano, making for the door.

  As soon as they were out of the room and in the dining room, the inspector told Augello to alert the Flying Squad that the missing woman had been found and that they should send a physician to examine her.

  Then he turned to Roscitano.

  “Did you hear any cars in the area last night?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I know exactly what the inspector is asking,” Signora Agata intervened.

  “And what’s that?”

  “You want to know whether the girl was brought here nearby in a car and then abandoned, or came here by herself.”

  “That’s right. And did you hear anything?”

  “No, nothing. But I can tell you anyway that she came here by herself, after walking a great distance.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “From the condition of her feet, which are a shambl
es. She must have walked barefoot across the countryside. Her poor feet are like one big open wound.”

  Augello returned from making his phone calls.

  “The Flying Squad will be here shortly with a doctor.”

  “Mimì, I want you to make another call for me. To Jacono’s house. The number’s here, on this little piece of paper. It’s possible the one who answers will be Gisella, Luigia’s sister.”

  “And what should I tell her?”

  “Tell her that Luigia’s all right, and that for the moment she’s not coming straight home because we still have to question her.”

  Augello stepped out again to make the call.

  “Shall I make you some coffee?” asked Signora Agata.

  Montalbano accepted the offer with enthusiasm.

  As the signora went into the kitchen, the inspector turned to Roscitano.

  “When you first saw the young woman on the ground in front of the shutter,” he said, “what did you do? Did you go up to her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you touch her?”

  “Why should I have touched her?”

  “To see if she was still alive.”

  “I didn’t need to touch her to know that! She was groaning. Faintly, but groaning just the same.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “She said something when my wife and I picked her up to carry her into the house. She said, ‘call.’”

  “No, she didn’t say ‘call,’ she said ‘car,’” said Signora Agata, coming into the room with the coffee.

  “She said, ‘call’!” Roscitano fired back in irritation.

  “No, sir, she clearly said ‘car.’”

  Mimì came back into the room and grabbed a cup of coffee.

  “I spoke with the sister and set her mind at rest,” he said.

  After the coffee, Montalbano naturally felt like smoking a cigarette. He went out of the house, with Augello following behind.

  It was a soft night, clear and windless. The sea lay sleeping a short distance away. They could tell from the gentle, rhythmic sound of the surf.

  “You seem worried.”