Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases Page 7
“Which one of you is Tano Cipolla?”
One man stepped away from the group of sailors standing astern and talking to Cosentino, a very lean forty-year-old, pale and agitated, wild-eyed, hair standing on end. He moved in fits and starts, like a mechanical puppet.
“It was a terrible mistake! I was just—”
“You can tell me that later. Now go to the exact spot where you were when you shot the mechanic.”
Cipolla protested. His voice was quavering, his eyes on the verge of tears.
“But I didn’t mean to shoot Franco!”
“Okay. But, in the meantime, just show me.”
Still like a puppet, Tano Cipolla sat down on the edge of the hatch with his legs dangling into the motor room.
“This is exactly how I was. And I was talking to him while he worked.”
“Did you already have your gun in your hand?”
“No, sir.”
“Weren’t you cleaning it?”
“Who ever said that?”
At this point Fazio intervened.
“Give me your weapon.”
“I ain’t got it anymore. As soon as I realized I’d killed Franco, I threw it into the sea.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. You can’t understand. I was desperate, I was mad . . .”
“What kind of gun was it?”
“A Colt revolver.”
“What caliber?”
“Dunno.”
“Do you have extra cartridges?”
“Yessir, about thirty. They’re in my bag.”
“Where did you buy it?”
Cipolla became tongue-tied.
“I got . . . I got it from a friend.”
“Did you register it?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have a license to bear arms?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you done yet?” Fazio asked the inspector.
“For now, yes.”
“So I’ll repeat my question: Why at some point did you take out your gun?”
“He asked me to.”
“Explain.”
“I’d told him I owned a gun, and so he asked to see it.”
“I see. And where did you have it at that moment?”
“In my bag.”
“What did you do?”
“I got up, went and got the gun, and then sat back down. And that was when . . .”
“When what?”
“When it went off. We took a wave across the deck, and to keep from falling into the engine compartment, I grabbed the edge with both hands. And without realizing it I probably squeezed the trigger too tight, and . . .”
“Okay. Stand up. Fazio, please give the gentleman your pistol.”
Fazio didn’t really feel like it, but he gave it to him anyway, after removing the cartridge clip.
“Now, Signor Cipolla, I want you to repeat the movements you made, and you should even pull the trigger when the moment comes.”
Everyone on board watched the scene. Cipolla sat down and, as soon as he was seated, lurched suddenly chest-forward, spread his arms, grabbed the edge of the hatch with both hands at his sides, and at that moment they all heard the click of the pistol’s hammer striking an empty chamber.
It was a plausible reconstruction. The accident could, in fact, have happened that way.
“Give Signor Fazio back his gun and remain seated.”
The inspector then turned to the rest of the crew.
“Did you all hear the shot?”
There was a chorus of yeses.
“What were you all doing at that moment?”
The sailors looked at one another, a little confused, and didn’t answer.
“Can I speak for everyone?” asked a sandy-haired man of about fifty with sun-baked skin and a Phoenician face.
“And who are you?”
“I’m the crew chief, Angelo Sidoti.”
“All right, speak.”
“The pilot was at the helm, four men were astern checking the nets, and I was walking from stern to prow to—”
“So you were the person closest to the spot where—”
“Yessir, I was.”
“What did you do?”
“I took two steps back and realized immediately what had happened. Cipolla was frozen like a statue with a gun in its hand. I looked into the engine room and didn’t take long to figure out that poor Franco was dead.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I rushed over to the radio to call Signor Cosentino.”
“And then?”
“Then I informed the other boats that we were suspending the fishing expedition and heading back to Vigàta. And then I heard some shouting and so I went out on deck.”
“Who was yelling?”
“Cipolla. It was like he’d gone crazy. Girolamo and Nicola were restraining him, ’cause he wanted to throw himself into the sea.”
Montalbano walked away towards the prow and called Fazio over.
“Listen, I want Cosentino, Cipolla, and the crew chief in my office at four o’clock this afternoon. And everyone else should remain available. As soon as we get back, inform the prosecutor, Pasquano, and Forensics. I’m going back to the office. Tell Cosentino we can return to port.”
* * *
After the inspector had been signing papers for an hour, Augello came in. He’d been in bed for four days with the flu.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fully recovered,” said Augello, sitting down. “I heard there was an accident out on a fishing boat.”
“Yeah, some fisherman, one Tano Cipolla, accidentally shot the engine man . . .”
“What did you say the shooter’s name was?”
“Cipolla. Tano Cipolla.”
“Cipolla . . . Tano Cipolla . . . Want to bet he’s the guy married to the two twins?” Augello asked himself aloud.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“There’s a pair of twin girls here in Vigàta, Lella and Lalla, famous for their beauty, who are now around thirty years old.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. Lella married Cipolla, and Lalla remained unmarried but lives with her sister and brother-in-law. Around town they call him the twins’ husband.”
“But how do you know these things?”
“I know everything about the beautiful women of Vigàta,” Augello said with a grin.
Montalbano realized that grin was hiding something.
“Don’t tell me you tried your luck with them!”
“No, I never did. But I later regretted it, when I started to hear rumors.”
“Saying what?”
“Saying that on certain nights, when Cipolla is away, his wife entertains. Not often, but sometimes.”
“And what does Lalla do in the meantime?”
“Well, she certainly doesn’t sit in her room twiddling her thumbs. She takes part. They do threesomes. But these are just rumors. There may be nothing to them.”
“And does Cipolla know anything about these escapades of his wife and sister-in-law?”
“There are some who are convinced Cipolla’s in the dark about the whole thing, and then others who swear Cipolla knows everything but pretends not to know anything.”
“Do me a favor, Mimì, and try to get more information.”
“Why, do you have doubts about the accident?”
“For the moment, no, but it’s always best to be aware of all the possibilities.”
2
By the time Fazio returned, the inspector was already about to go out to eat.
“What took so long?”
“Dr. Pasquano made a wrong move trying to turn his car around and ended up wi
th both front wheels hanging off the pier, looking like some balancing act at the circus. He very nearly plunged straight into the water.”
“What did he say?”
“He was cursing like a madman. Scared to death.”
“No, I meant what did he say about the corpse?”
“He said the man died instantly and that it must have happened between two and four a.m. last night.”
“That fits.”
“Right. Forensics found the bullet. It was pretty misshapen. They’ll keep us posted.”
* * *
As he was eating some exquisite mullet al cartoccio, the inspector thought of something and called Calogero, the owner, over to his table.
“What is it, Inspector?”
“Tell me something. Where do you buy your fish?”
“From Felice Sorrentino.”
“And have you ever used Matteo Cosentino?”
“I did, for a while. But then I switched.”
“Why?”
“Because twice he tried to pull a fast one on me.”
“How?”
“By selling me frozen fish he was passing off as fresh.”
“Apparently he hadn’t caught enough to allow him—”
“People say it happens often. His boats come back half-empty, and since he doesn’t want to lose customers, he buys frozen fish from some of his colleagues.”
“But has he always done that?”
“He was dependable at first. The problems started about three or four years ago.”
* * *
A walk out to the lighthouse was in order. Sitting down on the flat rock, he fired up a cigarette. After what Mimì Augello had told him, he realized they had to leave no stone unturned in their interrogation of Cipolla. He looked at his watch: three o’clock.
He sat there a little while longer, breathing the sea air deep into his lungs. When he got back to the station, Fazio informed him that those summoned were already there.
“Let’s start with the crew chief. What’s his name again?”
“Angelo Sidoti.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s fifty-one, has always worked for Cosentino, and is top dog among all the other crew chiefs.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that if a dangerous situation arises, he’s the boss and everyone has to follow his orders.”
The inspector sat Sidoti down in the chair opposite his desk. Sidoti seemed neither nervous nor worried; in fact, his attitude seemed almost indifferent.
“Signor Sidoti, you told me where you were when the shot went off. Where were you five minutes before that?”
The crew chief answered at once.
“Five minutes before that, I was in the wheelhouse.”
“So, if I’ve understood correctly, you went from the wheelhouse to the stern, where four crewmen were checking the nets, you engaged them briefly, and were on your way back to the wheelhouse when you were stopped by the shot?”
“That’s correct.”
“Where did Cipolla keep his knapsack?”
“There’s a space on the prow where we can store our things.”
“So—please correct me if I’m wrong—to go and get his gun, Cipolla in fact had to travel from near the stern to a spot near the prow, thus covering almost the entire length of the boat. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Now pay close attention. When you came out of the wheelhouse and went astern, did you see Cipolla sitting on the edge of the hatch opening?”
This time, too, Sidoti answered without hesitation.
“No, he wasn’t there.”
“How can you be so sure? It was the middle of the night and—”
“Inspector, we make do just fine with the navigation lights; we’re used to it. Apparently he’d gone to get his gun.”
“So then you must have seen him return.”
“Yes, that I did. We crossed paths outside the engine compartment. Then I took two more steps and heard the shot, at which point I turned around and saw what I already told you.”
“When you crossed paths with Cipolla, did you notice he was holding a gun?”
“No.”
“How long has Cipolla been working with you?”
“That was his first time aboard my boat.”
This answer took Montalbano by surprise.
“Where was he before that?”
“On the Carlo I.”
“Why was he moved?”
“Those are things Signor Cosentino decides.”
“Was it also the first time aboard for the engine mechanic?”
“No, he’s been working for me for three years.”
“I’m sure you’ve discussed what happened with your men. Did anyone overhear what Cipolla and Arnone were talking about before the shot was fired?”
“The guys checking the nets were about ten feet away from the engine room and shooting the breeze. It’s unlikely they heard anything.”
“Did Cipolla and Arnone already know each other?”
“Of course. Since we all work for the same boss, we all know each other.”
“Thank you. You can go now.”
Sidoti said good-bye and left. Fazio and the inspector exchanged a glance.
“What do you think?” asked Fazio.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not convinced. He was too ready with his answers.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“How is it possible for someone to remember immediately everything he did, minute by minute, the night before? A lot of it was habitual acts and gestures he must have done hundreds of times, and you’re gonna remember exactly where you were at an exact given moment?”
“Maybe in the meantime he’d gone over those moments in his mind.”
“I’m sure that’s true. Have Signor Cosentino come in.”
Signor Cosentino appeared immediately, more nervous than that morning.
“I was told my trawler will be under a restraining order for at least a week. I’m going to lose a ton of money!”
Montalbano pretended not to have heard him.
“Signor Sidoti has just told us that Cipolla was on his first fishing expedition aboard the Carlo III, after working on the Carlo I, and that he was moved there on your orders.”
“So what? Ain’t I got the right to move one of my fishermen from one boat to another?”
“Of course you do, but you’ll have to tell me the reason.”
“Mr. Inspector, it just happens sometimes that when certain people spend too much time on the same boat with each other, they end up getting on each other’s nerves. And that’s when the arguments and scuffles start . . . and the work suffers.”
“Had you received any complaints?”
“Complaints, no, but I got a good nose for certain things.”
“So has your nose sniffed out anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m told that Cipolla has a beautiful wife and that his sister-in-law, who lives with them, is also no joke.”
“Would you please come right out and say what you’re getting at?”
“Was Arnone married?”
“No, sir. He was a good-looking kid of about thirty and a real ladies’ man.”
“Okay, now you’re talking. Is it possible Cipolla may have heard some nasty rumors about his wife and Arnone?”
Cosentino threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Anything’s possible,” he said.
“We need to find out whether Arnone knew Signora Cipolla.”
“I can answer that question myself. He most certainly did know her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because every N
ew Year’s Eve, I invite all my crews with their families to my house. But if you want to know what I think—”
“Tell me.”
“If Cipolla really intended to kill Arnone, couldn’t he have found a better place to do it? To kill a man like that, on a fishing boat, in front of everyone . . .”
“Okay, that’ll be enough for today. Fazio, please bring in Signor Cipolla.”
Apparently Cipolla had had all the time in the world to calm himself down. He was no longer wild-eyed, and had meanwhile combed his hair. He even seemed more sure of himself, and the questions they asked would no longer catch him unprepared. As soon as he appeared before him, Montalbano realized instinctively that the best strategy would be to make him all nervous again, as he was that morning. And so he immediately went on the attack.
“Signor Cipolla, aside from the fact that you’re up against the very serious charge of murder—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?! Murder?!” Cipolla immediately interrupted him.
The inspector slammed his hand down on the desk and raised his voice, surprising Fazio, who looked at him in shock.
“Don’t you ever dare interrupt me! You will listen to me in silence, and if I ask you to speak, you will use proper language! And be careful what you say. I’ll only tell you this once. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir,” said a frightened Cipolla.
“And I will add, for your information, that if it had been up to me, I would have arrested you already, but His Honor the judge did not agree, and I must therefore keep interrogating you.”
Cipolla’s brow quickly became drenched in sweat.
“Now, in addition to homicide charges, you will have to answer for illegal possession of a firearm. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason, in your opinion, did Signor Cosentino take you off of the Carlo I and transfer you to the Carlo III?”
“How should I know ? . . . He’s the boss . . .”
“Don’t waste my time, Cipolla. And don’t try to get cute with me. Cosentino told me everything. Will it make it easier for you if I tell you the reason myself?”
Cipolla, resigned, threw up his hands and said nothing.
“You,” Montalbano continued, “weren’t getting along with your mates on the Carlo I anymore. And do you want me to tell you why? Your wife—”