The Pyramid of Mud Read online

  “What’ll you call it?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  They talked for a little while longer, then said good night and sent each other a long-distance kiss.

  In his mind Montalbano lit a very large candle and put it at the foot of the statue of the unknown saint—there had to be one—who protected animals.

  Then he sat down in front of the television to watch the ten o’clock news. Tuning in to TeleVigàta, he was curious to hear what they had to say about the Nicotra murder.

  TeleVigàta was very often more than happy to serve as an unofficial megaphone for the Mafia. It was well-known that the station’s shareholders included front men for both the Cuffaro and Sinagra families.

  Pippo Ragonese, their top newsman who always found ways to attack Montalbano and speak ill of him for one thing or another and discredit him in the eyes of the Vigatese, appeared on-screen.

  . . . late this morning we learned the identity of the victim’s father. We were able to get in touch with Inspector Domenico Augello of the Vigàta police, but he told us he was not at liberty to release any information. This is Montalbano’s style, consisting almost entirely of unjustified haughtiness and utter scorn for the need for information. Unfortunately it is the rule with the Vigàta police. Among the various theories circulating as to the motive for the murder, there is one that stands out as the most convincing, one which we feel it is our journalistic duty to bring to our viewers’ attention. The beautiful young Inge, wife of the late ragioniere Gerlando Nicotra, was, according to the vox populi, inclined, one may say, to partake in extramarital adventures. On that fateful night, Nicotra, who was in the habit of taking sleeping pills that would plunge him into a deep sleep, unexpectedly woke up to find that his wife was not lying beside him in bed. When, after a while, she didn’t come back to bed, he got up and, hearing some whispering downstairs, he cautiously went and looked down from the top of the stairs. And he saw his wife in another man’s arms. Grabbing a handgun, he went downstairs and threatened the two. His wife’s lover, not the least bit intimidated, managed after a brief struggle to disarm Nicotra, who, fearing for his life, tried to flee on his wife’s bicycle. The lover then shot at him and immediately fled in turn with Signora Inge. This is merely a hypothetical reconstruction, but it is, we repeat, the one we find the most convincing. It is, moreover, well-known that ragioniere Nicotra was a man of impeccable conduct and a model employee who—

  He turned it off, having found out as much as he needed to know.

  As far as he could remember, and on the basis of everything he’d read, the tradition in Sicily was that every Mafia crime, right from the start, must be made to look like the consequence of adultery.

  The following day brought the gift of a triumphant sun in a cloudless sky.

  Montalbano was so pleasantly surprised that he started singing, off-key as usual, “E lucean le stelle . . .”

  Even after his shower he carried on his bel canto display, but at a certain point it came to a sudden halt when he thought he heard the telephone ring.

  He pricked up his ears, right hand in the air, holding the razor.

  Nothing.

  Maybe it had rung for a bit and then stopped.

  And so?

  And so, dear Salvo, you may just happen to be going deaf.

  His good mood suddenly evaporated and was replaced by a surge of anger at himself.

  “I can hear just fine! Got that, asshole?” he said to the face reflected in the mirror.

  And the face in the mirror replied:

  “Asshole? Look who’s talking! You’re the asshole for not wanting to accept reality!”

  “What reality?”

  “The reality of your age!”

  The spat was cut short by the ringing of the phone.

  “See! I can hear just fine!” the inspector yelled into the mirror before going to pick up.

  It was Mimì Augello.

  This fact took him aback. Augello normally never called him at home, and Montalbano would rather it have been someone else bothering him.

  “Was it you who called a few minutes ago?”

  “Yes.”

  Damn! So the phone really had been ringing.

  “What is it, Mimì?”

  “I want some instructions.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether I should believe what I learned from an anonymous telephone call I just received.”

  It all became suddenly clear. The goddamn motherfucking sonofabitch Augello was getting even for the scolding he’d given him. But Montalbano had no choice but to play along.

  “What did you learn?”

  “That a car was torched last night in the Riggio district and its carcass is still smoking.”

  “Okay. Go and see what’s up with that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Mimì’s ironic tone put him on his guard.

  “About what?”

  “About whether I should go?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Fazio, who’s standing here beside me, tells me that Riggio district is right next to Pizzutello.”

  “Holy shit!” Montalbano exclaimed.

  “See? Be seein’ ya. Here’s Fazio.”

  “Hello, Chief? I’d say it’s worth our while—”

  “To go and have a look? I agree.”

  “I’ll come by with Gallo’s car to pick you up in half an hour, max.”

  Driving past the deserted construction site, they saw the two Forensics cars parked in front of Nicotra’s house.

  “Shall we ask them how far along they are?”

  “No, let’s keep going.”

  The old woman’s illegal bar-restaurant was open and hopping. One customer was on his way out, carrying a small plastic bag, while another was coming in.

  About a hundred yards farther on there was a dirt road on the right. Gallo turned onto it, and immediately the car seemed to turn into a boat on choppy seas. The road was an endless sequence of mounds and pits the car had trouble climbing out of.

  The landscape, too, had changed.

  All around, as far as the eye could see, the land looked as if it hadn’t been farmed for many years, becoming an expanse of weeds interrupted every so often by the ruins of some old peasant house that now, white as they were, looked like bones in the desert.

  But had there really once been lemon groves here? And orange groves? Or had it all just been a poetic fantasy?

  Not to see any people or dogs about was almost normal. What was sort of chilling and made one uneasy was that there weren’t even any birds in the sky.

  Nobody in the squad car said a word; the desolation made one clam up.

  “But are we sure this goddamned anonymous phone call wasn’t just a practical joke?” Montalbano asked at one point, feeling fed up.

  “There it is,” said Fazio.

  To their left, the sloping terrain was covered with thousands of white stones that seemed to have been purposely put there to form a sort of circumscribed space, and right in the middle of it, like some kind of funerary monument, lay the burnt shell of the car.

  Gallo turned off the dirt road and pulled the car up close to the charred carcass. They all got out.

  The acrid odor of melted paint, rubber, and vinyl seats was still strong.

  Both the hood and the trunk lid were half-raised and crumpled.

  They were relieved to discover at once that there was no body inside.

  “There’s no doubt about it,” he said. “This is Nicotra’s car.”

  Montalbano remained silent.

  At that moment a green whip snake almost five feet long came out from between two white stones, swiftly grazed the inspector’s shoes, and took cover under another rock.

  “At least there are a few living
creatures around here,” said Montalbano.

  “I’m wondering what this all means,” said Fazio. “If Ingrid’s corpse was inside the car, then it would have some sense and we could figure a few things out, but this way . . .”

  “It’s clear that we weren’t summoned to this godforsaken place by someone who’d just happened to see a torched car here. Whoever called us was one of the people who torched it. He wanted us to know. And that explains why they remained anonymous.”

  “But why did they do it?”

  “To use us as mailmen.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’re required to report officially that we found this car, right? That way, whoever’s supposed to get the message will get it. Apparently there’s some kind of negotiation going on.”

  “I still don’t get why they dragged this car out here.”

  “They had no choice.”

  “Could you explain?”

  “The two guys who went into Nicotra’s house had only one task: seize the old man. They would lay him down on the backseat, covered by a blanket, and take him wherever they took him. The Nicotras they would leave alive, but in no condition to sound the alarm, at least not immediately. The only problem was that Gerlando thought it best to run away, and so one of the two men shot him. At this point everything changes. The two men no longer know what to do, and so they weigh their options and decide to kidnap the woman as well. So one of the two guys takes the old man into his car, putting him in back, and for this reason the other guy is forced to take the Nicotras’ car in order to make off with Ingrid. Make sense to you?”

  “Yeah. So, what do we do now?”

  “Now we go back to the station. The sooner, the better. This isn’t the kind of place we want to hang around any longer than we need to.”

  “Shall I alert Forensics?”

  “Of course. Even though they won’t find anything. But that’s what they want us to do, and so we, like the good little boys we are, we’ll give ’em some rope.”

  “I’ll tell them when we drive past the house. There’s no point calling them on the phone.”

  As he entered, he said to Catarella:

  “Get me Augello.”

  “’E ain’t onna premisses, Chief.”

  “What do you mean he’s not on the premises?”

  “Ya mean ya donno what ’at means? You kiddin’ me, Chief? It means he ain’t on ’ese ’ere premisses but on some utter premisses.”

  Montalbano pretended he hadn’t heard.

  “What? So when I’m not here, and Fazio’s away with me, he just goes his merry way? Who’s gonna hold down the fort?”

  “I am, Chief,” Catarella said proudly.

  Montalbano decided not to comment.

  “But did he leave word where he was going?”

  “Nah, Chief.”

  “How long has he been away?”

  “Le’ss say a li’l over two hours, Chief. Right after Fazio went out to get yiz at home, Isspecter Augello got a phone call and ran out rilly fastlike an’ took Sargint Vadalà wit’ ’im.”

  “Call his cell for me, would you?”

  “Straightaways, Chief.”

  Moments later:

  “Iss toined off, Chief.”

  One of these days I’m going to turn him off! the inspector thought. He didn’t say it because Catarella was right in front of him, looking as though he felt guilty for the fact that Augello couldn’t be reached.

  Montalbano went into his office in a rage. What kind of way of doing things was this? Did Augello possibly not realize the sort of catastrophe that could occur if the only person running the station was Catarella? Say, for example, the commissioner decided to pay a surprise visit . . . The idea made him shudder. The moment Augello got back, he would eat him alive.

  Fazio appeared.

  “Chief, I just got a call from Vadalà, who went out with Augello because—”

  “Ah, good, tell me why. So I can finally know what the hell is going on in my police department!” Montalbano exploded.

  Fazio, who didn’t know the reason for the inspector’s anger, continued by force of inertia.

  “. . . because somebody shot Saverio Piscopo.”

  “And who’s he?”

  “What do you mean, ‘who’s he’? Don’t you remember? He’s the stonemason Augello had arrested . . .”

  Montalbano remembered and broke out in a cold sweat.

  Not only because of the news, but also because he was starting to lose his memory as well. If that was the case, it was time for the old folks’ home.

  He wouldn’t even be good at walking Livia’s dog, because he would end up losing the way. Deaf, blind, and scatterbrained. Not self-sufficient. Even the retirement home might not want him.

  “What?” he said, noticing that Fazio was telling him something. A second later, fearing that Fazio might see this as confirmation that he was losing his hearing, he added:

  “Sorry, I was distracted.”

  “I was saying that luckily they didn’t kill him.”

  “They didn’t?”

  “No, but he’s in grave condition. He was taken to Montelusa Hospital. Vadalà says they’re finishing up their questioning of the witnesses and will be back in about half an hour.”

  Once Fazio went out, he thought it would be a good idea to call Gambardella, but found his cell phone turned off.

  They were making Piscopo pay for the fact that he’d talked to a journalist, first by trying to send him to jail with a false accusation, and then by trying to kill him.

  It was a clear, precise warning: Whoever collaborates with Gambardella is risking his life.

  It was therefore obvious to everyone and his dog what the situation was. Everyone was free to talk to the journalist, or not to talk to him.

  A clear sign that the journalist had stuck his finger into a hornet’s nest.

  7

  Augello got back about twenty minutes later, his face as dark as a storm cloud. He was visibly angry and in a funk over what had happened.

  “Catarella told me you got upset because . . . I’m sorry, Salvo, but when I heard it involved Piscopo I was taken by surprise, since I’d been the one who—”

  “You’re forgiven several times over, Mimì. Now take a seat, calm yourself down, and tell me what happened.”

  “The poor bastard had just gone out to look for a job when a motorcycle with two men on it came up behind him and one of them shot him in the nape of the neck, hitting him squarely.”

  “A professional.”

  “Absolutely. Piscopo fell to the ground. The motorcycle stopped and the gunman, who was sitting behind the driver, got off the bike to give him the coup de grâce. But he didn’t manage in time because a sergeant from the Finance Police fired two shots at him. So the man got back on the motorbike and drove off without firing back. Somebody called an ambulance, which luckily came at once.”

  “Did you go to the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of condition is he in?”

  “Very serious condition. They still have to extract the bullet, which apparently only grazed his brain. But he should make it.”

  He paused and looked at the inspector.

  “Are we sure this isn’t some settling of accounts between drug dealers?”

  “Mimì, they tried to kill him for something that has nothing whatsoever to do with drugs. Did any of the witnesses recognize either of the men on the motorbike?”

  “They were wearing full helmets.”

  Another pause. Then:

  “Salvo, just to set my mind at rest: Would you please tell me what this is about?”

  Montalbano brought him up to speed on the investigation Gambardella was conducting.

  “If things are the way you say they are, I
’m starting to get a little scared,” said Mimì.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean those guys are liable to finish the job they started, right there in the hospital. I’m sure of it. They’ve failed twice, and so they’ll be more dogged than ever.”

  “You’re right. There’s one thing you can do. Call Prosecutor Jacono and ask him for authorization to have one of our men posted on guard duty, night and day, outside Piscopo’s room.”

  “I’ll go there right now and talk to him directly,” said Mimì. “See you later.”

  The moment the inspector set foot in the trattoria he was overwhelmed by a great din of voices and laughter. All the tables in the room, including the one he sat at daily, were taken, mostly by youngsters all wearing the same blue and white jersey. He stopped in his tracks, bewildered. Enzo came up.

  “I moved you into the small room next door.”

  “But who are they?”

  “They’re the Vigàta footballers.”

  Montalbano didn’t understand a thing about soccer. The small room next door had only room for two tables, and both were empty. So much the better. He would eat in peace. He ordered some antipasti. While he waited, a young man in his mid-twenties, wearing the blue and white jersey, appeared in the doorway.

  “I beg your pardon, Inspector.”

  “Come on in.”

  The youngster entered. He seemed intimidated, and remained standing.

  “What is it?” the inspector asked.

  “My name is Nicola Piscopo, I’m Saverio’s nephew. If you could do me a favor . . .”

  “Concerning what?”

  “This morning I asked at Montelusa Hospital if I could spend the night with my uncle and they said no. I thought that if you could maybe put in a good word for me . . .”

  “I don’t have the authority. But at any rate, your uncle is in good care at the hospital.”

  “I don’t have any doubt about the care. I’m worried about other things.”

  They exchanged a glance and understood each other.

  “Well, if it’ll make you less concerned, I’ve requested authorization to post an armed guard outside your uncle’s room.”