The Patience of the Spider Page 7

  The young man said nothing. He was concentrating so hard on the words he was hearing that the inspector thought he could hear the gears churning in his brain. Francesco then drew his conclusion.

  “According to your reasoning, Susanna was very probably kidnapped by someone who knew she was going to take the dirt road that evening. Someone who lives around there. In that case we need to get to the bottom of this, find out everybody’s name, verify that—”

  “Stop. If you’re going to start calculating and forming hypotheses, you must also be able to anticipate failure.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll explain. Let’s assume we conduct a careful investigation of all those who live on that road. We come to know every detail of their lives, down to the number of hairs on their asses, and in the end we learn that there was never any contact whatsoever between Susanna and any of them. Nothing at all. What do you do then? Start over from the top? Give up? Shoot yourself?”

  The kid didn’t let up.

  “Well, what do you think one should do?”

  “Formulate and test other hypotheses at the same time, letting them all play out simultaneously, without giving preference to any single one, even if it appears to be the most likely to prove true.”

  “And have you formed any others?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could you tell me one?”

  “If it’ll make you feel better…Okay, Susanna’s on that dirt road because someone told her to meet him or her in that very place, because there’s never anyone around…”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “What’s not possible? That Susanna might have had such an appointment? Can you really be so certain? I’m not saying, mind you, that it was some sort of amorous rendezvous. Maybe she was meeting someone for reasons we don’t know. So she goes to this appointment unaware that she’s walking into a trap. When she arrives, she parks the motorbike, removes her helmet, but keeps it in her hand, knowing that the meeting is supposed to be brief. Then she approaches the car and is kidnapped. Does that work for you?”

  “No,” Francesco said firmly.

  “And why not?”

  “Because when we saw each other that afternoon, she would surely have told me about this prearranged meeting. I’m sure of it, believe me.”

  “I believe you. But maybe Susanna didn’t get a chance to tell you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Did you accompany her on her way to her friend’s house that evening?”

  “No.”

  “Susanna had a cell phone, which we haven’t found, right?”

  “Right.”

  “She could have received a phone call after she left your place, as she was on her way to her friend’s house, and agreed to the meeting only then. And since you haven’t seen her since, she had no way of letting you know.”

  The boy thought about this for a moment. Then he made up his mind.

  “I guess it’s possible.”

  “So what are you trying to tell me with all these doubts of yours?”

  Francesco didn’t answer. He buried his face in his hands. Montalbano threw oil on the fire.

  “But we may be entirely on the wrong track.”

  The kid jumped out of his chair.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m merely saying that it’s possible we’re starting from a mistaken assumption. That is, that Susanna went home by way of that dirt road.”

  “But that’s where I found the motorbike!”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean Susanna took that road when leaving Vigàta. I’ll give you an example, the first thing that comes into my head. Susanna leaves her friend’s home and takes the road she normally does. This road is used by many of the people who live in the houses before and after the villa, and it ends a couple of miles past the Mistretta house in a kind of rural suburb of Vigàta—La Cucca, I think it’s called. It’s a road of commuters, peasants, and others who prefer to live in the country even though they work in Vigàta. They all know one another, and probably go back and forth on that road at the same times of day.”

  “Yes, but what has that got to do with—”

  “Let me finish. The kidnappers have been following Susanna for some time, to see what kind of traffic there is around the hour she comes home, and to figure out where would be the best place for them to make their move. That evening, they get lucky. They can carry out their plan at the intersection with the dirt road. In one way or another, they block Susanna’s path. There are at least three of them. Two of them get out of the car and force her to get in. The car drives off, probably taking the dirt road in the direction of Vigàta. One of the two, however, stays behind, grabs the motorbike, and follows the car. Then he leaves the bike at some point along the dirt road. This would explain, among other things, why the motorbike was pointed in the direction of Vigàta. Then he gets in the car with the others, and they drive off into the sunset.”

  Francesco looked doubtful.

  “But why bother with the motorbike? What do they care? Their main concern is to get out of there as quickly as possible.”

  “But I just told you that road’s full of commuters! They couldn’t just leave the motorbike on the ground. Someone might think there’d been an accident, another might recognize the motorbike as Susanna’s…In short, alarm bells were ringing and they didn’t have time to find a good place to hide it. And while they were at it, they might as well move it onto the dirt road, where nobody ever drove by. But we can form other hypotheses as well.”

  “We can?”

  “As many as you like. After all, we’re conducting a lesson here. But first I must ask you a question. You told me you sometimes accompanied Susanna all the way home.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the gate open or closed?”

  “Closed. Susanna would open it with her key.”

  “So we can also hypothesize that Susanna, having leaned her motorbike against the gate, was reaching for her key when somebody came up to her on foot, someone she’s seen a few times along that road, some commuter. The man pleads with her to take him on her motorbike to the dirt road, making up some bullshit story or other—say, that his wife felt sick in the car on her way to Vigàta and called him on her cell phone for help, or that his son got hit by a car…something like that. Susanna feels she can’t refuse, so she has him get on the back of her bike and sets out. And in this case as well, we have an explanation for the positioning of the motorbike. Another possibility…”

  Montalbano suddenly broke off.

  “Why don’t you go on?”

  “Because I’m bored. Don’t kid yourself: It doesn’t matter that much exactly what happened.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No, because, if you think about it…The more we examine the details that seem essential to us, the fuzzier, the more out-of-focus they become. Take you, for example. Didn’t you come to me to find out what ever happened to Susanna’s helmet?”

  “Her helmet? Yes.”

  “As you can see, the more our discussion progressed, the more the helmet receded into the background. In fact it became so unimportant that we stopped talking about it. The real question is not the ‘how,’ but the ‘why.’”

  Francesco was opening his mouth to ask another question when the door burst open and crashed loudly against the wall, sending him flying out of his chair in fear.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “My ’and slipped,” Catarella said contritely from the doorway.

  “What is it?” Montalbano asked in turn.

  “Seeing as how you said you din’t wanna be disturbed by any disturbers, I hadda come ax you a question in poisson.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is Mr. Zito the newsman one of them that youda call disturbers, an’ if he in’t, in’t he?”

  “No, he’s no disturbance. Put him on.”

  “Hi, Salvo, it’s Nicolò. Sorry to interrupt, but
I wanted to tell you I just came into my office—”

  “What the hell do I care what your work hours are? Tell it to your employer.”

  “No, Salvo, this is serious. I just got in and my secretary told me that…well, it’s about that girl who was kidnapped.”

  “Okay, tell me what she said.”

  “No, I’d rather you came here.”

  “I’ll drop by as soon as I can.”

  “No, right now.”

  Montalbano hung up, stood up, and shook Francesco’s hand.

  The Free Channel, the private television station where Nicolò Zito worked, had their studios in an outlying district of Montelusa. As he was driving there in his car, the inspector tried to guess what could have happened that would make his journalist friend so anxious to tell him about it. And he guessed right. Nicolò was waiting for him at the entrance to the building, and as soon as he saw Montalbano’s car pull up, he went out to greet him. He looked upset.

  “What is it?”

  “This morning, right after the secretary came in to work, there was an anonymous phone call. A man asked her if we had the equipment to record a telephone call and she said yes. He told her to get it all ready, because he was going to call back in five minutes. Which he did.”

  They went into Nicolò’s office. On his desk was a portable but professional-looking tape recorder. The journalist turned it on. As he’d anticipated, Montalbano heard the exact same recording he’d heard at the Mistretta home, not one word more or less.

  “It’s scary. That poor girl…” said Zito.

  Then he asked:

  “Did the Mistrettas get this call? Or do the bastards want us to act as go-betweens?”

  “They called late last night.”

  Zito breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Well, I’m glad for that. But then why did they also send it to us?”

  “I’ve got a very good idea why,” said Montalbano. “The kidnappers want everyone, not just the father, to know that the girl is in their hands. Normally a kidnapper has everything to gain from silence. These guys, however, are doing everything under the sun to make noise. They want the sound of Susanna begging for help to scare as many people as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the big question.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “If you want to play their game, then broadcast the phone call.”

  “It’s not my job to help criminals.”

  “Good for you! I’ll make sure to carve those noble words on your tombstone.”

  “You’re such an asshole,” said Zito, grabbing his crotch.

  “Well, then, since you’ve declared yourself an honorable journalist, you’ll call the judge and the commissioner, tell them about the recording, and make it available to them.”

  “That’s what I’ll do.”

  “You’d better do it right away.”

  “You in some kind of hurry?” asked Zito as he was dialing the commissioner’s office.

  Montalbano didn’t answer.

  “I’ll wait for you outside,” he said, getting up and going out.

  It was a truly gentle morning, with a light, delicate wind blowing. The inspector fired up a cigarette but didn’t have time to finish it before the newsman came out.

  “Done.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “Not to broadcast anything at all. They’re sending an officer to come pick up the cassette.”

  “Shall we go back inside?” asked the inspector.

  “You want to keep me company?”

  “No, I want to see something.”

  When they entered the office, Montalbano told Nicolò to turn on the television and tune in to TeleVigàta.

  “What do you want to hear from those assholes?”

  “Just wait and you’ll understand why I was in such a hurry for you to call the commissioner.”

  At the bottom of the screen appeared the words:

  SPECIAL EDITION OF TELEVIGÀTA NEWS, COMING RIGHT UP.

  “Shit!” said Nicolò. “They called them, too! And those sleazeballs are going to broadcast it!”

  “Isn’t that what you expected?”

  “No. And you made me lose the scoop!”

  “You want to turn back now? Make up your mind: Are you an honest or a dishonest journalist?”

  “I’m honest, all right, but losing a scoop of one’s own free will really hurts!”

  The scroll with the announcement disappeared, and the TeleVigàta News logo came onto the screen. Then, without any introduction, Mr. Mistretta’s face appeared. It was a replay of the appeal he’d already made the day after the kidnapping. Then a newsman appeared.

  “We rebroadcast the plea of Susanna’s father for a specific reason. Now, please listen to the chilling document that was called in to our studios this morning.”

  Against a backdrop of the Mistretta villa, one heard the exact same telephone call that was made to the Free Channel. Then they cut to the prune face of Pippo Ragonese.

  “Let me say straight off that here at TeleVigàta, the editorial staff was terribly torn over whether to broadcast the phone call we’d just received. The anguished and anguishing voice of Susanna Mistretta is not something our consciences can easily bear hearing, living as we do in a civilized society. But your right to the news prevailed. The public’s right to know is sacrosanct, and it is our sacrosanct duty as journalists to respect this right. Otherwise we could no longer proudly call ourselves journalists in the public service. We chose to rebroadcast the girl’s father’s desperate appeal before letting you hear that telephone call. The kidnappers do not realize, or do not want to realize, that their ransom demand can only come to nothing, given the well-known financial straits of the Mistretta family. In this tragic stalemate, our hope resides in the forces of order, particularly in Inspector Minutolo, a man of vast experience, whom we fervently wish a prompt success.”

  The first newsman reappeared and said:

  “This special edition will be rebroadcast every hour.”

  Party’s over, time to go home.

  A rock music program began.

  Montalbano never stopped marveling at the people who worked in television. For example, they show you images of an earthquake with thousands of victims, whole towns swallowed up, small children wounded and crying, bits of human corpses, and then right afterwards they say: “And now a few beautiful shots of Carnival in Rio.” Colorful floats, happy faces, sambas, asses.

  “The bastard and son of a bitch!” said Zito, turning red in the face and kicking a chair.

  “Wait, I’ll fix him,” said Montalbano.

  He quickly dialed a number and then waited a few minutes, the receiver glued to his ear.

  “Hello? Montalbano here. The commissioner, please. Yes, thank you. Yes, I’ll remain on the line. Yes. Mr. Commissioner? Good day. Sorry to bother you, but I’m calling from the offices of the Free Channel. Yes, I know that Nicolò Zito just called you. Of course, he’s a responsible citizen and was only doing his duty…He set aside his interests as a journalist and…Of course, I’ll tell him…Well, what I wanted to say, sir, was that as I was sitting here, another anonymous call came in.”

  Nicolò looked at him, flabbergasted, shaking his hand at him, a cacocciola, as if to say: “What the hell?”

  “The same voice as before,” Montalbano continued, still on the phone, “told him to get ready to record. Except that when they called back five minutes later, not only was there a bad connection and you couldn’t understand a thing they said, but the tape recorder didn’t work.”

  “What kind of bullshit are you feeding him?” Nicolò said under his breath.

  “Yes, Mr. Commissioner, I’ll remain at the scene and wait for them to retry. What’s that you say? TeleVigàta has just broadcast the phone call? That’s not possible! And they replayed the father’s plea? No, I didn’t know. But this is unheard of! It can even be considered a crime! They should have turned the tape ov
er to the authorities, not broadcast it on the air! Just as Zito did! You say the judge is looking into what measures can be taken? Good! Excellent! Oh, sir, something just occurred to me. Only a hunch, mind you. If they just called back the Free Channel, they certainly must have also called back TeleVigàta. And maybe TeleVigàta had more luck and managed to tape the second call…. Which of course they’ll deny having received, because they’ll want to save it to broadcast at the right moment…A dirty game, you’re absolutely right…Far be it from me to give you advice, sir, what with all your expertise, but I think a thorough search of the TeleVigàta offices might produce…yes…yes…My humble respects, Mr. Commissioner.”

  Nicolò looked at him in admiration.

  “You’re a master showman!”

  “You’ll see, between the prosecutor’s machinations and the commissioner’s search, they won’t even have time to piss, let alone rebroadcast their special edition!”

  They laughed, but then Nicolò turned serious again.

  “To hear first the father, then the kidnappers,” he said, “it sounds like a conversation between deaf people. The father says he hasn’t got a cent, and the others tell him to get the money ready. Even if he sells his villa, how much money could they possibly get?”

  “Are you of the same opinion as your distinguished colleague Pippo Ragonese?”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That the kidnapping is the work of inexperienced third worlders who don’t realize they have nothing to gain and everything to lose?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Maybe the kidnappers don’t have a TV and haven’t seen the father’s appeal.”

  “Or maybe…” Nicolò began but then stopped, as if in doubt.

  7

  “Or maybe what?” Montalbano prodded.

  “I just had an idea, but I’m embarrassed to tell you what it is.”

  “I promise you that no matter how stupid it is, it will never leave this room.”

  “It’s like something out of an American movie. People in town say that up until about five or six years ago, the Mistrettas lived high on the hog. Then they were forced to sell everything. Isn’t it possible that the kidnapping was organized by someone who came back to Vigàta after a long absence and was therefore unaware of the Mistretta family’s financial situation?”