Voice of the Violin Page 8

  “Nice.”

  Montalbano felt his hands trembling. He distinctly saw the newspaper headline: POLICE INSPECTOR GOES SUDDENLY BERSERK, ATTACKS HUSBAND OF MURDER VICTIM.

  “Upstairs there’s a small guest room, a large bathroom, and the bedroom. Go up.”

  The doctor obeyed. Montalbano remained downstairs in the living room, fired up a cigarette, and took the envelope of photographs of Michela out of his pocket. Gorgeous. Her face, which he had only seen distorted in pain and horror, had a smiling, open expression.

  Finishing his cigarette, he realized the doctor hadn’t come back down.

  “Dr. Licalzi?”

  No answer. He bounded up the stairs. The doctor was standing in a corner of the bedroom, hands covering his face, shoulders heaving as he sobbed.

  The inspector was mystified. This was the last reaction he would have expected. He went up to Licalzi and put a hand on his back.

  “Try to be brave.”

  The doctor shrugged him off with an almost childish gesture and kept on weeping, face hidden in his hands.

  “Poor Michela! Poor Michela!”

  It wasn’t a put-on. The tears, the sorrowful voice, were real.

  Montalbano took him firmly by the arm.

  “Let’s go downstairs.”

  The doctor let himself be led, moving away without looking at the bed, the shredded, bloodstained sheet. He was a physician, and he knew what Michela must have felt during her last moments alive. But if Licalzi was a physician, Montalbano was a policeman, and as soon as he saw him in tears, he knew the man was no longer able to maintain the mask of indifference he’d put on. The armor of detachment he customarily wore, perhaps to compensate for the disgrace of impotence, had fallen apart.

  “Forgive me,” said Licalzi, sitting down in an armchair. “I didn’t imagine . . . It’s just horrible to die like that. The killer held her face down against the mattress, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was very fond of Michela, very. She had become like a daughter to me, you know.”

  Tears started streaming down his face again, and he wiped them away, without much success, with a handkerchief.

  “Why did she decide to build this house here instead of somewhere else?” the inspector asked.

  “She had always mythologized Sicily, without ever knowing the place. The first time she came for a visit, she became enchanted with it. I think she wanted to create a refuge for herself here. See that little display case? Those are her things in there, personal trinkets she brought down with her from Bologna. It says a lot about her intentions, don’t you think?”

  “Do you want to check and see if anything’s missing?”

  The doctor got up and went over to the display case.

  “May I open it?”

  “Of course.”

  The doctor stared at it a long time, then raised a hand and picked up the old violin case, opened it, showed the inspector the instrument that was inside, reclosed it, put it back in its place, and shut the showcase.

  “At a glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything missing.”

  “Did your wife play the violin?”

  “No, she didn’t play the violin or any other instrument. It once belonged to her maternal grandfather from Cremona, who made them. And now, Inspector, if it’s all right with you, I want you to tell me everything.”

  Montalbano told him everything, from the accident Thursday morning to what Dr. Pasquano had reported to him.

  Emanuele Licalzi, when it was over, remained silent for a spell, then said only two words:

  “Genetic fingerprinting.”

  “I’m not really up on scientific jargon.”

  “Sorry. I was referring to the disappearance of her clothes and shoes.”

  “Might be a decoy.”

  “Maybe. But it might also be that the killer felt he had no choice but to get rid of them.”

  “Because he’d soiled them?” asked Montalbano, thinking of Signora Clementina’s thesis.

  “The coroner said there was no trace of seminal fluid, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That reinforces my hypothesis, that the killer didn’t want to leave the slightest biological trace that could be used in DNA testing—that’s what I meant by genetic fingerprinting. Real fingerprints can be wiped away, but what can you do about semen, hair, skin? The killer tried to make a clean sweep.”

  “Right,” said the inspector.

  “Excuse me, but if you don’t have anything else to tell me, I’d like to leave this place. I’m starting to feel tired.”

  The doctor locked the front door with his key, Montalbano put the seals back in place, and they left.

  “Have you got a cell phone?”

  The doctor handed him his. The inspector called Pasquano, and they decided on ten o’clock the following morning for identifying the body.

  “Will you come, too?”

  “I should, but I can’t. I have an engagement outside of Vigàta. I’ll send one of my men for you, and he can take you there.”

  He had Licalzi drop him off at the first houses on the outskirts of town. He needed a little walk.

  “Chief! Chief! Dr. Latte with an s at the end called tree times, more and more pissed off each time, with all due respect. You’re asposta call ’im ’mediately in poisson.”

  “Hello, Dr. Lattes? Montalbano here.”

  “Thank heavens! Come to Montelusa immediately, the commissioner wants to talk to you.”

  He hung up. It must be something serious, since the Caffè-Lattes wasn’t even lukewarm.

  As he was turning the key in the ignition, he saw a squad car pull up with Galluzzo at the wheel.

  “Any news of Inspector Augello?”

  “Yeah, the hospital called to say they were discharging him. I went and picked him up and drove him home.”

  To hell with the commissioner and his urgency. He stopped at Mimì’s first.

  “How you feeling, you intrepid defender of capital?”

  “My head feels like it could burst.”

  “That’ll teach you.”

  Mimì Augello was sitting in an armchair, head bandaged, face pale.

  “I once got clobbered in the head by some guy with a blackjack. They had to give me seven stitches, and I still wasn’t in as bad a shape as you.”

  “I guess you thought you took your clobbering for a worthy cause. You got to feel clobbered and gratified at the same time.”

  “Mimì, when you put your mind to it, you can be a real asshole.”

  “You too, Salvo. I was going to call you tonight to tell you I don’t think I’m in any condition to drive tomorrow.”

  “We’ll go to your sister’s another time.”

  “No, you go ahead, Salvo. She was so insistent on seeing you.”

  “But do you know why?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Listen, tell you what. I’ll go, but I want you to go to the Hotel Jolly tomorrow morning at nine-thirty to pick up Dr. Licalzi, who arrived today, and take him to the morgue. Okay?”

  “How are you, old friend? Eh? You look a bit down. Chin up, old boy. Sursum corda! That’s what we used to say in the days of Azione Cattolica.”

  The Caffè-Lattes had warmed up dangerously. Montalbano began to feel worried.

  “I’ll go inform the commissioner at once.”

  He vanished, then reappeared.

  “The commissioner’s momentarily unavailable. Come, let me show you into the waiting room.Would you like a coffee, something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Dr. Lattes, after flashing him a broad, paternal smile, disappeared. Montalbano felt certain the commissioner had condemned him to a slow and painful death. The garrote, perhaps.

  On the table in the dismal little waiting room there was a magazine, Famiglia Cristiana, and a newspaper, L’Osservatore Romano, manifest signs of Dr. Lattes’s presence in the commissioner’s office. He picked up the
magazine and began reading an article on Susanna Tamaro.

  “Inspector! Inspector!”

  A hand was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw a uniformed policeman.

  “The commissioner is waiting for you.”

  Jesus! He’d fallen into a deep sleep. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was eight o’clock. The fucker had made him wait two hours.

  “Good evening, Mr. Commissioner.”

  The noble Luca Bonetti-Alderighi didn’t answer, didn’t even say “Shoo” or “Get out of here,” but only continued staring at a computer screen. The inspector contemplated his superior’s disturbing hairdo, which was very full with a great big tuft in the middle that curled back like certain turds deposited in the open country. An exact replica of the coif of that criminally insane psychiatrist who’d triggered all the butchery in Bosnia.

  “What was his name?”

  It was too late when he realized that, still dazed from sleep, he’d spoken aloud.

  “What was whose name?” asked the commissioner, finally looking up at him.

  “Never mind,” said Montalbano.

  The commissioner kept looking at him with an expression that combined contempt and commiseration, apparently discerning unmistakable signs of senile dementia in the inspector.

  “I’m going to speak very frankly, Montalbano. I don’t have a very high opinion of you.”

  “Nor I of you,” the inspector replied bluntly.

  “Good. At least things are clear between us. I called you here to tell you that I’m taking you off the Licalzi murder case. I’ve handed it over to Panzacchi, captain of the Flying Squad, to whom the investigation should have fallen by rights in the first place.”

  Ernesto Panzacchi was a loyal follower whom Bonetti-Alderighi had brought with him to Montelusa.

  “May I ask you why, though I couldn’t care less?”

  “You committed a foolish act that created a serious impediment for Dr. Arquà.”

  “Did he write that in his report?”

  “No, he didn’t write it in his report. He very generously didn’t want to damage your career. But then he repented and told me the whole story.”

  “Ah, these repenters!” commented the inspector.

  “Do you have something against repenters?”

  “Let’s drop it.”

  He left without even saying good-bye.

  “I’m going to take disciplinary measures!” Bonetti-Alderighi shouted at his back.

  The forensics laboratory was located in the building’s basement.

  “Is Dr. Arquà in?”

  “He’s in his office.”

  He barged in without knocking.

  “Hello, Arquà. I’m on my way to the commissioner’s, he wants to see me. Thought I’d drop in and see if you have any news for me.”

  Vanni Arquà was obviously embarrassed. But since Montalbano had led him to believe he hadn’t yet seen the commissioner, he decided to answer as if he didn’t know the inspector was no longer in charge of the investigation.

  “The murderer cleaned everything very carefully. We found a lot of fingerprints anyway, but they clearly had nothing to do with the homicide.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they were all yours, Inspector. You continue to be very, very careless.”

  “Oh, listen, Arquà. Did you know that it’s a sin to rat on someone? Ask Dr. Lattes. You’ll have to repent all over again.”

  “Hey, Chief! Mr. Cacano called another time again! Said as how he ’membered somethin’s might be maybe impor’ant. I wrote ’is number down on dis here piece a paper.”

  Eyeing the little square of paper, Montalbano felt his body start to itch all over. Catarella had written the numbers down in such a way that a three might be a five or a nine, the two a four, the five a six, and so on.

  “Hey, Cat! What kind of number is this, anyway?”

  “That’s the number, Chief. Cacano’s number. What’s written down.”

  Before reaching Gillo Jàcono, he spoke with a bar, the Jacopetti family, and one Dr. Balzani.

  By the fourth attempt, he was very discouraged.

  “Hello? Who’m I speaking with? This is Inspector Montalbano.”

  “Ah, Inspector, it’s very good you called. I was on my way out.”

  “You were looking for me?”

  “A certain detail came back to me, I’m not sure if it’ll be of any use to you. The man I saw getting out of the Twingo and walk towards the house with a woman had a suitcase in his hand.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “An overnight bag?”

  “No, Inspector, it was pretty big. But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I had the impression the man was carrying it without effort, as if there wasn’t much in it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jàcono. Please call me when you get back.”

  He looked up the Vassallos’ number in the phone book and dialed it.

  “Inspector! I came to your office as we’d agreed, but you weren’t there. I waited a while, and then I had to go.”

  “Please forgive me. Listen, Mr. Vassallo, last Wednesday evening, when you were waiting for Mrs. Licalzi to come to dinner, did anybody call you?”

  “Well, a friend of mine from Venice did, and so did our daughter, who lives in Catania—I’m sure that’s of no interest to you. But, in fact, what I wanted to tell you this afternoon was that Maurizio Di Blasi did call twice that evening. Just after nine o’clock, and again just after ten. He was looking for Michela.”

  The unpleasantness of his meeting with the commissioner needed to be blotted out with a solemn feast. The Trattoria San Calogero was closed, but he remembered a friend’s telling him that right at the gates to Joppolo Giancaxio, a little town about twenty kilometers inland from Vigàta, there was an osteria that was worth the trouble. He got in his car, and found the place immediately: it was called La Cacciatora. Naturally, they had no game. The owner-cashier-waiter, who had a big handlebar mustache and vaguely resembled the Gentleman King, Victor Emmanuel II, started things off by putting a hefty serving of delicious caponata in front of him. “A joyous start is the best of guides,” wrote Boiardo, and Montalbano decided to let himself be guided.

  “What will you have?”

  “Bring me whatever you like.”

  The Gentleman King smiled, appreciating the vote of confidence.

  As a first course, he served him a large dish of macaroni in a light sauce dubbed foco vivo or “live fire” (olive oil, garlic, lots of hot red pepper, salt), which the inspector was forced to wash down with half a bottle of wine. For the second course, he ate a substantial portion of lamb alla cacciatora that had a pleasant fragrance of onion and oregano. He closed with a ricotta cheesecake and small glass of anisette as a viaticum and boost for his digestive system. He paid the bill, a pittance, and exchanged a handshake and smile with the Gentleman King:

  “Excuse me, who’s the cook?”

  “My wife.”

  “Please give her my compliments.”

  “I will.”

  On the drive back, instead of heading towards Montelusa, he turned onto the road for Fiacca, which brought him home to Marinella from the direction opposite the one he usually took when coming from Vigàta. It took him half an hour longer, but in compensation he avoided passing in front of Anna Tropeano’s house. He was certain he would have stopped, there was no getting around it, and he would have cut a ridiculous figure in the young woman’s eyes. He phoned Mimì Augello.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Listen, forget what I said to you. You can stay home tomorrow morning. Since the matter’s no longer in our hands, I’ll send Fazio to accompany Dr. Licalzi.”

  “What do you mean, it’s no longer in our hands?”

  “The commissioner took the case away from me. Passed it on to the captain of the Flying Squad.”

  “Why did he
do that?”

  “Because two does not equal three. Want me to tell your sister anything?”

  “Don’t tell her they broke my head open, for Christ’s sake, or she’ll think I’m on my deathbed.”

  “Take care, Mimì.”

  “Hello, Fazio? Montalbano here.”

  “What’s wrong, Chief?”

  He told him to pass all phone calls related to the case on to the Montelusa Flying Squad, and he explained what he was supposed to do with Licalzi.

  “Hello, Livia? Salvo here. How are you doing?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  “What’s with this tone? The other night you hung up on me before I had a chance to say anything.”

  “You called me in the middle of the night!”

  “But it was the first free moment I had!”

  “Poor thing! Allow me to point out that you, between thunderstorms, shoot-outs, and ambushes, have very cleverly managed to avoid answering the very specific question I asked you last Wednesday evening.”

  “I wanted to tell you I’m going to see François tomorrow.”

  “With Mimì?”

  “No, Mimì was hit—”

  “Oh my God! Is it serious?”

  She and Mimì had a soft spot for each other.

  “Let me finish! He was hit in the head with a stone. Chickenshit, three stitches. So I’m going to go alone. Mimì’s sister wants to talk to me.”

  “About François?”

  “Who else?”

  “Oh my God. He must be sick. I’m going to call her right away!”

  “Come on, those people go to bed at sunset! I’ll call you tomorrow evening, as soon as I get home.”

  “Let me know. I mean it. I’m not going to sleep a wink tonight.”

  9

  To go from Vigàta to Calapiano, anyone with any sense, and with an even superficial knowledge of Sicilian roads, would first have taken the superhighway to Catania, exited onto the road that turns back inland towards Troìna at 1,120 meters’ elevation, descended to Gagliano at 751 meters by way of a sort of mule track that received its first and last layer of asphalt fifty years ago in the early days of regional autonomy, and finally reached Calapiano via a provincial road that clearly refused to be known as such, its true aspiration being to resume the outward appearance of the earthquake-ravaged country trail it had once been. But that wasn’t the end of it. The farm belonging to Mimì’s sister and her husband was four kilometers outside of town, and one reached it by following a winding strip of gravel on which even goats had doubts about setting a single one of their four available hooves. This was what one might call, for lack of a better term, the best route, the one Mimì Augello always took, its difficulties and discomforts not coming entirely to the fore until the final stretch.