A Voice in the Night (9 page)

It was about the war a special police unit was waging against the famous Al Capone. And there was a scene that he’d really liked a lot, the one where they arrest Al Capone’s
accountant on an enormous staircase at the railway station.

It was very important to nab the mysterious accountant because from his records they could prove that the boss was dodging his taxes.

The funny thing about the dream was that in that scene, he, Montalbano, was the top cop, and Fazio was his assistant.

What happens in the film is that, just as the two policemen are taking aim at the accountant’s bodyguard, a pram with a child inside slips away from the woman who is pushing it and starts
tumbling down the stairs. The image was clearly a homage to the great Soviet filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein.

Since, in the dream, Montalbano wasn’t paying homage to anyone, there was no pram, but in its place there was a tub of detergent not with a baby inside, but with Borsellino the manager in
swaddling clothes, bonnet, and glasses, crying desperately and calling for help on his mobile.

Fazio tried to stop the detergent pram but was unable, and the detergent tub with Borsellino inside ended up squashed under a train pulling into the station.

Meanwhile the accountant’s bodyguards were throwing tins of tomatoes at Montalbano. One of them hit him in the forehead and cracked open. Fazio, seeing all that red streaming from his
head, was scared to death.

‘Inspector, you’re wounded!’

‘No! It’s just tomatoes! Have you forgotten we’re in a film?’

A royal shambles, in short.

Then he remembered that before going out on his night raid with Fazio, he’d wolfed down a hefty plate of that damn octopus.

That explained the whole bloody jumble of his dream. He’d had trouble digesting.

*

He woke up only because he’d set the alarm clock. He felt completely muddle-headed. He hadn’t slept even three hours. Just to be safe, the first thing he did was to
take the rest of the octopus still in the fridge and put it outside, on the veranda. The cats could feast on it.

Then he had a very long shower, more to wake himself up than to wash. And he only stopped because he was afraid to use up all the water in the tanks.

Finally he put on a clean suit. The one from the day before was too powdery, and he’d already put it into the laundry basket. Adelina would see to having it properly cleaned.

He was about to go out when the phone rang.

Oh, God! he thought. Please spare me the usual morning murder! I’m in no condition to investigate anything, even though I’m alive!

But it was Livia.

‘How are you?’

Where had he read that that was a question one should never ask anyone?

‘Not too bad. And you?’

‘I didn’t sleep because of you.’

‘Because of me?’

‘Yes. Since we hung up last night on a bad note, I wanted to . . . apologize. I called you every half-hour. But you didn’t answer. At three o’clock I stopped calling, but I was
upset. Why didn’t you answer?’

‘Livia, my precious darling, try to think for a second, and then answer me this: what, in your opinion, did we quarrel about?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Let me refresh your memory. We quarrelled because you got upset that I had to go out on a job. Remember now?’

‘Vaguely.’

The woman was going to drive him out of his mind!

‘So, to conclude: since I was out of the house, I couldn’t answer your calls. Elementary, my dear Watson.’

‘Ha ha ha!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean: ha ha ha?’

‘It means, in other words, that if you call me Watson, you think you’re Sherlock Holmes!’

No, a spat first thing in the morning, no!

‘
Ciao
, Livia, talk to you this evening. Now I really have to run.’

‘Run, run!’

God, that woman was obnoxious sometimes!

*

‘Cat, did Fazio by any chance give you a computer?’

‘Yessir, Chief, ’e did, iss in my custidy. Couldja tell me wha’ I’m asposta do witta foresaid?’

‘Open it, look at everything that’s in it – and I mean everything – and then come to me and give me a synopsis.’

Catarella looked distressed.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I din’t unnastand the seccun ting I’m asposta give yiz.’

‘What thing?’

‘’At ting ya said. The synappsus.’

‘Cat, I mean just come and tell me what’s inside that computer.’

‘Ah, good, Chief. Ya ’ad me scared f’r a minnit.’

*

Fazio came in.

‘Any news?’

‘Nah.’

‘What about Augello?’

‘An attempted burglary was reported last night at a furrier’s, and Inspector Augello went to check it out.’

‘Let’s hope he isn’t later accused of driving the furrier to suicide.’

‘I don’t think there’s any danger this time, Chief. The shop belongs to a man named Alfonso Pirrotta, who’s one of those people who refuse to pay the protection
money.’

‘So the attempted burglary must be a warning to him to pay up,’ said Montalbano. Then he asked: ‘How many people are there in Vigàta who don’t pay?’

‘Right now, about thirty. But their number may increase soon. There’s a new judge in Montelusa, Barrafato, who says exactly what he thinks, and the shop owners are feeling
encouraged.’

‘Poor Barrafato!’

Fazio gave him a perplexed look.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because sooner or later, if he gets under the Mafia’s skin enough, Barrafato will find himself summonsed by the high council of the magistrature for some phone tapping that, in the
opinion of some Member of Parliament, he wasn’t authorized to do, and his name will be plastered all over the newspapers and TV, and he’ll end up transferred for being incompatible with
his present environment. How much you want to bet?’

‘Nothing. I don’t like to lose bets.’

*

Fazio returned a short while later with a little grin on his face that the inspector didn’t like one bit.

‘Shall we have another go at it, Chief?’

‘Another go at what?’

‘At signing documents.’

Montalbano weighed his options. Since he had nothing else to do, it was better to brave the agony.

‘All right, bring me ten or so.’

*

He’d just finished reading and signing half of the documents when the telephone rang. He looked at his watch: it was almost eleven. He picked up the phone with great
enthusiasm – maybe something had happened that would spare him the tremendous pain in the arse of signing more papers. It was Catarella.

‘Chief, ’at’d be ’at jinnelman from th’ udder day ’at wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.’

‘What do you mean, the “gentleman from the other day”? Did he tell you his name?’

‘Yeah, Chief, ’is name is Strangio.’

Strangio?! Giovanni Strangio? The crazy motorist?

It wasn’t possible. Catarella, as usual, had got the name wrong.

‘Are you sure his name is Strangio?’

‘Crass my ’eart, Chief.’

By now his heart must have more crosses than a cemetery.

And what could Strangio want?

Before receiving him, however, it was better to make sure it was indeed him.

‘Listen, show him into the waiting room. Oh, hang on. As you’re showing him in, try and see if he’s carrying a wrench.’ Just to be safe.

Catarella came back to the phone after a brief spell.

‘Y’know wha’ I did, Chief? I pretinnit to slip, an’ to keep fro’ fallin’ I grabbed right onto the guy, so I cou’ check ’im out. Pretty good idea,
eh, Chief?’

‘Well done, Cat, my compliments. But did he have a wrench?’

‘Nah, ’e din’t. Crass my ’eart.’

But the inspector wasn’t convinced.

He let a few minutes go by, got up, left the room, and walked past Catarella, putting his finger to his lips to signal to him to keep quiet, went to the main entrance, and stuck his head out,
scanning the car park.

The BMW he knew well was there.

There was therefore no doubt that it was him.

Again he walked past Catarella, who was looking at him in bewilderment and standing at attention, went back into his office, and picked up the phone.

‘Cat, get me Fazio, would you?’

He had just time to count up to five.

‘What is it, Chief?’

‘Listen, Fazio, that motorist is here, Strangio, the man I arrested the other day, the one who was a little too upset and—’

‘I heard about the incident, Chief, but I’ve never seen this Strangio in person.’

‘It doesn’t matter, you’ll see him now. Since I’m not sure how he feels about things at the moment, it might be best if you were also present for my meeting with
him.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Better to be on one’s guard with a character like that.

Fazio came in and sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the desk.

Montalbano rang Catarella and told him to bring in the man who wanted to talk to him.

At the mere sight of him, Montalbano was speechless.

The guy who came in was not the Giovanni Strangio he’d met, but a sort of twin brother.

As much as the first one was dissolute, neurotic, and threatening, this one was polite, orderly, and composed.

‘Good morning,’ he greeted them.

‘Please sit down,’ said Montalbano, gesturing towards the empty chair.

Strangio sat down.

‘May I smoke?’ he asked.

‘Actually, it’s not allowed,’ said the inspector. ‘But we can make an exception.’

Wasn’t it well known that you’re supposed to humour the insane?

Strangio pulled out his pack and lighter and lit a cigarette.

At that moment both the inspector and Fazio noticed that the young man’s hands were trembling violently. Apparently he was having trouble controlling the powerful agitation he felt
inside.

Montalbano exchanged a lightning-quick glance with Fazio, communicating to him to stay on the alert.

It was best not to force the young man to speak; he should be allowed all the time he needed.

‘I’m here . . . I’ve come to report a murder,’ Strangio said suddenly.

The effect was the same as if he had thrown a bomb into the middle of the room.

Fazio jumped straight up; Montalbano stiffened against the back of his chair.

‘The murder of whom?’ the inspector ventured to ask.

‘My . . . my girlfriend,’ the young man replied.

Montalbano and Fazio were barely breathing.

‘Her name is . . . was . . . Mariangela Carlesimo.’

He took a last drag on his cigarette.

‘Where can I throw this away?’ he asked, holding up the cigarette butt.

The question dispelled the tension.

Montalbano relaxed, and Fazio said:

‘Give it to me.’

And he went and threw it out of the window.

‘I didn’t kill her, of course,’ Strangio resumed. ‘I merely found the body. And on top of that—’

‘Just a minute,’ Montalbano said, cutting him off. ‘Don’t say any more. Please, don’t go any further.’

The young man looked at him questioningly. As did Fazio.

‘You see, the fact is that it was I who arrested you and charged you over the incident the other day.’

‘So what?’

‘It means that I may not be the most suitable person to deal with any crime in which you are in some way involved.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I might be accused of handling the case in a – how shall I say? – less than impartial way. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Quite clear. And so?’

‘And so I’ll be even more explicit. Have you already talked about this with Nero Duello the lawyer?’

‘Yes, sir, I have. He’s the first person I told about it.’

‘And the second was your father?’

It just slipped out. He could have bitten his tongue. The young man, however, didn’t notice the provocation.

‘Naturally.’

‘And what did the lawyer tell you?’

‘To report to you just the same.’

‘Why didn’t he come with you?’

‘He was busy in court.’

Fazio couldn’t hold out any longer.

‘What do you intend to do?’ he asked the inspector.

‘Where is the victim?’ Montalbano asked Strangio in turn.

‘In our house. We’d been living together for a while.’

‘Let’s go,’ said the inspector, standing up.

‘Shall I inform Forensics, the prosecutor, and Dr Pasquano?’ Fazio asked.

Montalbano was about to say yes, then stopped in his tracks.

Wouldn’t it be better to wait and make sure that there actually was a dead woman’s body in the house? Wasn’t it also possible that this madman had made the whole thing up?

‘Call them when I tell you to.’

‘You don’t want to know anything else?’ the young man asked in surprise.

‘What you’ve already told me is enough. If you have anything else to say, I’d rather you save it for the prosecutor.’

‘As you wish. Shall we go in my car?’ Strangio asked.

And end up crashing into a tree?

‘No, we’ll go in a patrol car. Is Gallo around?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Fazio went to get Gallo. Montalbano and Strangio exited the station to wait for the patrol car. The young man lit another cigarette.

Montalbano was watching him out of the corner of his eye, because Strangio’s body now seemed to be quaking all over, as if he had an electric current running through him.

Then everything happened at once.

As soon as the patrol car appeared with Gallo driving, Strangio tossed aside his cigarette, took a big leap forward, and dived into its wheels.

Luckily the car was already pulling up and therefore moving slowly.

As a result, Strangio did not succeed in getting run over. He only banged his head hard against the bumper and lay stretched out on the ground, blood gushing out of his forehead like a
fountain.

Fazio and Montalbano crouched down to look at him. At first glance, it didn’t look like anything serious.

Gallo ran back into the station. Strangio started crying. Gallo returned with disinfectant and cotton and tried to staunch the bleeding.

But it was useless. The wound was too big.

‘Take him to A&E,’ said Montalbano. ‘Then come back here and get me.’