The Age of Doubt (10 page)

At a certain point, around dawn, he had a dream.

He was on the terrace of an unfamiliar house, at night, with a pair of binoculars in his hands, looking through them at an illuminated window that he knew was the window to Mimì Augello’s bedroom. He’d just brought the image into focus when a black shadow descended, completely covering the light of the window.

What could it be? Looking harder, he realized it was a large bird, a seagull, perched on a television antenna.

As he began to lose hope, the bird flew away, and the window suddenly appeared before him. Through it he couldn’t actually see the bed, but projected on the bedroom wall were two shadows, one male, one female, and they were making love . . . Mimì and Laura!

He woke up with a start.

Curiously, though, instead of getting upset over the two shadows making love, he felt perplexed over a detail of the dream: the bird, which, in landing on the antenna, had prevented him from seeing past it.

What did it mean? Because, if the bird was there, it must definitely mean something.

He got up, opened the French door, and went out on the veranda.

The dawning day came armed with the best of intentions. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, not a trace of wind. The boat of his fisherman friend was already out on the water, and for a moment a trawler returning to port covered it up, making it disappear. Then, once the trawler passed, the little boat reappeared.

At that moment, in an instant, Montalbano understood the meaning of his dream.

He saw himself standing again in Lannec’s hotel room, binoculars in hand, looking in the direction of the port.

What had he seen?

The hatch on the
Vanna
’s deck, leading below decks. But if the
Vanna
hadn’t been there, what would he have seen? He would have seen the cruiser, the
Ace of Hearts
.

The day that Lannec arrived in Vigàta, the
Vanna
wasn’t there yet, in the port.

Wasn’t it possible that Lannec had come to meet someone from the
Ace of Hearts
? And that he had received, through the binoculars—with no need for phone calls, which are always dangerous—instructions as to the hour and place of the meeting?

As soon as it was six-thirty, Montalbano looked up the telephone number of the Bellavista Hotel and called.

“Is this Signor Scimè?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Montalbano here.”

“Good morning, Inspector. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to disturb you, but the other day I forgot to ask you something.”

“I’m at your service.”

“When Mr. Lannec arrived at the hotel, did he ask you anything in particular that you can recall?”

The porter didn’t answer right away.

“Do you not remember, or—”

“Well, Inspector, some time has gone by and . . . Wait, yes, that’s it! He asked me for a room with a view of the sea . . .”

“Were those his exact words?”

“Well, now that you mention it . . . He asked me for a room with a view of the port.”

Bingo!

So, to sum up. They let Lannec know that when he gets to Vigàta, he’s supposed to go to the Bellavista Hotel equipped with a powerful set of binoculars and have them give him a room with a view of the port. Knowing more or less the Frenchman’s hour of arrival, they put someone on guard on the
Ace of Hearts
, also equipped with binoculars or something similar.

As soon as Lannec appears on the balcony of his hotel room, the people on the
Ace of Hearts
make contact with him.

How? With binoculars as powerful as the Frenchman’s, they could have written their instructions from the boat on a small blackboard.

They give him an appointment to meet them in front of the Pesce d’Oro restaurant. Lannec has a taxi take him around town a few times to cover his tracks and then arrives at the appointed place. Then he starts walking, taking the first right.

At this point in his reconstruction, the inspector became convinced that just around the corner there was a car waiting to take Lannec to the cruiser at the port.

But why go there by car and not on foot, since it’s only a stone’s throw away?

Probably because he had to pass by the Customs Police at the north entrance to the port, and in a car he was less likely to be noticed. He could, for example, partially hide his face, pretending to be asleep or reading a newspaper . . .

So the Frenchman goes aboard the
Ace of Hearts
. They talk about whatever it is they need to talk about, and they probably fail to come to an agreement. And so they decide to silence him.

Or else Lannec’s fate had already been sealed before he even came to Vigàta. His journey only served to lead him to his killers. And so they invite him to lunch and poison him.

But why use rat poison?

Shooting him, of course, was out of the question. The noise might attract someone’s attention—say, a fisherman or sailor who happened to be passing along the quay at that moment.

Would it have made more sense to knife him?

No, using a knife would have left bloodstains everywhere, which would have been easily found in any eventual investigation.

What about strangling him? A colossus like the guy the inspector had seen on the
Ace of Hearts
could have done it with one hand.

This business of the poison was rather strange. It needed further reflection.

Whatever the case, once the guy’s dead, they strip him naked, smash his face in, and deposit him somewhere. On the morning of the storm, they decide it’s the right time to get rid of the corpse.

They start up the engines, take a few spins around the port, meanwhile inflating a brand-new dinghy, put the victim’s body in it, and when they reach the lighthouse at the tip of the eastern jetty, they lower the dinghy into the water, certain that the current will take it out to sea.

But there’s an unlucky hitch. The
Vanna
, as it’s heading towards the port, comes across the dinghy.

Montalbano felt satisfied with his reconstruction.

Most of all, he felt pleased that he’d been able to go a whole hour without thinking of Laura—Laura, who was opening her eyes and smiling at Mimì, as she lay beside him in bed . . .

10

He got into his car and headed straight for Montelusa Central Police, without dropping by the station.

Luckily for him, the office he needed to go to was located on the opposite side of the building from the commissioner’s office. At least there was no danger of running into that colossal pain in the ass Lattes.

But sooner or later they were bound to cross paths. How was he going to resolve the problem once and for all? He’d promised Livia he would tell him the truth—that is, that he wasn’t married and had no children, and was a bachelor though he’d been with the same woman for many years. But hadn’t he already told him this at least five times in the past, and each time the guy seemed not to hear him, so that, when next they met, he was immediately back to square one and asking the inspector how his family was doing? Trying to convince Lattes was therefore a waste of breath.

Perhaps, however, there was a solution: to show up in front of Lattes one fine morning, dressed in deep mourning and unshaven, and say, between sobs, that his wife and sons had died in a car accident. Yes, that seemed to be the only solution.

But wouldn’t Livia then make a big stink? Wouldn’t she accuse him at the very least of having wiped out his whole family? Was it worth the risk?

To say nothing of the fact that there would be no mention of the crash in the papers.

No, he had to find another solution.

Meanwhile, he’d arrived at Montelusa Central. Going in through a back door, he climbed two flights of stairs and stopped in front of a small table at which a uniformed policeman he knew was seated.

“Is Inspector Geremicca in?”

“Yes, the inspector’s in his office. You can go in.”

Montalbano knocked and entered.

Attilio Geremicca was about fifty years old, thin as a beanpole, and smoked foul-smelling cigars. Montalbano was convinced he had the things specially made for him out of a blend of chicken shit and tobacco. Geremicca was standing and looking at a fifty-euro note through a sort of gigantic microscope on a tall counter.

Looking up, he saw Montalbano and went up to him with open arms. They embraced, genuinely happy to see each other.

After chatting a bit, Geremicca asked Montalbano if he needed anything, and the inspector, after handing him Lannec’s passport, told him the whole story.

“And what do you want from me?” Geremicca asked.

“I want you to find out if that passport is authentic or not.”

Geremicca studied it carefully while lighting another cigar.

Thinking he would never manage to hold his breath for the whole time, Montalbano pretended to sneeze, giving himself an excuse to put his handkerchief over his nose and keep it there.

“It’s not easy to say,” Geremicca commented. “But if it’s not authentic, it was made, at least in part, by a real master. Look how many borders it’s crossed without ever arousing any suspicion.”

“So you’re inclined to say it’s authentic.”

“I’m not inclined to say anything. Do you have any idea how many people there are who travel for years and years with phony passports? Hundreds! And this Lannec . . .”

“Actually, as far as the name is concerned, there’s something you ought to know that might be important.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve discovered that this Émile Lannec, born in Rouen, has the same name and birthplace as the protagonist of a novel by Simenon. Could that be of any use to you?”

“I can’t say yet. Listen, could I hang on to this for a few days?”

“Not for too long. One week enough?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want it for?”

“I want to show it to a French colleague of mine who is quite the specialist on the subject.”

“Will you mail it to him?”

“No, there’s no need.”

“But how will your colleague know whether the paper, the stamps—”

“A passport’s not a banknote, Salvo!” Geremicca said, smiling. “Normally passport counterfeiters work with authentic documents obtained illegally or stolen from some office while still fresh. That’s why I said a minute ago that it looked to me, but only in part, like the work of a master. Anyway, if my French friend needs any further clarification, there’s always the Internet. Don’t worry, a week should be more than enough time.”

The first thing he did upon entering the station was to call Fazio into his office.

“Have the carabinieri brought back Shaikiri?”

“Yessir. He’s here.”

The inspector was about to tell him to bring him into the office when the telephone rang.

“Wait a second,” he said, picking up the receiver.

“Ahh Chief! That’d be proxetutor Gommaseo onna line wantin’ a talk to . . .”

“All right, put him on.”

“Montalbano?”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Listen, I wanted to let you know that yesterday afternoon a rather irritated Signora Giovannini, owner of the
Vanna
, descended on me . . . Fine-looking woman . . . you know who I mean?”

“Yes I do, sir.”

“She must be a dominatrix, I’m sure of it.”

Montalbano didn’t understand.

“A what? Dominate what?”

“She dominates her partner, my friend! You can bank on it. In the intimacy of her bedroom, that lady dresses up in leather pants and spike heels and uses whips on her lover, whom she treats like an animal and probably puts a bit in his mouth and rides him like a horse . . .”

Montalbano felt like laughing but managed to restrain himself. For a brief moment, the prosecutor’s words conjured in his mind an image of Mimì naked and sprawled out on the floor like a bear rug, with La Giovannini grinding her heel into his back . . . Ah, the sexual fantasies of Prosecutor Tommaseo! Who, to all appearances, had never been with a woman. With all these fantasies about La Giovannini in his head, his eyes were probably popping out and his hands trembling at that very moment, drool collecting at the corners of his mouth.

“Anyway, as I was saying, she came by yesterday and adamantly insisted that it’s unreasonable to force her to keep her boat in the port for so long. She said we’re engaging in an obvious abuse of power, they have nothing to do with that man’s murder, and all they did was recover a dead body adrift on the water . . . And, indeed . . .”

“So what’s your conclusion?”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that I’m rather inclined to let them leave whenever they like.”

“I wouldn’t be so—”

“Look, Montalbano, we have nothing on them to keep them here any longer. And why should we? I’m convinced that neither she nor any member of her crew had anything to do with the murder. If you disagree, you should tell me. But you have to give your reasons. And so?”

Since Tommaseo knew nothing about the girl who called herself Vanna and the suspicions she had aroused in Montalbano’s mind concerning the yacht, his assumptions were unfailingly correct. But the inspector could hardly allow that yacht to get away.

“Could you give me two more days?”

“I’ll give you one more day. That’s the most I can possibly grant you. But you have to tell me why you need the time.”

“Could I come by your office the day after tomorrow?”

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

He would have to make do with a single day. After hanging up, he told Fazio to go and get Shaikiri.

A single day. But if Mimì was clever enough, maybe he could detain Signora Giovannini for another week.

Ahmed Shaikiri was twenty-eight years old, and it was hard to tell that he was North African, because he looked exactly like a Sicilian sailor. He seemed sharp and had intelligent eyes and a natural elegance about him.

Montalbano immediately liked him.

“Stick around and take a seat,” the inspector said to Fazio, who was getting ready to leave.

“You, too, sit down, Shaikiri.”

“Thank you,” the Arab said politely.

Montalbano opened his mouth to begin speaking, but the man didn’t give him the time and began to speak first.

“Before anything else, I really would like to excuse myself to this gentleman here for having punched him. Please accept my apologies,” he said, turning to Fazio. “Unfortunately, whenever I drink wine . . .”

He spoke perfect Italian.

“Sicilian wine,” Montalbano interrupted.

Shaikiri gave him a confused look.

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean it must be Sicilian, or maybe Greek wine that has this effect on you.”

“No, look, I—”

“Listen, Shaikiri, you’re not going to tell me that the wine you drink in . . . I dunno, let’s say Alexanderbaai, South Africa, just to name the first city that comes to mind, gets you so easily drunk.”

Shaikiri looked dumbfounded.

“But I . . .”

“Let me put it more clearly. The wine you drink in Alexanderbaai doesn’t make you start punching the local police or carabinieri or whatever it is they have down there. Isn’t that right?”

Montalbano’s words had a double effect. First, on Fazio, who immediately pricked up his ears, realizing that the inspector wasn’t just blathering at random but had a specific purpose in mind. And second, on Shaikiri, who visibly gave a start at first and then seemed to pretend he didn’t understand.

“All right, you can go,” Montalbano cut things short.

Shaikiri seemed more bewildered than ever.

“You’re not going to charge me?”

“No.”

“But I provoked and started punching a—”

“We’ll let it slide this time. You’ve already been charged by the carabinieri, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you were interrogated yesterday at their base, right?”

“Yes.”

Montalbano now felt himself trembling inside. He’d reached the point where he had to say the decisive thing that would let him know whether he was right in his surmise or mistaken all down the line.

“If you see her again, and I’m sure you will see her or at least hear from her again, please give her my best.”

Shaikiri turned pale and squirmed in his chair.

“Who am I supposed to—”

“The young lady . . . I’m sorry, the person who, well, let’s say ‘interrogated’ you yesterday.”

A few beads of sweat appeared on Shaikiri’s forehead.

“I . . . I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter. Good day.”

Then, turning to Fazio:

“Let him go.”

Naturally, as soon as Shaikiri had left, Fazio raced back to Montalbano’s office.

“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

“After talking to Lieutenant Sferlazza of the carabinieri, I became convinced that the person informing the so-called Vanna about what was happening aboard the yacht was Shaikiri. He had to be the one who told her that they had to change course because of the storm and head to Vigàta.”

“And how would he have done that?”

“I dunno. Maybe with a satellite phone. And so Vanna got moving so she could meet with him, but the dinghy with the corpse sent that rendezvous up in smoke. So Shaikiri got himself arrested by the carabinieri, revealed who he was, and they immediately put him in touch with Vanna. And yesterday she was finally able to talk to him.”

“And why did he punch me out, too?”

“Because he’s a smart young man. He wants his friends to think that the local wine always has the same effect on him. He gets in fights with all kinds of cops, whether carabinieri or not.”

“So then who’s this Vanna?”

“Sferlazza said something about the antiterrorism unit, but I think he was lying. There’s definitely something shady going on aboard that yacht. And Vanna is on their case. And you know something else?”

“What?”

“In my opinion the people on the
Ace of Hearts
are up to their necks in the business of the corpse in the dinghy.”

Fazio sat down.

“Tell me everything,” he said wearily.

“How should we proceed?” Fazio asked after he’d heard the whole story.

“Well, while we know plenty about the
Vanna
, we are totally in the dark as to the
Ace of Hearts
. So we need to start informing ourselves immediately.”

“I can look into that myself.”

“Fine, but you have to start somewhere. Tell you what. Go to the Harbor Office and talk to Lieutenant Belladonna, who is a woman. Have her fill you in on everything they know about the
Ace of Hearts
. Go there right now, in fact. The less time we waste, the better.”