The Age of Doubt (14 page)

At sometime just past four o’clock a call came in from Augello.

“I urgently need to speak with you.”

“Then come.”

“To the office? Not on your life! I don’t want anyone to see me going into or coming out of the police station.”

“You’re right.”

“What should we do?”

“Shall we say at my place in half an hour?”

“All right.”

Walking by Catarella’s closet, he said:

“I’m going out for about an hour. If Lieutenant Belladonna happens to call for me, tell her to ring me on the cell phone. Can I rest easy on this?”

“You can rest easy as pie, Chief.”

That way, if Laura called him because of some hitch in their plans, she would know how to reach him.

Mimì was punctual.

“I’ve just had lunch with Liv—I mean La Giovannini.”

“Where?”

“That was the first new twist. We’d agreed to meet this evening for dinner, but then she called me on the cell phone to ask me if I wanted to come for lunch on the boat. I was still half asleep and needed more rest . . .”

“The rest of the warrior,” Montalbano commented.

But Augello was in no mood for sarcasm.

“What choice did I have?” he said.

“None. You had to go.”

“Indeed, and so I went. And I discovered the second new twist. Sperlì was going to eat with us.”

“Strange.”

“Not really. Wait. I realized she wanted to make me an official offer, and that’s why the captain was there.”

“In what capacity?”

“I dunno. Maybe as a witness, or partner, who knows.”

“What was the offer?”

“She said she’d given a lot of thought to the things I’d said when I told her I wasn’t happy at my current job, and she said she’d perhaps found a solution. But first I have to tell you something I forgot to mention this morning.”

“What?”

“When she asked me how much I earned at my job, I tossed out a figure, but I also made it clear that I was topping it up.”

“How?”

“By tampering with the gauge of the fuel’s distribution valve.”

“I see. So your credentials included a certain inclination for dishonesty.”

“Exactly. She suggested I work for her, looking after some of her interests.”

“So she’s ready to entrust her concerns to someone who openly declares his dishonesty. It’s a good thing to know. And what would these interests be?”

“She didn’t specify. She said she would fill me in on everything in due time, if I accepted. She did, however, tell me something straight off. That I had twenty-four hours to accept or refuse. She wants to leave within three days at the very most, as soon as Shaikiri is buried.”

“Shit!”

“And she added another thing, too. She said this work she was offering me would involve, for all intents and purposes, a move to a foreign country.”

“Which?”

“South Africa.”

“To a town called Alexanderbaai?”

Augello looked confused.

“What was that?”

“Never mind, for now. And how much dough are they going to give you?”

“They said my monthly pay will far exceed my expectations.”

“And what did Captain Sperlì do the whole time?”

“He just sat there, quiet as a fish. What should I do?”

“The second round’s on for tonight?”

“Yes, dammit.”

“Listen, tell her you accept.”

“Why?”

“Because that’ll make her feel more secure. Try to find out about her interests in South Africa and exactly what sort of work she does. So how’d the business of the fuel end up?”

“I told her I was having the fuel analyzed and would give her an answer tomorrow morning.”

“Mimì, I have to ask you something about the night you spent with La Giovannini.”

“I’ve already told you I don’t feel like going into the details.”

“I’m not interested in the erotic details. You said you realized something had happened when you heard Sperlì talking over the phone. Is that right?”

“Exactly.”

“And what about before that? Did you hear anything that might have sounded like a body being dragged along the ground, or cries of pain . . .”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you were too busy to—”

“Salvo, the walls in the boat are paper-thin! And you know what? I had to keep my hand over Livi—I mean La Giovannini’s mouth, or the whole crew would have heard her!”

Left to himself, he didn’t feel like going back to the station.

“Catarella? Listen, I’m going to stay home for the rest of the day. If any important calls come in, from, say, Lieutenant Belladonna, tell them to call me here. Understand?”

“Poifectly, Chief.”

He noticed that the floor of the veranda looked dirty. For reasons entirely impenetrable to him, Adelina, who kept the house sparkling clean, considered the veranda off-limits and never bothered with it. This suddenly seemed unacceptable, perhaps because Laura would soon be there. Grabbing a broom from the closet, he swept the tiles and then scrubbed them hard until they began to shine.

Then he went and opened the refrigerator. Seafood salad. On to the oven: pasta with broccoli and mullet in saffron sauce. He would leave it up to Laura to decide whether they should eat in or go out.

He went and took a hot shower to try to calm his nerves. He changed into clean underwear and clothes.

Grabbing a book, he went and sat down on the veranda and began reading. But he couldn’t understand a word, because with each new line he’d already forgotten what he’d read in the previous line.

At last, at a quarter to eight, the telephone rang.

“Ciao, Laura. So, when are you coming?”

“This is Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi,” said Bonetti-Alderighi, sounding as Bonetti-Alderighi as humanly possible.

14

His heart sank.

It was hopeless: if Mr. C’mishner was breaking the inspector’s balls even at home, at that hour, then the problem must be very, very serious. And it would make him lose time and, as a result, miss his date with Laura.

The horizon went from being cloudless to darkening by the second. He was lost.

“Montalbano! What, aren’t you going to reply?”

“I’m right here, Mr. Commissioner.”

“I called your office.”

Meaningful pause.

“So?”

“And they told me you’d gone home
several hours ago
!” said the commissioner, emphasizing the last three words with a rising tone.

Was he reproaching the inspector for being a goof-off who cashed in his paychecks without earning them? Montalbano became incensed.

“Mr. Commissioner, I am not a shirker! I—”

“That’s not what I’m calling about.”

Ah, you see? It really
was
a serious matter! Better not fly off the handle. Take it easy.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“I want to see you immediately!”

Shit! Take your time, Montalbà.

“Where?”

“What kind of question is that? Here, now!”

“Where, in your office?”

“Where do you think? In a bar?”

“Now?”

“Now!”

But Laura would be arriving in a few minutes!

If the commissioner thought he was going to get in his car and drive to Montelusa, he had another think coming! They couldn’t drag him away from there even in chains!

Montalbano assumed an apologetic tone.

“I really can’t, believe me.”

“And why not?”

He had to come up with a lie that would make it impossible for him to leave his house. He decided to throw in his lot with improvisation.

“Well, you see, when I got home I slipped and got a nasty ankle sprain which—”

“Which certainly won’t prevent you from seeing a certain Laura!” Bonetti-Alderighi interrupted him in a sarcastic tone.

Montalbano became incensed again.

“Aside from the fact that this Laura is a physical therapist who is going to try to remedy the situation with massages—and you really have no idea just how desperately I am hoping she succeeds—you should know that if it were indeed the sort of encounter you are insinuating, a sprained ankle would hardly prevent me from—”

“So you really can’t move?” Bonetti-Alderighi interrupted him, to stop him from getting lewd.

“No, I can’t.”

“What if I sent someone to pick you up?”

“I still don’t think I could make it.”

A brief pause for reflection on the commissioner’s part.

“Well, then, I’ll come to you.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“Nooooooooo!”

A wolflike sort of howl had escaped his lips. He absolutely had to prevent the commissioner from coming, whatever the cost.

“Why are you yelling?”

“A shooting pain in my foot.”

If the guy came to his house, he would certainly run into Laura. Who would even be in uniform. It would be hard to convince the commissioner that physical therapists wore the exact same uniform as naval officers. And things would turn nasty.

“No, don’t bother, sir. You see . . . with a little effort I can try to get up and come to your office.”

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

What was he going to do now?

First of all, he had to inform Laura. He rang the Harbor Office, but they told him she’d already left. He tried her cell phone, but it was turned off.

He immediately called Gallo and told him to come and pick him up in a squad car.

Cursing the saints, he removed the shoe and sock from his left foot, went into the bathroom, wrapped half a roll of cotton around his ankle and then fixed this in place with an entire roll of gauze. He’d actually done a pretty good job of it; the whole area looked quite swollen from the sprain.

Then he grabbed a slipper, but the foot was too fat to fit. So he cut the slipper with a pair of scissors. Now the foot fit, but the slipper was too loose and fell off with every step he took.

Desperate, he grabbed a roll of packing tape and wound this round and round his foot, slipper, and ankle.

To make his limp more convincing, he needed a cane. But he didn’t own one, and so he rummaged through the utility closet and came up with a red plastic broomstick.

Now he looked exactly like a Sardinian shepherd from Campidano.

When Gallo saw him, his jaw dropped.

“Chief! What happened to you?”

“Don’t give me any shit; just drive me to the commissioner’s office.”

His mood was so black that squid ink seemed grey by comparison. For the entire ride, Gallo didn’t dare open his mouth again.

Bonetti-Alderighi seemed not to notice the inspector’s pastoral getup. Though he didn’t tell him to sit down, Montalbano did so anyway, groaning and sighing as if from a script.

The commissioner, however, heard none of it, or pretended not to.

Without a word he raised his right hand, index and middle finger extended and spread. Montalbano looked first at the fingers and then, questioningly, at the commissioner’s angry face.

“Two,” Bonetti-Alderighi then said.

“You want to play
morra
?” Montalbano asked with an angelic expression.

Would that he had never said it!

Bonetti-Alderighi’s hand then closed in a fist, and the fist came crashing down on the desktop, nearly breaking it.

“Jesus Christ, Montalbano! You are stark, raving mad! Don’t you realize it?”

“Realize what?”

“Two people have been murdered in Vigàta! And you . . .”

Choked with rage, the commissioner couldn’t finish his sentence and ended up coughing.

He was forced to stand up, go and open the minifridge, and drink a glass of water.

When he sat back down, he seemed a little calmer.

“Do you admit that you knew the man found in the dinghy had been murdered?”

“Yes, and in fact—”

“Silence! Do you admit that you knew a North African sailor was also murdered?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t have—”

“Quiet! Do you or don’t you admit that you then began to investigate the matter?”

“Of course. It was my duty to—”

“Shut up!”

Silence, quiet, and shut up. Montalbano began to admire the variety of the commissioner’s injunctions. He wanted to see if Bonetti-Alderighi could come up with any others.

“Look, Mr. Commissioner—”

“Button it! I’ll do all the talking, for now.”

Silence, quiet, shut up, and button it. He tried again.

“But I would like to—”

“Sshhh!” said the commissioner, bringing his index finger to his lips.

No,
sshhh
didn’t count. It had to be verbal. But Montalbano didn’t feel like playing anymore and clammed up.

“Now I want you to answer a question I have for you, but without equivocating, without digressing, without—”

“—stalling, cavilling, changing the subject, beating around the bush?” Montalbano suggested in a rapid-fire burst to put any thesaurus to shame.

The commissioner looked at him, nonplussed.

“Are you mocking me?”

Montalbano assumed a demure expression.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Then cut the shit and answer!”

“May I make an observation?”

“No.”

Montalbano fell silent.

“Answer!”

“If you won’t let me make my observation . . .”

“All right, make your observation and then answer my question!”

“The observation is the following. I only wanted to point out, in all humility, that you forgot to ask your question.”

“Ah, yes. You see? You are the only person here with the ability to make me so furious that I get all—”

“Confused? Distracted? Disoriented? Muddled?”

“Stop it, for Christ’s sake! I don’t need your stupid suggestions! At any rate, why didn’t you deign to inform either the public prosecutor or myself of these investigations? Can you tell me?”

“And how did you find out?”

“Don’t ask idiotic questions! Just answer!”

With all his talking, the guy was making him miss his appointment with Laura. Montalbano decided to cut things short.

“I completely forgot.”

“You
forgot
?” the commissioner repeated, dumbfounded.

Montalbano threw his hands up.

Bonetti-Alderighi turned red as a beet and emitted first a sort of roar and then an elephantine trumpet blast. It sounded like they were at the zoo.

“But what . . . exactly . . . do you think you’re doing? Runn . . . running your own private inves . . . tigating firm?” the commissioner yelled, stammering in rage and standing up, index finger pointed at the inspector.

“No, but—”

“Silence!”

What? Was he going to restart, da capo, the ball-busting litany of silence, quiet, and shut up? They wouldn’t get out of there before dawn!

“And you listen to me, Montalbano,” the commissioner continued. “As of this moment you are removed!”

“From what?”

“From the investigations. Inspector Mazzamore will handle them.”

Never heard of him. Must be a new arrival. They changed every two weeks. Montelusa Central Police was a revolving door.

The only one who never left was pain in the ass Bonetti-Alderighi.

Montalbano was about to object when he realized that this new development would allow him more time to devote to Laura.

“All right, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll remove myself,” said Montalbano, anxious to leave.

Leaning on the broomstick, he stood up, groaning and twisting his mouth as though in great pain.

The commissioner was unmoved.

“Where are you going?”

“Home to lie down, so—”

“Ha ha ha!” the commissioner laughed, sounding just like Mephistopheles.

“Why are you laughing, may I ask?”

“You’re not going home!”

Montalbano turned pale. For a brief moment he was afraid that Bonetti-Alderighi would have him arrested. The man was capable of it. But the commissioner continued:

“Now you are going to go into Dr. Lattes’s office—he’s already waiting for you, in fact—and the two of you are going to reconstruct the list of the documents that were destroyed.”

And since Montalbano, annihilated, could no longer move, the commissioner prodded him.

“Go on! Out with you!”

While crossing the waiting room, still limping to keep up appearances, Montalbano managed to curse all the saints in heaven.

Upon seeing him, Dr. Lattes, without even noticing the Sardinian shepherd getup, immediately asked him:

“How’s the little one?”

“He’s dead,” Montalbano answered mournfully.

With his cojones already in a blinding spin, he’d be damned if he was going to keep the promise he’d made to Livia!

Lattes stood up, ran up to him, and embraced him.

“I’m so terribly sorry.”

Maybe there was a way out. Montalbano buried his face in Lattes’s shoulder and emitted a sobbing sound.

“And instead of being with my little boy . . . I have to be here and—”

“Good heavens, no!” said Lattes, hugging him even more tightly. “Go straight home! We’ll talk about it some other time!”

It was all the inspector could do not to kiss his hand.

When he left Lattes’s office it was already past ten. He dashed down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator, which was slow, and raced to the car.

“We’re going to Marinella, quick!”

“Shall I turn on the siren?” asked Gallo, pleased.

“Yes.”

Montalbano would have suffered less inside a race car on the track at Indianapolis. At a certain point it occurred to him that if he wasn’t going to be handling the case any longer, there was no need for Mimì to engage in another night of gymnastics with La Giovannini. He might as well spare himself the effort.

He dialed Augello’s cell phone number.

“Montalbano here. Can you talk?”

“Ah, Gianfilippo! How good to hear from you!” said Augello. “Where are you calling from? Tell me, what can I do for you?”

In other words, he couldn’t talk. Obviously La Giovannini was right beside him.

“I wanted to tell you that if you want to bail out, you can.”

“Why?”

“Because the boss has decided to take me off the case. So it’s not our concern anymore.”

“Listen, Gianfilippo, I don’t think you can back out at this point, you know what I mean? It’s too late. Once you’re out on the dance floor, you have to dance. I’m sorry, but that’s the way I see it. So you take care now, and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”

Which meant that his phone call had arrived past regulation playing time.

He immediately noticed that there was no sign of Laura’s car in front of the house. He bade Gallo a hasty goodbye, opened the door, and went inside.

Laura wasn’t on the veranda, either, like last time.

She hadn’t waited for him. Or, more likely, she had waited for him but then became convinced he wasn’t going to come any time soon and had left.

He went and stuck his head under the bathroom faucet to cool his anger, then plucked up his courage and dialed her number.

“Hi, Salvo here.”

“Yes?” she said cold as ice.