As Montalbano was entering Geremicca’s office, he had no idea that in a few minutes, inside those four walls, a word would be uttered, only one, but that word alone would suffice to put him on the right track.
Upon seeing Montalbano, Geremicca stood up smiling and rotated his right hand in the air, as if to say that something really big had happened.
“Montalbano! You’ve landed a big one!”
“Me? What’d I do?”
“I e-mailed my French colleague a photocopy of the passport you gave me. And I told him that you’d told me that the name on the passport was the same as that of a character in a Simenon novel, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right. And so?”
“And so he started telling me that a month ago they’d arrested an expert forger, a real master, but the guy refused to name his clients. They had, however, managed to confiscate two passports ready for use, among other things. Your passport, together with these, made three. And thanks to the clue we’d given them, my friend discovered that the forger was in the habit of using fictional names of characters from French literature. Imagine that!”
“I guess the guy liked to read.”
“And there’s more. The names the forger chose always had some sort of connection with something the client did in real life.”
“Can you give me a little more detail?”
“Sure. Just to give you an idea, my colleague said this Émile Lannec, the fictional character, owns a small steamboat in the novel. Is that true?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, thanks to some other information, and despite the mangled face, my colleague was able to identify the man on the passport. His name is Jean-Pierre David. He has a clean record, but the police have had their eye on him for a while.”
“And what’s the thing connected to his real life?”
“His father used to own a small steamboat that eventually sank. And so the clue you gave them helped lead the French to the true identities of the other two whose passports were ready for use. They convey their heartfelt thanks to you.”
“And why were they keeping an eye on this David?”
“Apparently he was part of a large organization involved in some heavy traffic.”
“What kind of traffic?”
“Diamonds.”
Montalbano gave a start. For a moment he couldn’t see a thing. The lightning that had flashed through his brain was so bright, it had blinded him.
What to do next?
It should have been his duty to go at once, without wasting another minute, to the office of Mezzamore, no, Mozzamore, or whatever the hell his name was, and tell him point by point everything he had learned. Should have been, mind you. Because, according to the commissioner’s orders, the inspector shouldn’t even have gone to see Geremicca that morning. He should have told him, over the phone: “Thank you, my friend, but you should pass all information on to my colleague Mizzamore, since he’s the one handling the case henceforth.”
Instead, he’d gone. Thus committing an act of insubordination. Now if he went to Mozzamore and told him that the dead man had been identified, the commissioner could accuse him of insubordination or worse…
“But aren’t you ashamed to be pulling out such lame excuses?” the voice of his conscience reproached him. “The truth of the matter is that you’re such an egotist, such a selfish wretch that you don’t want to share anything with anyone…”
“Would you just let me think for a second?” Montalbano replied.
To report or not to report. That was the question.
In the end, his conscience won out. He walked around the building, entered through the main door, and asked where Inspector Muzzamore’s office was.
“You mean Mazzamore?” the person at the reception desk, who knew Montalbano, corrected him. “It’s right next door to Dr. Lattes’s office.”
Alas. Alas, alack, and wailaway. He had to proceed with extreme caution.
Instead of taking the elevator, he climbed the stairs. When he’d reached the right floor, he stopped. There was a whole corridor to cross. He stuck his head out and saw none other than Lattes, standing right in the middle of the hallway, talking to someone.
No, he just couldn’t go on any longer with this farce about the nonexistent little boy who died.
He turned tail and left. He would give Mazzamore a ring. But later, whenever he happened to. There was no hurry.
“Pretty good excuse you came up with there!” his conscience needled him.
He told his conscience where to go, to the same place he probably too often sent it. Actually, there was no “probably” about it.
“Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief!”
Montalbano knew what this plaintive litany meant.
“Did the commissioner call?”
“Yessir, ’e did, jess now, by tiliphone.”
“What did he want?”
“’E said as how ya gotta go rilly rilly emergently t’ see ’im, ’im being Mr. C’mishner hisself.”
Utterly and totally out of the question! No way could he risk running into Lattes. At the very least he would be forced to thank him for the funerary pillow.
“Tell Fazio to come to my office at once. And, by the way, did you find anything about Kimberley Process?”
“Yessir, I did, Chief, I’ll prinn it up straightaways.”
Going into his office, the inspector noticed that one of the flowers that had come detached from the wreath when he’d knocked it to the floor had remained there. He bent down, picked it up, and threw it out the window. He didn’t want to see anything that might remind him of the dream he’d had of his own funeral.
“What is it, Chief?” asked Fazio, coming in.
“You have to do me a favor. I want you to call the commissioner.”
Fazio looked puzzled.
“Me?!”
“Why not? Do you find it offensive? Embarrassing?”
“No, Chief, but…”
“No buts. I want you to tell him a lie.”
“About what?”
“He wants to see me right now, but for reasons of my own, I really can’t go there just now.”
“And what am I supposed to tell him?”
“Tell him that as I was driving to work somebody bumped into me, and you had to take me to the emergency room and then home.”
“Would you like to tell me, in case he asks, exactly what happened to you in the accident? Was it serious or minor?”
“Since I’ve already given him some other bullshit, just tell him I reinjured the same ankle I’d already sprained.”
“And how did you get this sprain?”
“The same way I got bumped into.”
“I see.”
“And now I’d better get on home fast, in case he phones me there.”
“All right,” said Fazio, turning to leave the room.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to my office to make the call.”
“Can’t you just do it here?”
“No, sir. I’m a better liar when I’m alone.”
Fazio returned less than five minutes later.
“Wha’d he say?”
“He said you’ve been having too many accidents lately and had better start taking better care of yourself.”
“Didn’t he believe it?”
“I don’t think so. Chief, I think you’d better go home right away. He’s definitely going to call.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Yes. He said you’re going to have to resume the investigation because Inspector Mazzamore is too busy with another case.”
“And you’re telling me this now?”
“When was I supposed to tell you?”
“It should have been the first thing!”
They stood there for a moment in silence, staring at each other.
“I’m not convinced,” said Montalbano.
“Me neither. But it’s not the first time he’s given you back a case he’d taken away from you.”
“I’m still not convinced. At any rate, I wanted to tell you that the body in the dinghy’s been identified. His real name was Jean-Pierre David, and the French police had been keeping an eye on him.”
“Why was that?”
“Apparently he was involved in diamond trafficking.”
Fazio’s eyes narrowed to little slits.
“Ah, so the guys from the Ace of Hearts…?”
“Are up to their necks in this. Cross my heart and hope to die. We have to figure out a way to set them up. And we’ve got to do it quickly, because they could leave at any moment. Oh, and one more thing.”
“Tell me.”
“I want you and Gallo to be ready. This afternoon, around five o’clock, there’s something we have to do.”
“What’s it involve?”
“We’ll probably have to arrest Mimì.”
Fazio opened his mouth and then closed it again. And he turned red in the face, and then pale as a ghost. He collapsed into a chair.
“Wh… Why?” he asked in a faint voice.
“I’ll explain later.”
At that moment Catarella came in with a few sheets of paper in his hand.
“I prinnit it all up, Chief.”
Montalbano folded them and put them in his jacket pocket.
“See you later,” he said.
And he headed back home.
But how was it that the telephone had now acquired the fine habit of starting to ring just as he was coming through the door? Since he’d given up hope that it was Laura trying to reach him, he took his time.
He went and opened the French door to the veranda, then went into the kitchen.
Since he would, of necessity, have to eat at home, he wanted to see what Adelina had made for him. He opened the oven.
And what a discovery it was. Pasta ’ncasciata and mullet alla livornese.
The telephone, which in the meanwhile had stopped ringing, started again. This time he went and picked up.
It was the c’mishner.
“Montalbano, how are you feeling?”
Just as Fazio had predicted, the goddamn sonofabitch wanted to verify whether he had actually had an accident. And Montalbano was ready to oblige him. He began:
“Well, the crash wasn’t-”
“I wasn’t talking about that,” the commissioner cut him off sharply.
Oh no? Then what did he want to talk about? Maybe it was best to keep quiet and see where the guy was headed.
“I was referring to your mental health, which I’m very worried about.”
What was this? Was he telling him he thought he was going insane? How dare he?
“Listen, Mr. Commissioner, sir, I can put up with a lot, but I will not tolerate any comments about my mental-”
“I’ll do the talking here, Inspector. You just answer my questions.”
“Listen, this isn’t-”
“Goddammit, Montalbano, that’s enough!” Bonetti-Alderighi snapped.
He must really be angry. Better let him get it out of his system. But the question he asked was the last thing Montalbano expected.
“Is it true that you suffered a terrible loss a few days ago?”
The inspector felt annihilated. Dr. Lattes must have told the commissioner that he’d lost his son!
“In other words, that a son of yours died?” the commissioner continued in a frosty tone of voice.
How the hell was he going to get out of this one?
“And your wife is in despair?”
The commissioner’s voice was now well below zero.
“And can you explain to me how this can be when, as far as anyone knows, you have neither wife nor children?”
A polar ice floe.
What the hell to do now? A hundred possible replies raced through his mind at supersonic speed but he ruled them all out. None seemed convincing enough. He opened his mouth, but was unable to speak. The commissioner spoke instead.
“I understand,” he said.
The freeze attained by this point was only possible in laboratories.
“I do hope you’ll one day let me know your reasons for playing such a mean, vulgar trick on a perfect gentleman like Dr. Lattes.”
“It wasn’t a…,” he finally managed to utter.
“I don’t think one can talk about something so serious and base over the telephone. So let’s stop trying, for now. Have you been informed that I had to turn the investigation back to you?”
“Yes.”
“If it were up to me, you… but I was forced to do so, against my will… But let me be very clear about this. If you step out of line this time, I’ll screw you. And you must keep me continually up to date on the progress of the case. Good day.”
“Good night” would have been more appropriate.
Matre santa, how embarrassing! Enough to make one want to disappear underground! There was, however, a positive side to it: from now on Lattes would never again ask him for news of his family.
And the commissioner, in his rage, had let slip an important admission. Namely, that he’d been forced to give the case back to him, against his own will. Therefore, someone else had intervened. Who could it have been? And, more importantly: Why?
But since the commissioner had, in fact, called, and it had not been possible to give any ready answers to his questions, the inspector decided to go out and eat at Enzo’s.
As he was heading towards the port for his customary stroll, he had an idea. Maybe he could do something to help to loosen La Giovannini’s tongue and make her reveal to Mimì exactly what she did while sailing the seas, and perhaps confirm whether it was the sort of traffic he already suspected her of.
He took the roundabout way to the lighthouse, and when he was in front of the Vanna, he headed up the gangway and stopped at the deck.
“Anybody here?”
Captain Sperlì answered from the mess room.
“Who’s there?”
“Inspector Montalbano.”
“Come in, come in.”
The inspector went below decks through the hatch. The captain was finishing his lunch. Beside him stood Digiulio, serving as his waiter.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Montalbano. “If you’re eating, I can come back later.”
“No, please, I’ve already finished. Would you have some coffee with me?”
“I’d love some.”
“Please sit down.”
“Signora Giovannini’s not here?”
“She’s here but she’s resting. If you like, I-”
“No, no, please let her sleep. I heard you were having some problems with your fuel. Has that been set right?”
“Apparently it was a false alarm.”
“So you’ll be leaving as soon as you can?”
“If we can get poor old Shaikiri’s body back tomorrow morning, as we’ve been promised, we’ll bury him and then set sail in the afternoon.
Digiulio brought the coffee. They drank it in silence. Montalbano then started digging in his pockets. To get better access to what he was looking for, he pulled out the sheets of paper Catarella had given him, and set these down on the table. On the top sheet was the name, in block letters: KIMBERLEY PROCESS. He hadn’t yet had the time to read them, but whatever they said, they must nevertheless have a precise meaning for the captain, since Giovannini kept a file with the same name in her safe. And indeed, the moment the captain’s eyes fell on the sheet of paper, he gave a start. At last Montalbano extracted the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, fired one up, and put the papers back in his pocket.
Meanwhile Sperlì had become visibly nervous.
“Look, if you’d like to speak with Signora Giovannini, I can go-”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” said Montalbano, getting up. “It was nothing of importance. I’ll pass by again later. Have a nice day.”
He went up on deck, then back down onto the wharf. Sperlì hadn’t budged. He seemed to have turned to stone.
Perhaps he really ought to find out what this Kimberley Process was, the inspector thought, considering the effect it had on the captain.
But he would look into it later, at the office. First the walk to the lighthouse.
As he was sitting on the flat rock, all at once the thought of Laura assailed him with all the ferocity of a rabid dog. It caused him genuine, physical pain. The violence was perhaps due to the fact that he had managed for a while not to think of her, thanks to his preoccupation with the case. It had been his sort of revenge. But now her absence sliced right through him. It was an open wound.
No, he couldn’t phone her. He mustn’t. There was, however, one thing he could do that wouldn’t have negative consequences.
He got in his car and headed to the Harbor Office.
Outside the entrance stood the usual guard and two sailors, chatting. He drove a little further past, then parked in such a way that he could see, in the rearview mirror, who went in and who came out.
He stayed there for fifteen minutes, smoking one cigarette after another. Then, in a moment of lucidity, he felt embarrassed, ashamed of himself.
What was he doing there? He hadn’t even done this sort of thing when he was sixteen, and now he was doing it at fifty-eight? Fifty-eight, Montalbà! Don’t you forget it! Or was it perhaps the folly of old age that made him act this way?
Humiliated and depressed, he started up the car and drove back to the station.
As soon as he sat down, he pulled out Catarella’s printouts and was about to start reading them when the phone rang.
“Ah Chief! ’At’d be Dacter Lattes onna line who-”
“I’m not here!”
He yelled it so loudly that Catarella complained.
“Matre santa, Chief! Ya got my ears a-ringin’!”
The inspector hung up. He didn’t feel like talking. How could he ever justify his actions to Lattes? How could he ask to be forgiven? With what words? Why had he been so stupid as not to follow Livia’s advice?
So, Kimberley Process was…
The telephone rang again.
“’Scuse me, Chief, but there’s a young lady says she wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poi-”
“On the phone?”
“Nah, she’s onna premisses.”
He didn’t have the time. He absolutely had to read those printouts.
“Tell her to come back tomorrow morning.”
So, Kimberley Process was…
Again the phone.
“Chief, ya gotta try ’n’ unnastand but the young lady says iss rilly rilly urgentlike.”
“Did she say what her name was?”
“Yessir. Vanna Digiulio.”