At the cab co-op, the moment the inspector told them who he was, they sent him to the office of the secretary, Signor Incardona, a man with the face of an undertaker, a goatee, and a tedious air about him.
“I urgently need to talk to one of your associates: Madonia, cab number 14.”
“Pippino is an honest man,” Incardona said defensively.
“I don’t doubt that for an instant, but I-”
“Can’t you just talk to me?”
“No.”
“I’m sure he’s working at this hour, and I don’t think it’s such a good idea to disturb him right now.”
“I, on the other hand, think it’s an excellent idea,” said Montalbano, who was starting to feel his cojones go into a spin. “Shall we settle this here or would you prefer to talk about it at the police station?”
“What is it you want?”
“Are you in direct communication with him?”
“Of course!”
“Then check in with him and let me know where he is at this moment.”
He said it in such a tone that the other man got up without saying anything and left the room. He returned a few minutes later.
“At this moment he’s at the taxi stand in front of the Bar Vigàta.”
“Tell him to wait for me there.”
“And what if he gets a fare in the meantime?”
“Tell him to make himself unavailable. I’ll pay for whatever fare he loses.”
There were four cabs waiting at the stand. The moment Montalbano arrived, the four cabbies, who’d been standing around shooting the breeze, turned and eyed him with curiosity. Apparently number 14 had spoken to his colleagues.
“Which one of you is Madonia?” the inspector asked, leaning out of his car window.
“I am,” said a portly man of about fifty without a hair on his head.
Cool as a cucumber, Montalbano parked his car in one of the empty spaces reserved for taxis.
“You can’t park there,” said one of the cabbies.
“You don’t say!” the inspector said, feigning surprise.
He opened the door to cab number 14 and sat down in front, on the passenger’s side. The car’s owner, looking flustered, got in on the driver’s side.
“Start ’er up and let’s go,” said Montalbano.
“Where to?”
“I’ll tell you once we get going.”
As soon as they drove away from the stand, Montalbano started talking.
“Do you remember getting a call from the Bellavista Hotel a few mornings ago to pick up a fare?”
“Inspector, there’s not a morning goes by when they don’t call me to go there!”
“This particular client was about forty and athletic, a good-looking guy who-”
He remembered the passport he had in his pocket. Pulling it out, he put it under the cabbie’s nose.
“The French guy!” he exclaimed upon seeing the photo.
“So you remember him?”
“Of course!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he didn’t know where he wanted to go. Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to me.”
“Explain.”
“First he had me take him to the cemetery. He got out, went in, stayed there about ten minutes, and then came back to the car. Then he had me take him to the north entrance to the port, got out, disappeared for about ten minutes, and came back. After that, he had me drive him to the train station, where he got out, was gone for about ten minutes, then got back in the car. Finally, he told me to take him to the Pesce d’Oro restaurant, where he paid me and left.”
“Did you notice whether he went into the restaurant?”
“Nah, when I left he was just standing there, looking around.”
“What time was it?”
“A little after twelve-thirty.”
“All right. I want you to retrace the exact route you took that morning, then drop me off at the Pesce d’Oro. Actually, no. Let’s go back to the taxi stand. I’ll take my car and follow you.”
He paid the man his fare, went and parked his own car, then returned to the spot where the cabbie had dropped off Lannec. Montalbano was convinced that all the twists and turns the Frenchman had made the driver go through had a specific purpose, that of making it impossible for anyone to know where he was actually going. A waiter stood in the doorway to the restaurant, inviting him to come in. And the inspector yielded to the temptation.
He went inside. The place was completely empty. Maybe it was too early. He sat down at the first table he came to and opened the menu.
The dishes looked promising. But writing is one thing, and cooking another.
The waiter approached the table.
“Have you decided?” he asked.
“Yes. But first I must ask you for some information.”
He pulled the passport out of his pocket and handed it to the man. The waiter took a long look at the photo. Then he asked:
“What would you like to know?”
“If this man came and ate here a few days ago.”
“No, he didn’t come inside. But I did see him.”
“Tell me everything.”
“Why, may I ask?”
The man’s tone had changed and the smile had disappeared from his face.
“The name’s Montalbano. I’m an inspector with the-”
“Good God, yes! So you are! Now I recognize you!”
“So, please tell me…”
“I was standing outside the door, like I was doing just now, when a cab pulled up and this man got out. The cab drove off and the passenger just stood there in front of the curb without moving. He looked like he didn’t know where to go. So I went up to him and asked him if he needed any help. And you know what he said?”
“No.”
“That’s exactly right. He said no. A minute later, he started walking, turned right, and after that I didn’t see him anymore. And that’s the story. Now, what can I get you to eat?”
Damn the moment he’d decided to eat at that stinking restaurant! Stinking and expensive to boot! The cook must have been a terminal drug addict or a criminal sadist bent on exterminating humanity. The food was overcooked, burnt, flavorless, or oversalted. The guy didn’t get a single thing right, not even by accident.
An unlucky couple who had entered after him started showing signs of distress right after the first course. The woman raced to the restroom, perhaps to rinse out her mouth, while the man knocked back a whole bottle of wine to wash away the bad taste in his.
Back outside, he started walking, turned right as Lannec had done, then continued straight. A short while later, after crossing a side street, he saw the north entrance of the port come into view.
He headed in that direction. The moment he was past the gate, there were the Ace of Hearts and the Vanna, right in front of him.
Lannec and the sea.
The inspector became convinced that the Frenchman had come to the port to meet someone, not knowing he would meet his death instead. He had made a journey to go to the last appointment of his life.
Then, all at once, the bad lunch bubbled up in Montalbano’s throat in a burst of burning, acidic reflux. There was only one thing to do. He walked over to a stack of wooden crates, took cover behind them, stuck two fingers into his throat, and vomited.
He walked out of the port, retracing the steps he had taken, got in his car, and headed to Enzo’s trattoria. He went into the bathroom, rinsed out his mouth, then sat down at a table.
“What would you like, Inspector?” Enzo asked.
“The best thing you’ve got.”
“Ahh Chief! Ahh Chief Chief! Dacter Latte rang four times lookin f’ yiz!”
That colossal pain in the ass of the ruined documents.
“I’m not back yet. Is Augello here?”
“Nah, ’e ain’t onna premmisses.”
“How about Fazio?”
“Yessir, ’e’s ’ere.”
“Send him to me.”
The first thing the inspector noticed about Fazio was that he had a black eye.
“What happened to you?”
“A fist.”
“Whose?”
“Our friend Zizì’s, late last night.”
“Sit down and tell me what happened.”
“Chief, some time after nine o’clock last night I staked out a spot near Giacomino’s tavern and waited for the crew of the Vanna to show up. They didn’t come by until past eleven.”
“Who was it?”
“The whole crew. Alvarez, Ricca, Digiulio, and Zizì. I went in about half an hour later. They were talking and laughing, eating and drinking. Zizì was drinking more than the others. At a certain point he got up and started walking over to my table. Digiulio tried to stop him, but the Arab shoved him out of the way. I was just looking at him. So he planted himself in front of me with his legs spread and said: ‘What the fuck you lookin’ for, fucking cop?’ He spoke pretty good Italian. He’s one of those types who’s always looking for trouble.”
“And what did you do?”
“What could I do, Chief? I couldn’t just pretend nothing was happening. Everyone in the tavern had heard him. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could just let slide. I barely had time to stand up when the guy punched me so hard in the face I flew back against the wall. Then it was Ricca who tried to stop him, but he got punched himself. That Zizì’s a bull. But I was able to take advantage of the momentary distraction when he was busy with his friend, and I dealt him a swift kick in the balls. He fell to the floor, writhing in pain, and I slapped the handcuffs on him.”
“And what did you do with him?”
“I brought him here to the station and locked him up.”
“And where’s he now?”
“Still in the same cell.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“Let him be for now. When he wakes up, bring him to me. By the way, I want to show you something.”
He pulled out the passport and handed it to Fazio, who started thumbing through it.
“And who’s this Lannec?”
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s the body in the dinghy.”
And he told him the whole story, starting with his visit with Pasquano, continuing with his visit to Zito, and ending with his culinary nightmare at the Pesce d’Oro.
Fazio came out with one of his rare witty remarks.
“Chief, maybe the poor guy did go to eat at the Pesce d’Oro but they deny it because they poisoned him themselves.”
“Listen, can you recall whether we’ve had any dealings with this Lannec in the past?”
“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Because the name doesn’t seem entirely unfamiliar to me.”
“You could have met him anywhere, Chief, but I’m sure it wasn’t here.”
“Ahh Chief Chief! Jesus Christ, Chief! Jesus Christ and Mary and Joseph, Chief! I can’t hardly breathe, Chief!”
Catarella had knocked in his usual way, practically breaking down the door, and now he was acting like he’d been bitten by a tarantula.
“Calm down! What’s going on?”
“Iss Liutinnint Sferlazza!”
“On the phone?”
“Nah, Chief, ’e’s ’ere, poissonally in poisson!”
“What’s he want?”
“To talk t’yiz. But be careful, Chief, eyes open at all times!”
“Why?”
“’Cause ’e ain’t wearin’ a uniform, ’e’s in civvies!”
“And what does that mean, in your opinion?”
“‘When a carabiniere’s outta uniform, ’e’ll makes ya pay twice the norm!’ A’ss wha’ they say, Chief!”
“Don’t worry, show him in.”
Montalbano and the lieutenant had known each other for some time. And, though they might not admit it, they rather liked each other. After they shook hands, Montalbano had him sit down.
“Sorry to bother you,” the lieutenant began.
“Not at all! What can I do for you?”
“I was told that a certain Mr. Shaikiri, who’s one of the crew of a yacht called the Vanna, attacked one of your men, who then arrested him. Is that right?”
“Yes. On the other hand, I believe the carabinieri also arrested him, when he pissed on one of your cars.” The inspector paused a moment. “Then you released him almost at once.”
The lieutenant seemed a little uneasy.
“That’s just it. When he was inside, we received a phone call from the Regional Command, specifically about Shaikiri.”
“What did they want?”
“They wanted to know if we’d arrested him.”
Montalbano balked.
“How did they find out about it in Palermo?”
“Dunno.”
“It really doesn’t seem to me like the kind of thing that would interest the Regional Command.”
“Exactly.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I confirmed the arrest and they told me to hold him at headquarters, saying someone would be coming from Palermo the following morning to interrogate him.”
“For pissing on a squad car?”
“I was a little surprised myself. But I did as they said.”
“And did this person come?”
“Actually, no. They called me back and said the person who was supposed to question him had a problem and couldn’t come. And they said I should act in accordance with the law as far as Shaikiri was concerned. So I filed a report on him and then let him go.”
“And why did you come to see us today?”
“Because that person finally came. He’s at our station now and wants to talk with Shaikiri.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re asking me to turn the Arab over to you?”
“That’s right.”
“Out of the question.”
The lieutenant grew even more uneasy.
“The person who came-”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Apparently he’s from the antiterrorism unit. Anyway, as I was saying, that person, as soon as he found out you’d arrested Shaikiri, had also expected… well, that you would refuse to turn him over to us.”
“It was pretty easy to figure that out. So what’s he plan to do?”
“If you refuse, he’s going to call the commissioner.”
“And you think the commissioner will-”
“I don’t think he’ll be able to say no to this person.”
At this point Montalbano had an idea.
“We could make an agreement.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I’ll lend him to you for tonight. And you’ll bring him back to me in the morning.”
“All right,” said Lieutenant Sferlazza.
Montalbano picked up the receiver and told Fazio to come to his office.
When Fazio entered, he greeted the lieutenant but showed no surprise at seeing him there.
Surely Catarella, seeing an enemy enter the camp of Agramante [10], had told everyone about it.
“Turn Shaikiri over to the lieutenant at once,” the inspector said.
Fazio turned pale.
“Yessir!” he said, military style.
Five minutes later, however, he came back to the inspector, looking rather agitated.
“Could you tell me why you-”
“No,” Montalbano snapped.
Fazio turned around and left.
“Catarella, is Augello back?” he said into the phone.
“He in’t onna premisses yet.”
“But did he come to the office this morning?”
“Yessir, Chief.”
“When?”
“When you was in conf’rince wit’ Signor Fiorentino.”
“Then what?”
“I put a call fer ’im true to ’im, and then, a li’l while later, ’e, meanin’ Isspector Augello, I mean, ’e went out.”
“Do you remember who it was that called?”
“I fergit the name, but it was a girl liutinnint from the Harbor’s Office.”
The inspector dropped the receiver.
Laura! She’d gotten in touch with Mimì Augello without telling him anything!
She’d stepped right over him as if he didn’t exist. As if he’d never existed! He felt enraged, embittered, displeased, pained. Why had she behaved so badly? Did she want nothing more to do with him? All at once the door seemed to explode, crashing against the wall and breaking off half the plaster.
“’Scuse me, Chief, iss so urgint my ’and slipped.”
“What do you want?” asked Montalbano, recovering his breath after the scare.
“Y’oughter know yer tiliphone’s off the hook an’ Isspector Augello called but I coun’t put ’im true seein’ as how as yer tiliphone in’t hung up an’ when I call I git a busy single ’cause iss off the hook an’-”
“Did he say he’d call back?”
“Yessir, in five minutes.”
Montalbano put the receiver back in place.
The phone rang.
“Salvo?”
The inspector didn’t answer right away. He had to finish counting to a thousand to dispel the irritation he felt and not lay into Augello and start yelling at him.
“Salvo?”
“What is it, Mimì?”
“This morning I got a call, supposedly on your behalf, from-”
“I know all about it.”
It wasn’t true. He didn’t know a goddamn thing. But he didn’t want Mimì to realize Laura had kept him out of it.
“Well, that girl, aside from being what she is-”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jesus, Salvo, haven’t you noticed what a wonder of nature she is?”
“You think so?”
A tone of indifference. With a touch of snobbery.
“Salvo, don’t tell me you don’t-”
“Oh, she’s very pretty, no doubt about that. But to say she’s a ‘wonder of nature’ is a bit of a stretch. At any rate, get to the point.”
“I’d certainly like to get to the point with her. In fact, I think…” And he giggled, the imbecile!
Montalbano couldn’t let him go on or he would start insulting him.
“Tell me what she’s cooked up,” he said.
“She said that since the Vanna refueled yesterday, I could show up on board with her and make a fuel check.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I would go as the representative of the fuel importer, saying we’ve found some irregularities in the fuel, some residues that could impede the proper functioning of the engines. That would be the excuse.”
“And what if they only let you talk to the engineer?”
“Laura rules that out. She’s sure that the moment the owner hears mention of the engines, she’ll want to handle it herself.”
“But what the hell do you know about boat fuel?”
“Before this morning, nothing. Then at lunch Laura explained a few things to me, and in the afternoon we went and talked to a guy who really knows a lot about it. Then, tonight, Laura’s coming over to my place and…”
Montalbano couldn’t stand it any longer, slammed the receiver down, stood up, and started circling his desk, cursing like a madman.
Laura, in Mimì’s house! With nobody else present! The two of them, alone!
And he’d even told Laura that Mimì had a way with women! This must surely have been enough to whet her curiosity and make her feel tempted to find out whether…
No. It was better not to think about the possible consequences, or he would go insane!
Damn the moment he ever thought of having Mimì meet La Giovannini!
But why was he despairing now? He had wished this on himself! He’d sought it himself, stupid shit that he was! He’d served Laura up to Mimì on a silver platter with his own two hands!
<a l:href="#_ftnref10">[10]</a> Agramante is one of the leaders of the Saracen knights in Orlando Furioso, the fanciful verse romance by Ludovico Ariosto (1474-1533) loosely based on the Carolingian cycle of medieval chansons de geste. Episodes from Orlando Furioso provide much of the material used in the teatro dei pupi, the traditional Sicilian puppet theater one can still see in the streets of Sicily today.