In the commissioner’s waiting room, he inevitably ran into Dr. Lattes, the priestlike, unctuous cabinet chief. But why was the guy always fiddling about in the waiting room? Did he have too much time on his hands? Didn’t he have an office of his own? Couldn’t he go scratch his balls behind his own desk? The mere sight of him put Montalbano on edge. Upon spotting the inspector, Lattes’s face lit up as if he’d just found out he won a few billion in the lottery.
“Ah, what a pleasure! What a joy! How are you, dear inspector?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“And the missus?”
“She’s getting by.”
“And the children?”
“Growing, with thanks to the Madonna.”
“Let us always give thanks.”
Lattes was stuck on this idea that Montalbano was married with at least two children. After a hundred or so vain attempts to explain that he was a bachelor, the inspector had given up.The phrase “with thanks to the Madonna” was also de rigueur with Lattes.
“The commissioner asked me to—”
“Just knock and go right in. He’s waiting for you.”
He rapped and entered.
But he froze for a moment in the doorway, taken aback to see Vanni Arquà seated in front of the commissioner’s desk.What the hell was the chief of Forensics doing there? Was he going to take part in this meeting, too? Why? In a twinkling, his antipathy towards Arquà shot up to maximum level.
“Please come in, close the door, and sit down.”
On other occasions, Bonetti-Alderighi had purposely made him stand. So that he could appreciate the distance between him, the commissioner, and a lowly chief inspector of a small-town police department.This time, however, the commissioner behaved differently. Indeed, just as Montalbano was about to sit down, his boss actually stood up and held out his hand. The inspector started to get literally scared.What could have happened for the commissioner to treat him so politely, like a normal person? Was he about to read him his death sentence?
Montalbano and Arquà greeted each other with a slight nod. Given their relationship, this was a major thaw.
“Montalbano, I wanted to see you because we have a rather delicate matter on our hands, and it has me very worried.”
“I’m listening, Mr. Commissioner.”
“All right. As you already know, perhaps, Dr. Pasquano has performed the autopsy on the body found in Spinoccia.”
“Yes, I know. But I haven’t yet read the re—”
“I’ve requested it, actually, and shall have it this afternoon. But that’s not the matter. The fact is that Dr. Pasquano, with admirable speed, has already sent the bullet he extracted to the Forensics lab.”
“He told me that, too.”
“Good. Well, when examining it, Dr. Arquà, to his great surprise, found . . . but perhaps it’s better if I let him tell you.”
Vanni Arquà, however, did not open his mouth. He merely extracted a sealed cellophane packet from his pocket and handed it to the inspector. The bullet inside was quite visible; rather misshapen, but basically whole.
Montalbano found nothing strange about it.
“So?”
“It’s a nine-caliber Parabellum,” said Arquà.
“I could see that myself,” said Montalbano, slightly resentful. “So what?”
“It’s a caliber exclusive to our equipment,” said Arquà.
“No, allow me to correct you. It is not exclusive to police equipment. It also happens to be the caliber used by the carabinieri, the finance police, the armed forces—”
“All right, all right,” the commissioner interrupted him.
But the inspector pretended not to hear him:
“—and also all the crooks, and there are many of them—indeed the majority, I’d say—who have managed in one way or another to get their hands on military-grade weapons.”
“I am very well aware of that,” said Arquà, with a little smile that invited a pummeling.
“So what is the problem?”
“Let us proceed in orderly fashion, Montalbano,” said the commissioner.“What you say is absolutely right, but we must absolutely clear the air of any possible suspicion.”
“Suspicion of what?”
“That it might be one of our men who killed him. Do you know of any exchange of gunfire that took place during the day last Monday?”
“Not that I’m aware of . . .”
“That’s what I was afraid of.This complicates matters,” said the commissioner.
“Why?”
“Because if some journalist gets wind of this, can you imagine all the suspicions, insinuations, all the mud they’ll hurl at us?”
“Well, let’s not let them find out.”
“It’s not so simple. And if it turns out that this man was killed by one of ours for, let’s say, personal reasons, I want to know. It really upsets me, it chagrins me, it disgusts me to think that there might be a killer among us.”
At this point Montalbano rebelled.
“I understand how you feel, Mr. Commissioner. But could you please tell me why I alone have been summoned to your office? Do you think perhaps that if there is a killer among us, he must be necessarily from my force and not from somewhere else?”
“It’s because the body was found in an area between Vigàta and Giardina, and both Vigàta and Giardina are territorially part of your jurisdiction,” said Arquà. “It is therefore logical to presume that—”
“It’s not the least bit logical! That body could easily have been brought there from Fiacca, from Fela, from Gallotta, from Montelusa—”
“There’s no need to get upset, Montalbano,” the commissioner intervened.“What you say is absolutely true. But we’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t we?”
“But why are you so fu . . . so stuck on this idea that it was someone from the police who did it?”
“That’s not my idea at all,” said the commissioner.“My goal is to prove incontrovertibly that it was not a member of the police who killed that man.And before the malicious rumors start circulating.”
He was right, no doubt about it.
“That’s going to take a while, you know.”
“No matter. We’ll take all the time we need; nobody’s coming after us,” said Bonetti-Alderighi.
“So how should I proceed?”
“You, in the meantime, should check, as discreetly as possible, to see if any cartridges are missing from the clips of the pistols used by the men in your department.”
At that exact moment, without a sound, the ground beneath Montalbano’s feet suddenly opened up, and he plummeted inside, chair and all. He had just remembered something. He managed, however, not to move, not to sweat, not to turn pale. He even managed, through an effort that cost him a year of his life, to smile faintly.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because on Monday morning Corporal Galluzzo fired two shots at a dog that attacked me. Galluzzo had driven me home to Marinella, and the moment I got out of the car, this dog . . . Sergeant Fazio was also there.”
“Did he kill him?” Arquà inquired.
“I don’t understand the question.”
“If he killed the animal, we’ll try to track it down, remove the bullet, and we’ll know—”
“What do you mean, ‘if ’? Are you trying to say my men don’t know how to shoot?”
“Answer me, Montalbano,” the commissioner intervened. “Did he hit the dog or not?”
“No, he missed it, and couldn’t get off any more shots because the weapon jammed.”
“Could I have it?” Arquà asked icily.
“Have what?”
“The weapon.”
“Why?”
“I’d like to make a comparison.”
If Arquà made his comparison by firing a shot from that pistol, they were all fucked—him, Galluzzo, and Fazio. He had to prevent this, at all costs.
“Ask the Weapons Department for it. I think they’ve still got it,” said Montalbano.
Then he stood up, pale, hands shaking, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing, and said in a voice cracking with rage:
“Mr. Commissioner, Dr. Arquà has deeply offended me!”
“Come now, Montalbano!”
“Oh, yes, sir, deeply offended me! And you are a witness, Mr. Commissioner! And I shall ask you to testify! With his request, Dr. Arquà has cast my words into doubt.The gun is at his disposal; but now he, Dr. Arquà, must put himself, in turn, at my disposal.”
Arquà seemed to fear he was actually being challenged to a duel.
“But I didn’t mean . . .” he began.
“Come now, Montalbano ...” Bonetti-Alderighi repeated.
Montalbano clenched his fists, turning them white.
“No, Mr. Commissioner, I am sorry. I maintain that I have been gravely offended. I shall conduct every examination you have ordered me to do. But if Dr. Arquà requests my corporal’s weapon, I will submit my resignation forthwith. With all the ensuing publicity. Good day.”
And before Bonetti-Alderighi had time to reply, the inspector turned his back to the two men, opened the door, and left, congratulating himself on the resounding success of the tragic scene he had just staged. He could certainly have had a career in Hollywood.
He needed to confirm something at once. He got in his car and went straight to Pasquano’s office.
“Is the doctor in?”
“He’s in, but . . .”
“No problem, I’ll go see him myself.”
There were two round windows in the door to the room in which Pasquano worked.
The inspector had a look before going inside. Pasquano was washing his hands, but still wearing his bloodstained smock.The table on which he performed his autopsies was empty. Montalbano pushed the door open. Seeing him, the doctor started cursing.
“Holy fucking Christ! Can’t I get away from you even here? Just lay yourself down on this table, I’ll take care of you in a jiffy.”
He grabbed some sort of bone-cutting saw. Montalbano took a few steps back.With Pasquano it was always best to be careful.
“Just answer yes or no, Doc, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Do you swear?”
“I swear. Did the skull of the body from Spinoccia show any signs of having been drilled or something similar?”
“Yes,” said Pasquano.
“Thanks,” said the inspector.
And he ran away. He had the confirmation he wanted.
“Ahh Chief! I wannata report ’at—”
“You can tell me later. Get me Fazio at once and don’t put any calls through to me! I’m not here for anyone!”
Fazio came running.
“What’s up, Chief ?”
“Come in, shut the door, and take a seat.”
“I’m all ears, Chief.”
“I know who the dead man from Spinoccia is.”
“Really?!”
“Gurreri. And I also know who killed him.”
“Who?”
“Galluzzo.”
“Fuck!”
“Exactly.”
“So the body’s Gurreri’s? That would make him one of the two guys who tried to set your house on fire on Monday.”
“Right.”
“But are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Dr. Pasquano told me he found signs of the operation that was performed on Gurreri’s head three years ago.”
“But who told you the dead man might be Gurreri?”
“Nobody told me. I had an intuition.”
He told Fazio about his meeting with the commissioner and Arquà.
“This means we’re in deep shit, Chief.”
“No. The shit’s there, and we’re close, but we’re not in it yet.”
“But if Dr. Arquà insists on seeing that gun—”
“I don’t think he will. In fact I’m sure the commissioner will tell him to drop it. I made a terrible scene. However . . . Excuse me, but when we have weapons that need adjusting, we send them to Montelusa, right?”
“Yessir.”
“And has Weapons sent Galluzzo’s gun to be fixed yet?”
“No, not yet. But I only found out by chance this morning. I wanted to give them Patrolman Ferrara’s gun, too, which also jammed, but since neither Turturici nor Manzella were there, and they’re in charge of—”
“That little shit Arquà won’t have to ask me for the weapon. Since I said Galluzzo’s gun jammed, he’s going to check every pistol that comes in from our station.We absolutely need to screw him before he screws us.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“I just had an idea. Have you still got Ferrara’s pistol?”
“Yessir.”
“Wait. I need to make a phone call.”
He raised the receiver.
“Catarella? Please call the c’mishner, then put him through to me.”
The call went through at once. He turned on the speakerphone.
“What can I do for you, Montalbano?”
“Mr. Commissioner, I’d like to say first of all that I feel deeply mortified for letting myself get carried away in your presence, with a terrible, nervous outburst that—”
“Well, I’m pleased that you—”
“I also wanted to inform you that I’ll be sending Dr. Arquà the weapon in question . . .”—weapon in question wasn’t bad—“without delay, for any verifications or tests he deems necessary. And I beg you again, Mr. Commissioner, to forgive me and accept my deepest, humblest—”
“Apologies accepted. I am glad it’s all turned out for the better between you and Arquà. Goodbye, Montalbano.”
“My very best wishes, Mr. Commissioner.”
He hung up.
“What on earth are you up to?” asked Fazio.
“Go get Ferrara’s weapon, remove two cartridges from the clip, and hide them well.We’ll need them later.Then put it in a box all nicely wrapped up as a present and take it to Dr. Arquà with my compliments.”
“And what do I tell Ferrara? If he doesn’t turn in his jammed pistol, they won’t give him another.”
“Get Weapons to give you back Galluzzo’s, too. Tell them I need it. Figure out a way to tell them that you also gave me Ferrara’s gun, so they can give you a replacement for him. If Manzella and Turturici ask me to explain, I’ll say I want to bring them to Montelusa myself to protest. The key is to let three or four days pass.”
“So how do we deal with Galluzzo?”
“If he’s here, send him in.”
Five minutes later, Galluzzo appeared.
“You wanted me, Chief?”
“Sit down, killer.”
When he had finished talking to Galluzzo, he looked at his watch and realized he had taken too long. At that hour, Enzo the restaurateur had already lowered the metal shutter.
So he decided to make his last remaining move now, without wasting any more time. He took a photo of Gurreri, put it in his pocket, went out, got in his car, and drove off.
Via Nicotera was not really a street, properly speaking, but a long, narrow alleyway in Piano Lanterna, the elevated part of town. Number 38 was a delapidated little two-story building with a locked front door. Across from it was a greengrocer’s shop that must have been Don Minicuzzu’s. Given the hour, however, it was closed. The little building had an intercom system. He pressed the button next to where the name Gurreri was written. A moment later the door clicked open, without anyone having asked who was ringing.
There was no elevator, but the house, after all, was small. There were two apartments on each floor. Gurreri lived on the top floor.The front door was open.
“May I?” he asked.
“Please come in,” said a woman’s voice.
A tiny little vestibule with two doors, one leading to the dining room, the other to the bedroom. At once Montalbano smelled an odor of heartbreaking poverty. A woman of about thirty, shabby and disheveled, was waiting for him in the dining room. She must have married Gurreri when still a very young girl, and she must have been beautiful, since, in spite of everything, something of her lost beauty still remained in her face and body.
“Whattya want?” she asked.
Montalbano could see the fear in her eyes.
“I’m a police inspector, Signora Gurreri. My name is Montalbano.”
“I a’ready tol’ everything to the carabineri.”
“I know, signora.Why don’t we sit down?”
They sat down. She on the edge of her chair, tense, ready to run away.
“I know you’ve been called upon to testify at the Licco trial.”
“Yessir.”
“But that’s not why I came here.”
She immediately seemed a bit relieved. But the fear remained deep in her eyes.
“So whattya want?”
Montalbano found himself at a crossroads. He didn’t feel like being brutal with her; he felt too sorry for her. Now that she was sitting there before him, he was positive the young woman had been persuaded to become Licco’s mistress not by money, but by beatings and threats.
On the other hand, it was possible he wouldn’t get anywhere with kindness and moderation. Perhaps the best thing was to shock her.
“How long has it been since you last saw your husband?”
“Three months, give or take a few days.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t have any children, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know someone by the name of Ciccio Bellavia?”
The fear returned, animal-like, to her eyes. Montalbano noticed that her hands were trembling slightly.
“Yessir.”
“Has he come here?”
“Yessir.”
“How many times?”
“Twice. Both times with my husband.”
“I think you should come with me, signora.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Where to?”
“To the morgue.”
“Whass that?”
“It’s where they put dead people.”
“Why should I go there?”
“We need you to make an identification.”
He took the photograph out of his pocket.
“Is this your husband?”
“Yessir. When ’d they take this? Why do I have to come? . . .”
“Because we’re convinced that Ciccio Bellavia killed your husband.”
She bolted upright.Then she staggered, her body swaying back and forth, and grabbed on to the table.
“Damn him! Damn that Bellavia! He swore to me he wouldn’t do nothin’ to him!”
She couldn’t go on. Her legs buckled and she fell to the floor, unconscious.