Excursion to Tindari

2

They were interrupted by some heated shouting in the lobby. There was decidedly a row in the making.

“Go have a look.”

Fazio went out, the voices calmed down, and a few minutes later he returned.

“There’s a man who got upset with Catarella because he wouldn’t let him in. He insists on speaking to you.”

“He can wait.”

“He seems pretty worked up, Chief.”

“Let’s hear him out.”

In came a bespectacled man of about forty, neatly dressed, with hair parted on the side and the look of a respectable clerk.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me. You’re Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you? My name is Davide Griffo and I feel mortified for having raised my voice, but I couldn’t understand what that policeman was saying to me. Is he a foreigner?”

Montalbano preferred not to answer.

“I’m listening.”

“Well, I live in Messina and work at City Hall. And I’m married. My parents live here, in Vigàta, and I’m an only child. I’m very worried about them.”

“Why?”

“I phone them twice a week from Messina, every Thursday and Sunday Two nights ago, last Sunday, they didn’t pick up, and I haven’t heard from them since. Every hour’s been hell, so finally my wife suggested I get in the car and drive to Vigàta.Yesterday I phoned the concierge to find out if she had the key to my parents’ apartment. She said no. So my wife said I should turn to you. She’s seen you a couple of times on TV.”

“Do you want to file a report?”

“First I’d like to get authorization to break down the door ...” His voice began to crack. “Something serious may have happened to them, Inspector.”

“All right. Fazio, get Gallo for me.”

Fazio went out and returned with his colleague.

“Gallo, please accompany this gentleman. He needs to have the door to his parents’ apartment broken down. He has no word of them since last week. Where did you say they live?”

“I hadn’t told you yet. In Via Cavour, number 44.”

Montalbano’s jaw dropped.

“Madunnuzza santa!” said Fazio.

Gallo started coughing violently and left the room in search of a glass of water.

Davide Griffo, now pale and spooked by the effect of his words, looked around.

“What did I say?” he asked in a faint voice.

As Fazio pulled up in front of Via Cavour 44, Davide Griffo stepped out of the car and rushed inside the main door.

“Where do we start?” Fazio asked the inspector as he was locking the car.

“We start with the missing old folks. The dead guy’s already dead and can wait.”

In the main doorway they ran into Griffo, who was racing back like a bat out of hell.

“The concierge said somebody was murdered last night! Somebody who lived in this building!”

Only then did he notice Nenè Sanfilippo’s silhouette, outlined in white on the sidewalk. He began to tremble violently.

“Calm down,” the inspector said to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“No ... it’s just that I’m afraid that—”

“Mr. Griffo, are you thinking that your parents might be somehow involved in this homicide?”

“Are you joking? My parents are—”

“Well, then, forget the fact that someone was killed in front of the building this morning. Let’s go have a look.”

Signora Ciccina Recupero, the concierge, was pacing about her six-by-six-foot porter’s lodge like certain bears that go insane in their cages and start rocking first on one leg, then another. She could allow herself this luxury because she was all bones, and the little bit of space she had available was more than enough for her to shuffle about in.

“Oh God oh God oh God! Madunnuzza santa! What is happening in this building? What on earth is happening? Has somebody cast a spell on it? We must call a priest at once for some holy water!”

Montalbano grabbed her by the arm—or, rather, by the bone of her arm—and forced her to sit down.

“Cut the theatrics. Stop crossing yourself and answer my questions. When did you last see the Griffos?”

“Last Saturday morning, when Mrs. Griffo came back from shopping.”

“Today is Tuesday Weren’t you worried?”

The concierge bristled.

“Why should I be? Those two never said a word to anyone! Stuck up, they were! And I don’t give a damn if their son hears me say it! They’d go out, come back with their groceries, lock themselves up in their house, and three days’d go by before anyone saw them again! They had my phone number. They could call if they needed anything!”

“And did that ever happen?”

“Did what ever happen?”

“Did they ever call you?”

“Yeah, it happened a few times. When Signor Fofo, the husband, was sick, he called me for help when his wife was out at the drugstore. Another time when a hose on the washing machine broke and their apartment got flooded. Another time—”

“That’s enough, thanks. You said you haven’t got the key?”

“I didn’t just say it, I don’t have it! Mrs. Griffo left me the key last summer when they went to see their son in Messina. She wanted me to water the plants she keeps on the balcony But then they asked for it back without a word of thanks, nothing, like I was their servant or something! And I’m supposed to be worried about them? Hell, if I went up to the fourth floor to ask them if they needed anything, they’d probably tell me to fuck off!”

“Shall we go up?” the inspector asked Davide Griffo, who was leaning against the wall. He looked a little weak in the knees.

They took the elevator to the fourth floor. Davide shot out at once. Fazio brought his mouth to the inspector’s ear.

“There are four flats on each floor. N enè Sanfilippo lived in the one directly under the Griffos,” he said, gesturing with his chin toward Davide, who was pressing all his weight against the door of number 17 and wildly ringing the doorbell.

“Stand aside, please.”

Davide, seeming not to hear him, kept pushing the doorbell button. They could hear it ringing inside, remote and useless. Fazio stepped forward, grabbed the man by the shoulders, and moved him aside. The inspector extracted a large key ring from his pocket. From it hung a dozen or so variously shaped picklocks, a gift from a burglar with whom he’d become friends. He fiddled with the lock a good five minutes. It not only had a bolt, but had been given four turns of the key.

The door opened. Montalbano and Fazio opened their nostrils wide to smell the odor inside. Fazio was holding back Davide, who wanted to rush in, by the arm. Death, after two days’ time, begins to stink. But there was nothing. The apartment merely smelled stuffy. Fazio let go and Davide sprang forward, immediately crying out:

“Papa! Mama!”

Everything was in perfect order. The windows shut, the bed made, the kitchen tidy, the sink empty of dirty dishes. Inside the fridge, a packet of prosciutto, some olives, a bottle of white wine, half-empty In the freezer, four slices of meat and two mullets. If they’d indeed gone away, they certainly left with the intention of returning soon.

“Do your parents have any relatives?”

Davide was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, head in his hands.

“Papa, no. Mama, yes. A brother in Comiso, and a sister in Trapani who died.”

“Do you think they could have gone to—”

“No, Inspector, it’s not possible. They haven’t heard from my parents for a month. They’re not very close.”

“So you have absolutely no idea where they might have gone?”

“No. If I did, I’d have tried to find them.”

“The last time you spoke to them was last Thursday evening, correct?”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t say anything that might have—”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“What did you talk about?”

“The usual things, health, the grandchildren ... I have two boys, Alfonso, named after my father, and Giovanni. Six and four years old. My parents are very fond of them. Whenever we came to Vigàta they would shower them with presents.”

He made no effort to hold back his tears.

Fazio, who’d had a look around the apartment, returned with a shrug.

“Mr. Griffo, there’s no point in us remaining here. I hope to have some news for you very soon.”

“Inspector, I took a few days off from City Hall. I can stay in Vigata at least until tomorrow evening.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you can stay as long as you like.”

“Actually, what I meant was: Could I sleep here tonight?”

Montalbano thought it over a moment. In the dining room, which also doubled as a living room, there was a small desk with papers on it. He wanted to go over these at his convenience.

“No, you can’t sleep here, I’m sorry.”

“But what if somebody calls ...?”

“Who, your parents? Why would they call, knowing there’s nobody home?”

“No, I meant if somebody calls with news ...”

“You’re right. I’ll have somebody tap the phone right away. Fazio, you take care of it. Mr. Griffo, I need a photo of your parents.”

“I’ve got one right here, Inspector, in my pocket. I took it myself when they came to Messina. Their names are Alfonso and Margherita.”

He started sobbing as he handed the photo to Montalbano.

“Five times four is twenty, twenty minus two is eighteen,” said Montalbano on the landing, after Griffo had left more bewildered than convinced.

“Trying to pick the winning numbers?” asked Fazio.

“As sure as one and one makes two, there should be twenty apartments in this building, since it has four floors. But in fact there are only eighteen, if we exclude the Griffo and Sanfilippo flats. Which means we’ve got no less than eighteen families to interrogate, and two questions to ask each family. What do you know about the Griffos? And what do you know about Nenè Sanfilippo? If that little son of a bitch Mimì were here to give us a hand—”

Speak of the devil. At that moment, Fazio’s cell phone rang.

“It’s Inspector Augello. Wants to know if we need his help.”

Montalbano’s face turned red with rage.

“Tell him to get here immediately, and if he’s not here in five minutes, I’ll break his legs.”

Fazio gave him the message.

“While we’re waiting,” the inspector suggested, “let’s go have ourselves a cup of coffee.”

When they returned to Via Cavour, Mimi was already there waiting for them. Fazio walked discreetly away.

“Mimi,” the inspector began, “I’m really at my wit’s end with you. I’m speechless. What on earth is going through your head? Do you or don’t you know that—”

“I know,” Augello interrupted him.

“What the hell do you know?”

“What I’m supposed to know. That I fucked up.The fact is, I feel weird, confused.”

The inspector’s rage subsided. Mimi was standing before him with a look he’d never had before. Not the usual devil-may-care attitude. On the contrary, there was something resigned about him, something humble.

“Mimi, would you tell me what’s up with you?”

“I’ll tell you later, Salvo.”

Montalbano was about to place a consoling hand on his subordinate’s shoulder when a sudden suspicion stopped him. What if this son of a bitch Mimi was playacting the same way he himself had done with Bonetti-Alderighi, pretending to be servile when in fact he was taking his ass for a ride? Augello, who had a poker face worthy of a tragedian, was capable of this and more. In doubt, the inspector refrained from the affectionate gesture. Instead he filled him in on the disappearance of the Griffos.

“You’ll handle the tenants on the first and second floors, Fazio will take the fifth and ground floors, and I’ll do the third and fourth floors.”

Third floor, Apartment 12. The fiftyish widow Concetta Lo Mascolo, née Burgio, launched into the most impassioned of monologues.

“Don’t talk to me about this Nenè Sanfilippo, Inspector! Don’t mention that name! The poor boy was murdered, may he rest in peace! But he damned my soul, he did! During the day he was never at home, but at night, oh yes, he certainly was. And that, for me, was when the hell began! Every other night! Hell! You see, Mr. Inspector, my bedroom shares a wall with Sanfilippo’s bedroom. And the walls in this building are paper-thin! You can hear everything, every last little thing! And after they’d been playing music loud enough to break my eardrums, they would start in with another kind of music! A symphony! Clunkety clunkety clunkety clunk! And the bed would knock against the wall and play percussion! And the slut of the hour would go ah ah ah ah! And then clunkety clunkety clunkety clunk all over again, from the top! And I would start to think wicked thoughts. So I would say ten Hail Marys. Twenty Hail Marys. Thirty Hail Marys. But it was hopeless! I couldn’t get the thoughts out of my head. I’m still a young woman, Inspector! He was damning my soul! Anyway, no, sir, I know nothing about the Griffos.They never said a word to anyone. If nobody tells me anything, why should I tell you anything? Am I right?”

Third floor, Apartment 14. The Crucillà family. Husband: Stefano Crucillà, retired, former accountant at the fish market. Wife: Antonietta née De Carlo. Elder son: Calogero, mining engineer, working in Bolivia.Younger daughter: Samanta with no h between the t and the a, math teacher, unmarried, living at home with her parents. Samanta spoke for them all.

“You see, Inspector, just to give you an idea of how unsociable the Griffos were, one day I ran into Mrs. Griffo as she was coming through the front door of the building with her grocery cart filled to bursting and two plastic shopping bags in each hand. Since you have to climb three steps to get to the elevator, I asked if I could help her. She rudely said no. And the husband was no better.

“As for Nenè Sanfilippo, good-looking guy, full of life, very nice. What did he do? What young people always do at his age, when they’re free.”

With this, she shot a glance at her parents, sighing. She, alas, was not free. Otherwise she could have shown a thing or two to Nenè Sanfilippo, rest his soul.

Third floor, Apartment 15. Dr. Ernesto Assunto, dentist.

“This is only my office, Inspector. I live in Montelusa and only come here during the day. All I can tell you is that I ran into Mr. Griffo once when his left cheek was swollen with an abscess. When I asked him if he had a dentist, he said no. So I suggested he drop in at the office. For my trouble I was given only a firm ‘no’. As for Sanfilippo, you know what, Inspector? I never met him and don’t even know what he looked like.”

Montalbano began climbing the flight of stairs that led to the floor above when he happened to look at his watch. It was one-thirty and, seeing what time it was, he felt, by conditioned reflex, a tremendous hunger pang. The elevator passed him on its way up. He heroically decided to suffer the hunger and continue his questioning, since at that hour he was more likely to find people at home. In front of Apartment 16 stood a fat, bald man holding a black, misshapen tote bag in one hand and trying with the other to insert his key in the door. He saw the inspector stop behind him.

“You looking for me?”

“Yes, Mr ... ”

“Mistretta. Who are you?”

“I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to ask you a few questions about the young man who was murdered last night—”

“Yeah, I heard. The concierge told me everything when I was leaving for the office this morning. I work at the cement plant.”

“—and about the Griffos.”

“Why, what did the Griffos do?”

“They’re missing.”

Mr. Mistretta opened the door and stood aside.

“Please come in.”

Montalbano took one step inside and found himself in an apartment in utter disorder. Two mismatched, threadbare socks adorned a shelf near the entrance. He was shown into a room that must have once been a living room. Newspapers, dirty dishes, grimy glasses, clean and unwashed laundry, ashtrays overflowing with butts and ashes.

“It’s a little messy” Mr. Mistretta admitted, “but my wife’s been away for two months in Caltanissetta, with her ailing mother.”

From the black tote bag he extracted a can of tuna, a lemon, and a loaf of bread. He opened the can and emptied its contents onto the first plate within reach. Pushing aside a pair of underpants, he grabbed a fork and a knife. He cut the lemon and squeezed it onto the tuna.

“Care to join me? Look, Inspector, I don’t want to waste your time. I was thinking of filling your ear with bullshit just to keep you here awhile and have a little company But then I realized it wouldn’t be right. I probably met the Griffos a couple of times. But we didn’t even say hello. And I never even saw the young man who was killed.”

“Thanks. Good day,” said the inspector, standing up.

Even amidst all the filth, seeing somebody eat had redoubled his appetite.

Fourth floor. Beside the door to Apartment 18, under the doorbell, was a plaque that said: Guido and Gina De Dominicis. He rang the bell.

“Who is it?” asked a little kid’s voice.

What to say to a child?

“A friend of your papa’s.”

The door opened and a boy of about eight, a mischievous glint in his eye, appeared before the inspector.

“Is your papa there? Or your mama?”

“No, but they’ll be back soon.”

“What’s your name?”

“Pasqualino. What’s yours?”

“Salvo.”

At that moment Montalbano became convinced he smelled something burning inside the apartment.

“What’s that smell?”

“Nothing. I set the house on fire.”

The inspector sprang forward, pushing Pasqualino aside. Black smoke was pouring out of a doorway It was the bedroom. One fourth of the double bed had caught fire. He took off his jacket, saw a wool blanket folded up on a chair, grabbed this, opened it, and threw it onto the flames, patting it hard with his hands. A malicious little tongue of fire consumed half of one of his shirt cuffs.

“If you put out my fire I’ll just start another one somewhere else,” said Pasqualino, brandishing a box of kitchen matches menacingly.

The little demon! What to do? Disarm him or continue to extinguish the blaze? The inspector opted for the fireman’s role, repeatedly getting singed and seared. Then a woman’s shrill cry paralyzed him.

“Guiiiiidoooo!”

A young blonde, boggle-eyed, was clearly about to faint. Montalbano hadn’t had time to open his mouth when a bespectacled, broad-shouldered young man, a kind of Clark Kent, materialized beside the young woman. Without saying a word, Superman, with a single, extremely elegant gesture, pushed his jacket aside, and at once a pistol the size of a cannon was pointing at the inspector.

“Hands up.”

Montalbano obeyed.

“He’s a pyromaniac! A pyromaniac!” the young woman babbled, weeping and embracing her precious little angel.

“Mama! Mama! He said he wanted to burn the whole house down!”

It took a good half-hour to clear matters up. Montalbano learned that the husband worked as a cashier in a bank, which explained why he went around with a gun, and that Signora Gina had come home late because she’d been to see the doctor.

“Pasqualino’s going to have a brother,” the woman confessed, lowering her eyes in modesty.

Against a background of screams and cries from the kid, who’d been spanked and locked in a small, dark room, Montalbano learned that even when the Griffos were at home, it was as if they weren’t there.

“Never a cough, or even, say, the sound of something dropped on the floor, or a word spoken a little louder than the rest. Nothing!”

As for Nenè Sanfilippo, Mr. and Mrs. De Dominicis didn’t even know the murder victim had lived in their building.