Rounding the Mark

13

He woke up aching all over. For some time now, sleeping on the sofa meant getting up the next morning with broken bones. On the dining room table was a little note from Ingrid.

Since you’re sleeping like a little angel, I’ve gone to my house to take a shower so I won’t wake you up. Kisses, Ingrid. Call me.

He was headed for the bathroom when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch: barely eight o’clock.

“Inspector, I need to see you.”

He didn’t recognize the voice.

“Who is this?”

“Marzilla, Inspector.”

“Come to the station.”

“No, not the station. They might see me. I’ll come to your place, now that you’re alone.”

How the hell did he know that first he had company and now he was alone? Was he hiding somewhere nearby, spying on him?

“Where are you, anyway?”

“In Marinella, Inspector. Practically outside your door. When I saw the woman come out, I called.”

“Wait just a minute and I’ll let you in.”

He quickly washed his face and went to open the door. Marzilla, who was leaning against the door as if to take shelter from some nonexistent rain, came inside, sidestepping the inspector. As he passed, Montalbano got a whiff of rancid sweat. Standing in the middle of the room and panting as if he’d just run a great distance, Marzilla was even paler than before and wild-eyed, his hair sticking straight up.

“I’m scared to death, Inspector.”

“Is there going to be another arrival?”

“Several, and all at the same time.”

“When?”

“The day after tomorrow, at night.”

“Where?”

“They didn’t say. But they did let me know that it’s going to be a big deal, even though I won’t be involved.”

“So why are you afraid? You’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“Because the person I mentioned, who told me about the arrivals, also told me to call in sick today, so I can be at his disposal.”

“Did he let you know what he wants?”

“Yessir. At ten-thirty tonight, I’m supposed to drive a fast car—which they’re going to leave in front of my house—to a place near Capo Russello, pick up some people, then drop them off where they tell me to.”

“So, for now, you don’t know where you’re supposed to take them.”

“No sir. They’ll tell me after they get in the car.”

“What time was it when you got the call?”

“Very early this morning, before six. I tried to refuse, Inspector, you’ve got to believe me. I explained that as long as it involved the ambulance, okay . . . But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He repeatedly said that if I didn’t obey, or if something went wrong, he would have me killed.”

He started crying and collapsed into a chair. Montalbano found his tears unbearable, obscene. This man was a piece of shit. A piece of shit quivering like a bowl of jelly. The inspector had to restrain himself from jumping on him and rearranging his face into a bloody mass of skin, flesh, and bones.

“What should I do, Inspector? What should I do?”

Fear had turned his voice into the squawk of a strangled rooster.

“What they told you to do. But the minute they leave the car in front of your place, you have to tell me the model, color, and, if possible, the license plate number. Now get the hell out of here. The more you blubber, the more I feel like kicking your teeth in.”

Never, even if the guy were dying before his eyes, would he forgive him for the shot he had given the little boy in the ambulance. Marzilla sprang to his feet in terror and ran to the door.

“Wait. First tell me exactly where you’re meeting those people.”

Marzilla explained. Montalbano didn’t really understand, but since he remembered that Catarella had once told him he had a brother who lived in that area, he decided to ask him later on. Marzilla then said:

“What do you intend to do?”

“What do I intend to do? You just call me tonight when you’re through, and tell me where you’ve taken those people and what they’re like.”

He resolved—while shaving—not to inform anyone at headquarters of what Marzilla had just told him. After all, the investigation into the little boy’s murder was an entirely personal matter, a debt he’d incurred which he was convinced would be very hard, if not impossible, to pay off. Still, he was going to need at least a little help. Among other things, Marzilla had told him they were going to leave a fast car parked in front of his place. Which meant that he, Montalbano, wasn’t up to the task. Given his meagre abilities behind the wheel, he would never manage to keep up with Marzilla, who would certainly be asked to drive fast. He had an idea, which he immediately dismissed. Stubbornly, the idea came back to him, and just as stubbornly, he dismissed it again. The idea resurfaced a third time as he was drinking a last coffee before going out. And this time he gave in.

“Hullo? Who ’peakin?”

“This is Inspector Montalbano. Is Signora Ingrid there?”

“You wett, I go see.”

“Salvo! What is it?”

“I need you again.”

“You’re insatiable! Wasn’t last night enough for you?” said Ingrid, teasing.

“No.”

“Well, if you really can’t hold out any longer, I’ll be right over.”

“No, there’s no need for you to come right now. If you don’t have any other engagements, could you be here around nine tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And, listen, have you got another car?”

“I could take my husband’s. Why?”

“Yours attracts too much attention. Is your husband’s a fast car?”

“Yes.”

“See you tonight, then. Thanks.”

“Wait. In what role?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yesterday I came to your place as a witness. And tonight?”

“Tonight you’ll be deputy sheriff. I’ll give you a star.”

“Chief, Marzilla din’t call!” said Catarella, jumping to his feet.

“Thanks, Cat. But stay on the alert, I mean it. Could you send in Inspector Augello and Fazio?”

As he’d decided, he would tell them only about the swimming corpse. Mimì was the first to come in.

“How’s Beba?”

“Better. We were finally able to get a little sleep last night.”

Then Fazio appeared.

“I have to tell you,” the inspector began, “that, entirely by chance, I’ve managed to identify the drowned man. You, Fazio, did a great job, finding out that he’d recently been spotted in Spigonella. That’s where he lived. He’d rented the villa with the big terrace overlooking the sea. D’you remember it, Fazio?”

“Of course.”

“He said he was captain of an oil tanker, and went by the name of Ernesto—‘Ninì’ to friends—D’Iunio.”

“Why? What was his real name?” asked Augello.

“Ernesto Errera.”

“Madunnuzza santa!” said Fazio.

“Like the guy in Cosenza?” asked Mimì again.

“Exactly. They were the same person. Sorry to say, Mimì, but Catarella was right.”

“I want to know how you arrived at this conclusion,” Mimì insisted coldly.

Apparently he was finding the news hard to swallow.

“I didn’t arrive at it myself. My friend Ingrid did.”

And he told them the whole story. When he had finished speaking, Mimì put his head in his hands and shook it at intervals.

“Jesus . . . Jesus . . .” he said softly.

“Why are you so surprised, Mimì?”

“I’m not so surprised by the thing in itself, but by the fact that we were breaking our heads over it when Catarella had come to the right conclusion long before.”

“Then you’ve never understood just who Catarella is,” said the inspector.

“I guess not. Who is he?”

“Catarella’s a little kid, a child inside a grown man’s body. And so he reasons like someone barely seven years old.”

“So?”

“What I mean is that Catarella has the kinds of fantasies, brainstorms, and bright ideas a little kid does. And being a little kid, he says what he’s thinking, he doesn’t hold back. And often he’s right on the mark. Because reality, when seen through our eyes, is one thing, but when seen through a child’s eyes, it’s something else.”

“So, to conclude, what are we going to do?” Fazio cut in.

“That’s what I’m asking you,” said Montalbano.

“Chief, I’d like to say something, if Inspector Augello doesn’t mind. I want to say that this whole business is not so simple. As things now stand, this murder victim—call him D’Iunio or Errera, it makes no difference—has never been officially declared a murder victim, either by the police or the courts. He’s still considered dead by accidental drowning. So my question is: on what grounds do we open a case file and continue the investigation?”

The inspector thought about this a moment.

“We use the old anonymous phone call trick,” he decided.

Augello and Fazio looked at him questioningly.

“It always works. Don’t worry, I’ve used it before.”

He took out the photo of Errera with a mustache and handed it to Fazio.

“Take this immediately to the Free Channel. I want you to hand it to Nicolò Zito in person. Tell him I need an urgent phone call in this morning’s newscast. He should say that Ernesto D’Iunio’s family are distraught because they’ve had no news of him in over two months. Now go.”

Without a peep, Fazio got up and left. Montalbano looked keenly at Augello, as if he’d just noticed at that moment that Mimì was sitting right in front of him. Augello, who knew that look, began to squirm in his chair.

“Salvo, what the hell are you cooking up?”

“How’s Beba?”

Mimì gave him a dismayed look.

“You already asked me that, Salvo. She’s better.”

“So she’s able to make a phone call.”

“Of course. To whom?”

“To the public prosecutor, Tommaseo.”

“And what’s she supposed to say to him?”

“I want her to perform a little drama. Half an hour after Zito broadcasts the photograph on TV, I want Beba to make an anonymous call to Prosecutor Tommaseo and to tell him, in an hysterical voice, that she’s seen the man in the photo. She recognizes him perfectly, there is no doubt in her mind.”

“What? Where?” asked Mimì, annoyed and obviously not keen on getting Beba mixed up in the case.

“Okay, she has to tell him that about two months ago, when she was sitting in her car in Spigonella, she saw the guy in the photo being badly beaten up by two men. At a certain point the guy managed to break free and started coming toward Beba’s car, when he was caught again by the other two and dragged away.”

“And what was Beba doing in her car?”

“Lewd things with a man.”

“Come on! Beba will never say anything like that! And I don’t like it either!”

“And yet it’s essential! You know what Tommaseo’s like, don’t you? Tommaseo lives for these sex stories. It’s just the bait we need for him, and he’ll bite, just you wait and see. In fact, if Beba can make up a few particularly sordid details—”

“Have you gone insane?”

“Just some little thing . . .”

“Salvo, you’re sick in the head!”

“Why are you getting angry? I just meant any old bullshit, like saying that they couldn’t intervene because they were both naked—”

“Okay, okay. Then what?”

“Then, when Tommaseo calls you, you say—”

“Excuse me, but why would Tommaseo call me instead of you?”

“Because I won’t be in this afternoon. I want you to tell him that we already have a lead, have got the missing-person report in hand, and we need a blank search warrant.”

“Blank?!”

“Yes indeed. Because I know where this house in Spigonella is, but I don’t know who it belongs to or if anyone’s still living there. Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystal clear,” Mimì said sullenly.

“Ah, and one more thing. Get him to give you authorization to bug the phone line of one Gaetano Marzilla, who lives at Via Francesco Crispi 18, Montelusa. The sooner we listen in, the better.”

“What’s Marzilla got to do with any of this?”

“Mimì, Marzilla’s got nothing to do with this investigation. But he may be useful to me for something I have in mind. So I’ll answer your question with a cliché that’ll make you happy: I’m trying to kill two birds with one stone.”

“But—”

“Mimì, if you persist, I’m going to take the stone intended for those birds and—”

“Okay, okay, I get the drift.”

Fazio shuffled back to the office less than an hour later.

“It’s all taken care of. Zito’s going to broadcast the photo and the phone call on the two o’clock news. He sends regards.”

And he headed for the door.

“Wait.”

Fazio stopped, certain the inspector was going to say something else to him. But Montalbano said nothing. He only looked him up and down. Fazio, who knew him well, pulled up a chair. The inspector kept eyeing him. Fazio, however, was well aware that he wasn’t really looking at him; he had his eyes on him, yes, but probably didn’t see him because his mind was God-knows-where. And indeed, Montalbano was wondering whether he shouldn’t perhaps ask Fazio to lend him a hand. But if he were to tell him the whole story of the African boy, how would Fazio react? Might he not reply that, in his opinion, this was all a figment of the inspector’s imagination and had no basis in fact? On the other hand, by singing only half the Mass, Montalbano might be able to get some information without revealing too much.

“Listen, Fazio, do you know if there are any illegal immigrants working under the table in our area?”

Fazio didn’t seem surprised by the question.

“There certainly are a lot of them everywhere, but right here, in our area, no.”

“Where are they, then?”

“Wherever there are greenhouses, vineyards, tomato fields, orange groves . . . Up north they work in industry, but around here, where there isn’t any industry, they work in agriculture.”

The discussion was turning too general. Montalbano decided to narrow the field.

“What towns in our province would offer such possibilities for illegal workers?”

“To be honest, Chief, I couldn’t really give you a complete list. Why are you interested?”

This was the question he feared most.

“Uh . . . I was just wondering, that’s all . . .”

Fazio stood up, went to the door, closed it, and sat back down.

“Chief,” he said, “would you be so kind as to tell me everything that’s on your mind?”

Montalbano opened up, telling him every last thing, from the ill-fated evening on the wharf to his last meeting with Marzilla.

“There are quite a few greenhouses in Montechiaro,” said Fazio, “with a hundred or so illegals working there. Maybe that’s where the kid ran away from. The place where the car ran him down is only about five kilometers away.”

“Could you look into it?” the inspector ventured. “But without telling anyone here at the station.”

“I can try,” said Fazio.

“You got something in mind?”

“Well . . . I could try drawing up a list of people renting out houses—no, not houses, I mean stables, cellars, sewers!—to illegals. They cram them in, ten at a time, in crawl spaces without windows! They do it under the table and charge them thousands. But maybe I could come up with something. Once I’ve got a list, I’ll ask around if any of these illegals was recently joined by his wife . . . It’s not going to be easy, I can tell you straight away.”

“I know. I’m very grateful for your help.”

But Fazio didn’t get up from his chair.

“What about tonight?” he asked.

The inspector immediately understood but assumed an angelic expression.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Where’s Marzilla going to pick up that guy at ten-thirty?”

Montalbano told him.

“And what are you going to do?”

“Me? What am I supposed to do? Nothing.”

“Chief, you wouldn’t be cooking up some brilliant scheme now, would you?”

“No, no, don’t worry!”

“Bah!” said Fazio, getting up.

In front of the door, he stopped and turned around.

“Look, Chief, if you want, I’m free tonight and—”

“Jeez, what a pain! You’re obsessed!”

“As if I didn’t know you,” Fazio muttered, opening the door and going out.

“Turn on the television, quick!” he ordered Enzo as soon as he entered the trattoria.

The restaurateur looked at him in astonishment.

“What is this? Every time you come in and it’s on, you want it turned off, and now that you find it off, you want it on?”

“You can turn the sound off,” Montalbano conceded.

Nicolò Zito kept his promise. At a certain point in the newscast (a collision between two tractor-trailors, a collapsed house, a man with his head split open for reasons that were unclear, a car on fire, a baby buggy overturned in the middle of the street, a woman tearing her hair out, a workman who fell from a scaffold, a man shot in a bar), the photo of Errera with the mustache appeared. Which meant all clear for Beba’s little drama sketch. Meanwhile, all those images on the screen had the effect of spoiling his appetite. Before going back to the office, he went on a consolatory walk to the lighthouse.

The door crashed, the plaster fell, Montalbano jumped, Catarella appeared. Ritual over.

“What the fuck! One of these days you’re going to bring down the whole building!”

“I beck y’ partin and fuggiveness, Chief, but when I’m ousside y’ door, I git ixcited and my hand slips.”

“What makes you so excited?”

“Everyting ’bout you, Chief.”

“What do you want?”

“Pontius Pilate’s ’ere.”

“Send him in. And hold all calls.”

“Even from the c’mishner?”

“Yes.”

“Even from Miss Livia?”

“Cat, I’m not here for anyone, can you get that through your head or do I have to do it for you?”

“Got it, Chief.”