The Dance of the Seagull

14

“You’re a nice girl, I’m convinced. Want me to tell you how they did it?”

“You couldn’t possibly know.”

“Lemme try an’ guess. I’ll ask you some questions and you just say yes or no. Did you lose your boyfriend when he died after being thrown into a well?”

She recoiled, eyes popping, turned pale, and muttered a few inaudible words the inspector couldn’t grasp. The surprise had knocked the wind out of her. She tried again to speak:

“But . . . how . . . how did you . . .”

“Don’t worry about that, you’ve answered my question. So I’ll go on. Then a friend of your boyfriend, somebody he always worked with, came to tell you what happened. A guy with a big scar on his face. He told you that it was Fazio who killed him, and they wanted revenge. And that it was your duty to be part of the vendetta. All you had to do was tell him what floor Fazio was on and what room he was in. And you went along.”

“But . . .”

“I know, you only told him the floor but not the room number. You had second thoughts, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I didn’t want . . . At first I was very angry and desperate, but then I thought that the poor man was only doing his duty.”

“Did you know that your boyfriend . . . What was his name?”

“Same as mine. Angelo. Angelo Sorrentino.”

“. . . Did you know that he did the kind of things he did?”

“He never talked to me about it. But for the last few months I’d been suspecting something.”

“What’s the name of the guy with the scar?”

“Vittorio Carmona.”

“Is that him out there in the car?”

“Yes.”

“And who’s the guy with him?”

“I don’t know.”

“So then you told Carmona you didn’t want to have anything more to do with this business, and he blackmailed you. Is that right?”

“Yes, he told me he would write a letter saying it was me who let him into the hospital because I was Angelo’s girlfriend. And if that wasn’t enough to convince me, he would kill me.”

“What did he order you to do with me tonight?”

“He wanted me to sleep with you and make you talk.”

“What did they want to know?”

“What Fazio could remember, and whether he’d named any names.”

“But I’d already answered that question at the restaurant, so there was no need for you to sleep with me.”

“No, you’re wrong, that wasn’t the reason.”

“Why, then?”

“I suddenly thought of Angelo. And I couldn’t do it. And then . . .”

“. . . Then you realized you couldn’t play Judas.”

She didn’t reply. Her chin quivered.

“Is that all they wanted?”

“No.”

Now she was blushing red. She seemed offended.

“Come on, speak.”

“I’m too embarrassed.”

“Then I’ll tell you myself. They wanted you to act in such a way that I would fall for you, become obsessed with your body, so that the relationship would continue for a while. That way they could know the police department’s moves in advance.”

“I was supposed to become their whore, in every way. But what will I tell him now? Carmona’ll kill me.”

“I’ll tell you what to say to him. Now listen carefully.”

He straggled into the station the next morning around nine, dead tired. He’d gone out of the house at four A.M. hand in hand with Angela, and then, for the benefit and enjoyment of any and all spectators and stalkers, they had given each other a long kiss, holding each other tight. Like two lovers for whom the night spent together hadn’t sufficed. Feeling Angela’s lips against his, however, Montalbano had realized that her kiss wasn’t just playacting. There was also warm gratitude and affection in it. He’d felt his blood begin to boil and his head start to spin.

“Could I drive?” she asked.

The inspector gladly let her take the wheel. After that kiss, he’d remembered the sight of the girl’s breasts and was in no condition to drive. He would have turned every straightaway into a curve.

Angela drove well and fast. The metallic car was no longer following them. They must have left after a certain amount of time, convinced that he and Angela were rolling around in bed. Still, it took the girl an hour and fifteen minutes to get to Fiacca.

On the return drive, however, it took the inspector an hour and fifty. Back in Marinella, he took a shower that used up nearly all the water, then drank five cups of coffee in a row.

He hadn’t even finished parking when he heard Catarella’s voice cry out in distress.

“Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief!” he yelled, running towards the car.

It had to be something serious. Montalbano didn’t even bother getting out of the car.

“Jeez, iss so long I bin tryin’ a call yiz, Chief! But you got yer home phone unplagged an’ yer sill phone turned off!”

“All right, what happened?”

“A lady was killed!”

“Is Inspector Augello at the scene?”

“Yessir, Chief. ’E tol’ me hisself, poissonally in poisson, a tell yiz poissonally in poisson ’atta minnit ya got in y’gotta call ’im emergently! ’Ass what ’e tol’ me a tell yiz.”

“Give me the address.”

Catarella searched his pockets.

“I writ it onna piss a paper I can’t find. Ah, ’ere it is! But iss not too ligible. Sumpin’ like nummer thirteen, Via della Forchella or Forchetta.”

It had to be Via della Forcella.

“I’m going to go there right . . .”

The inspector suddenly stopped. He’d just remembered who lived on that street.

There was pandemonium when he got there. TV cameras, journalists, and some thirty people gathered outside the door, kept at bay by the curses and expletives of two municipal cops. Every balcony of the building was crammed full of people looking on in excitement. He got out of the car and made his way through the crowd by dint of pushing and swearing. A newsman grabbed him by the arm.

“Tell us please what you think of all this!”

“What do you think of it?”

The man was thrown for a loop, allowing Montalbano to go on. The body lay in the main entrance, half inside, half outside, feet taking in the fresh air, partially covered by a bloody sheet. Galluzzo came running up to the inspector.

“The victim was the concierge of the building. Fifty-four years old, name Matilde Verruso.”

“How was she killed?”

“When she went to open the front door early this morning, she was shot by somebody inside a car, which then sped off.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Some guy on the third floor. He was sitting and looking out the window when—”

“I’d like to question him later. Where’s Augello?”

“Inside.”

The inspector took two steps and turned back.

“But if she was shot early this morning, why’s the body still here?”

“Because at almost the exact same moment they killed this poor dame, the mayor of Gallotta was murdered, and everybody rushed there first. They should all be here in forty-five minutes or so.”

Right. Politics takes priority. He went inside the porter’s lodge and heard somebody snoring.

“Who’s that sleeping?” he asked Mimì.

“The husband. He’s stinking drunk.”

“Listen, do you know where I might find the key to Manzella’s apartment?”

“There’s no point in going there. I’ve already checked it out myself. I had the same idea as you.”

“And?”

“The telescope you mentioned to me is gone, and so are the binoculars. They took ’em.”

“When?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mimì, think for a second. If the guys who shot her drove away immediately, they couldn’t have taken the telescope and binoculars. Not even after committing the murder. Those things disappeared before the murder. Is that clear to you?”

“Perfectly.”

“I want to talk to that witness.”

“Signor Catalfamo? Third floor, number twelve. But basically, he didn’t see anything.”

“I want to talk to him anyway.”

Montalbano had to ring the doorbell a long time. Apparently Signor Catalfamo was out on the balcony and couldn’t hear it. At last he decided to come in and answer the door. A substantial cloud of garlic smell took advantage of the situation to waft out of the apartment.

“I’m Inspector Montalbano, police.”

“And I’m Eugenio Catalfamo, retired, widower, no children, seventy-eight years old. Come in, come in.”

“No, thank you, Signor Catalfamo, I only need to ask you a question.”

“Please come in just the same.”

The poor guy wanted someone to talk to. But how long would Montalbano be able to hold his breath?

“All right, thanks.”

He went in. The apartment was exactly the same as Manzella’s. There were two chairs around a small table. Catalfamo pulled one out for him.

“Please make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.”

The inspector couldn’t stand it. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and put it over his nose.

“I’m sorry, but I have a bad cold. I only wanted to know if you got a good look at what happened.”

“I got good eyes.”

“I’m glad. Did you see the car the gunman fired from?”

“Of course I saw it! It arrived less than a minute before poor Signura Matilde reopened the front door. She didn’t even have time to make a peep, poor thing! They just fired and drove away!”

Why would Signora Matilde have wanted to make a peep?

“Do you remember the license plate number?”

“I didn’t pay any attention.”

“How about the color?”

“Metallic blue. Big car.”

He’d expected that reply. After finishing their guard duty in Marinella, at the crack of dawn Vittorio Carmona and his associate had gone off to attend to a little early-morning business. But something the old retiree had said didn’t quite add up.

“I’m sorry, Signor Catalfamo, you said something about the concierge and the open door that I didn’t quite get.”

“I only sleep three hours a night, Inspector.”

“I’m sorry. It happens to the best of us.”

“If it’s nice outside, I go out on the balcony at four in the morning.”

“Did you see anything this morning?”

“This morning, just before five, a little van came up and stopped in front of the main door. A man got out and rang the buzzer. I’s leaning way out to get a good look at ’im. I wanted to see whose number he’d buzzed. A minute later the front door opened an’ Signura Matilde came out an’ started talking to him. As they was talkin’ Signor Di Mattia came out. He works in Ravanusa, so he’s gotta leave early. Then the man went inside and came back out with a big telescope that he put in his van. Signura Matilde also gave him a package. The guy took it, drove away, an’ the signura closed the door again.”

“What floor does Signor Di Mattia live on?”

“Fourth floor. I’m sure his wife’s there.”

“Signora Di Mattia?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Inspector Montalbano, police.”

“Please come in. My husband’s not here. He works in—”

“Ravanusa, I know. Does your husband have a cell phone?”

“Yessir.”

“Could you give me the number?”

He went back down to the porter’s lodge. The sleeping man was snoring even louder. Mimì was sitting at a small table with some papers scattered in front of him.

“I’ve had a look at these and found something interesting.”

“What?”

“That just four days ago, the porter’s wife deposited five thousand euros in the bank. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

“Listen, Mimì, there are a number of new developments we need to talk about. You wait here for the prosecutor, coroner, Forensics, and the rest of those clowns, and I’ll see you later at the station.”

“Can’t you give me a hint of these new developments?”

“It’d be better when we had a little time.”

“And where are you going now?”

“I’m not gonna tell you, or you’ll get envious. What time did you tell Rizzica to come in?”

“I told him to come around noon, but he said he’d be busy all morning. He’ll be by around four in the afternoon.”

The inspector made his way through the crowd, cursing the saints. A TV reporter tried to buttonhole him, but he told him to go to hell, then got in his car and drove off. Turning down a narrow, deserted side street, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Di Mattia’s number.

“Signor Di Mattia? Inspector Montalbano here, police.”

“What is it, Inspector?”

“Are you aware that the concierge of your building has been murdered?”

“Yes, my wife called and told me. And just now she called back to tell me she gave you my cell phone number.”

“Listen, Signor Catalfamo told me you went out this morning around five.”

“As always.”

“When you went downstairs, was the front door to the building open or closed?”

“It was closed, but poor Signora Matilde was about to open it, because someone had just buzzed outside.”

“Did you notice anything strange?”

“Well, strange, no, not really. Signora Matilde had just put a large telescope in the entrance to be taken away.”

“Did she say whose it was?”

“I asked her myself. She said it belonged to Signor Manzella, who’d called her the day before and said he would send a small van to come and pick it up. And, in fact, when I went out, I stopped for a second to retie my shoelace and saw Signora Matilde talking to the driver of the van. But . . .”

“But what?”

“Isn’t five o’clock in the morning a little early to come and get a telescope?”

Smart man, Signor Di Mattia.

Now he had to go to Manzella’s other home. But he’d already forgotten the address Fazio had given him. The only thing was to call him.

“Fazio? Montalbano here.”

“I recognized you, Chief.”

“How are you?”

“Good.”

“Any news?”

“This morning one of our police doctors came and then went off to talk to Dr. Bartolomeo.”

“What did they decide?”

“That an ambulance is going to come this evening around six and take me to Palermo.”

“Why Palermo?”

“Because he says I have to remain under strict surveillance for another three or four days. Then I can leave. But our doctor says I need a good twenty days at the very least to fully recover.”

“So much the better for you.”

“I’m going to spend my convalescence in Vigàta, Chief.”

“So? That way I can come and see you every so often.”

“Every so often? I’m gonna come to the station every day, just like I was on the job.”

Montalbano said nothing. Without Fazio around, he felt as if one of his arms had been cut off.

“I’m sorry I don’t have the time to come and say hello.”

“Listen, Chief, since my wife’s coming to see me in Palermo tomorrow morning, she’ll bring your gun back to you this evening at the station.”

“All right. Well, goodbye then. Ah, I almost forgot! Could you tell me that address Manzella gave you again?”

“Sure. Via Bixio 22.”

“Thanks, Faz. Take care, and I’ll see you soon.”

He decided to make another call immediately. He glanced at his watch: ten-thirty.

Too bad if he woke her up.

“Ciao, Angela. Montalbano here.”

“Ciao, Salvo.”

She sounded still asleep.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, I just got up, but I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“Then I’ll let you go. I just wanted to know whether your friend had called yet to find out what had happened between us and what I told you.”

“Not yet. But I’m sure he’ll be calling soon.”

“Listen, I wanted to let you know that Fazio’s going to be picked up by ambulance this evening around six and taken to Palermo.”

“Am I supposed to tell them that, too?”

“Yes. It’s why I called you.”

“What exactly do you want me to say?”

“Tell them I called to hear your voice and find out if you’d had a good sleep, things like that, and in the course of the conversation I mentioned the ambulance. That should work, no?”

“Yes, I think so. Listen, since I get off work at ten tonight, I was thinking it’ll be too late to go out to eat at a restaurant.”

“I’ll have something made here.”

“Then I’ll just come to your place in my car. And stay until four.”

“All right.”

And while he was at it . . .

“Adelì? Montalbano here.”

“Wha’ izzit, Isspector?”

“Could you please change the sheets on my bed? And then why don’t you go ahead and set up the sofa with a mattress and three chairs the way you do? And cook me up something nice for this evening, and make a lot of it.”

And while he was still at it . . .

“Catarella? Montalbano here.”

“Yessir, Chief.”

“I need you to search through the files for two guys who probably have records.”

“Jess a sec, Chief, whiles I git a pin and paper. Whass the names?”

“The first is Angelo Sorrentino. Write it down correctly. Did you write it?”

“Yeah.”

“Repeat it for me.”

“Ponentino.”

“No, not Ponentino! Shit! Sorrentino. Like someone who was born in Sorrento. Don’t you know the song?”

“Chief, if I sing the song, i’ comes out Surrientino.”

Finally, after the inspector had cursed a number of saints, Catarella got it right.

“An’ whatta ’bout th’other one, Chief?”

“His name’s Vittorio Carmona. Did you get that?”

“Cammona, Chief.”

“No, not Cammona, but Carmona, with an r!”

“An’ wha’d I say? I said Cammona wit’ an r!”

“Listen, when you find them, don’t put the files on my desk. Give ’em to me personally in person when I get back.”