Voice of the Violin

‘No, I’ve already arranged it all with Mimi. He’s coming by in an hour to pick me up.’

The moment Mimi walks into the office, the inspector thought, I’m going to bust his arse so badly he won’t be able to walk.

It was he who persuaded me to come and see you; I wanted to go home yesterday.’

Oh, so now he was supposed to thank Mimi into the bargain?

‘You didn’t want to see me?’

‘Try to understand, Salvo.

I need to be alone, to collect my thoughts, to draw some conclusions. This has all been overwhelming for me.’

The inspector felt curious to know the rest.

‘Well, tell me what happened next.’

‘As soon as I saw Francois there in the room, I instinctively drew near to him, but he moved away.’

Montalbano remembered the scene he’d endured a few days earlier.

‘He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I love you, Livia, but I won’t leave this house and my brothers.” I sat there immobile, frozen. And he went on, “If you take me away with you, I’ll run away for good and you’ll never see me again.”

Then he ran out shouting, “I’m here, I’m here!” I started to feel dizzy, and the next thing I knew I was lying in a bed, with Franca beside me.

My God, how cruel children can be sometimes!’

And wasn’t what we wanted to do to him cruel? Montalbano thought.

‘I felt very weak. When I tried to get up, I fainted again. Franca didn’t want me to leave. She called a doctor and never left my side. I slept there. Actually slept! I spent the whole night sitting in a chair by the window. The next morning Mimi came. Her sister had phoned him. Mimi has been like a brother to me, more than a brother. He made sure I didn’t run into Francois again. He took me out’ showed me half Sicily, and he talked me into coming here, even if only for an hour. “The two of you need to talk, to explain yourselves,” he said. We got to Montelusa last night, and he accompanied me to the Hotel Delia Valle, This morning he came round and brought me here. My suitcase is in his car’

‘I don’t think there’s much to explain’ said Montalbano.

An explanation would have been possible only if Livia, realizing she’d been wrong, had expressed a word of understanding, just one, regarding his feelings. Or did she think that he, Salvo, had felt nothing when he realized they’d lost Francois for ever? Livia wasn’t allowing for any openings, she was shut up inside her own grief and could see nothing but her own selfish despair. And what about him? Weren’t they, until proven otherwise, a couple whose bond was built on love, yes, and on sex, too, but above all on a relationship of mutual understanding that bordered at times on complicity? One word too many, at that moment, might trigger an irreparable rupture. Montalbano swallowed his resentment.

‘What do you intend to do?’

he asked.

‘About … the boy?’ She couldn’t bring herself to pronounce Francois’s name.

‘Yes’

‘I won t stand in his way’

She got up abruptly and ran towards the sea, moaning in a low voice like a mortally wounded animal. Then, unable to stand it any longer, she threw herself face down on the sand.

Montalbano picked her up in his arms, carried her into the house, laid her down on the bed, and with a damp towel gently wiped the sand off her face.

When he heard the horn of Mimi Augello’s car, Montalbano helped Livia stand up and put her clothes in order.

Utterly passive, she let him do as he wished. With an arm around her waist, he escorted her outside. Mimi did not get out of the car. He knew it was unwise to get too close to his superior; he might get bitten. He stared straight ahead the whole time, to avoid meeting the inspector’s gaze. Right before getting in the car, Livia turned her head slightly and kissed Montalbano on the cheek. The inspector returned to the house, went into the bathroom, and got into the shower, clothes and all, turning the water on full blast. Then he swallowed two sleeping pills, which he never took, washed them down with a glass of whisky, threw himself on the bed, and waited for the inevitable blow to lay him out.

When he woke it was five in the afternoon. He had a slight headache and felt nauseated.

‘Augello here?’ he asked, walking into the station.

Mimi entered Montalbano’s office and prudently closed the door behind him. He looked resigned.

‘If you start yelling like you usually do’ he said, ‘it’s probably better if we go outside’

The inspector got up from his chair, brought himself face-to-face with Mimi, then put an arm around the other’s neck.

‘You’re a real friend, Mimi.

But I advise you to leave this room immediately. I’m liable to change my mind and start kicking you.’

Inspector? Clementina Vasile Cozzo’s on the line. Shall I put her through?’

‘And who are you?’

It couldn’t possibly be Catarella.

‘What do you mean, who am I? I’m me.’

‘And what the hell is your name?’

It’s Catarella, Chief!

Poissonally in poisson!’

Thank God for that. The impromptu identity check had resuscitated the old Catarella, not the one the computer was inexorably transforming.

Inspector! What happened?

Are you angry with me?’

‘Signora, believe me, I’ve had some pretty strange days.. ‘

“You’re forgiven.

Could you come to my flat? I have something to show you.’

‘Now?’

‘Now’

Signora Clementina escorted him into the living room and turned off the television.

‘Look at this. It’s the programme of tomorrow’s concert, which Maestro Cataldo Barbera had someone bring to me a short while ago.’

Montalbano took the torn, squared notebook page from the signora’s hand. Was this why she’d so urgently wanted to see him?

On it, in pencil, was written: Friday, nine thirty. Concert in memory of Michela Licalzi.

Montalbano gave a start.

Did Maestro Barbera know the victim?

‘That’s why I asked you to come,’ said Mrs Vasile Cozzo, reading the question in his eyes.

The inspector went back to studying the sheet of paper.

Programme: G. Tartini, Variations on a Theme ‘ by Corelli’; J.S. Bach, ‘Largo’; G.B. Viotti, from Concerto no. 24 in E minor.

He handed the sheet, back to Mrs Vasile Cozzo.

‘Did you know that they were acquainted, signora?’

‘Never. And I wonder how that could be, since the Maestro never goes outside. As soon as I read that piece of paper, I knew it might be of interest to you.’

‘I’m going to go upstairs and talk to him.’

‘You’re wasting your time.

He’ll refuse to see you. It’s six thirty. He’s already gone to bed.’

‘What does he do, watch television?’

‘He hasn’t got a television, and he doesn’t read newspapers. He goes to sleep, and then wakes up around two o’clock in the morning. I asked the maid if she knew why the Maestro keeps such odd hours, and she said she had no idea. But, after giving it some thought, I think I’ve found a plausible explanation.’

‘Which is?’

‘I believe that the Maestro, in so doing, blots out a specific period of time, that is, he cancels, skips over, the hours during which he normally used to perform. By sleeping through them, he erases them from his memory.’

‘I see. But I can’t not talk to him.’

‘You could try tomorrow morning, after the concert’

A door slammed upstairs.

‘There,’ said Mrs Vasile Cozzo, ‘the maid is going home now.’

Montalbano made a move towards the door.

‘Actually, Inspector, she’s more a housekeeper than a maid,’ Mrs Vasile Cozzo explained.

Montalbano opened the door.

A woman in her sixties, appropriately dressed, descended the final steps from the floor above and greeted the inspector with a nod of the head.

‘Ma’am, I’m Inspector—’ ‘I know.’

‘I realize you’re on your way home, and I don’t want to waste your time. But tell me, did Maestro Barbera and Mrs Licalzi know each other?’

‘Yes. They met about two months ago. The lady had come to the Maestro on her own initiative. He was very happy about this, since he rather likes pretty women. They got into an involved conversation. I then brought them coffee, which they drank, and then they closed themselves in the studio, where you can’t hear anything.’

‘Soundproof?’

Yes, sir. So he doesn’t disturb the neighbours.’

‘Did the lady ever come back?’

‘Not when I was there.’

‘And when are you there?’

‘Can’t you see? I leave in the evening.’

‘Tell me something. If the Maestro has no television and doesn’t read newspapers, how did he find out about the murder?’

‘I told him myself, by chance, this afternoon. I saw the funeral announcement for tomorrow on the street.’

‘And how did the Maestro react?’

‘Very badly. He turned all pale and asked for his heart pills. What a fright I had! Anything else?’

_SIXTEEN

That morning the inspector showed up at the office dressed in a grey suit, pale blue shirt, neutral tie and black shoes.

‘My, my, don’t we look fashionable?’ said Mimi Augello.

Montalbano couldn’t very well tell him he’d decked himself out to attend a violin recital at nine thirty in the morning. Mimi would have thought him insane. And rightly so, since the whole business did have something of the madhouse about it.

‘Actually,I have to go to a funeral,’ he muttered.

He went into his office; the phone was ringing.

‘Salvo? This is Anna. A little while ago I got a phone call from Guido Serravalle.’

‘Was he calling from Bologna?’

‘No, from Montelusa. He said Michela’d given him my number some time ago. He knew we were friends. He’s down here for the funeral, staying at the Delia Valle.

He asked me to join him for lunch afterwards; he’s going back in the afternoon. What should I do?’ In what sense?’

‘I don’t know, I’m afraid I’ll feel awkward.’ ‘Why?’

Inspector? This is Emanuele Licalzi. Are you coming to the funeral?’

‘Yes. What time does it begin?’

‘At eleven. When it’s over, the hearse will head straight for Bologna after it leaves the church. Any news?’

‘Nothing major, for now.

Will you be staying long in Montelusa?’

‘Till tomorrow morning. I need to talk to an estate agent about selling the house. I have to go there this afternoon with one of their representatives; they want to see it. By the way, yesterday evening I flew down here with Guido Serravalle. He’s here for the funeral.’

That must have been uncomfortable.’

‘You think so?’

Dr Emanuele Licalzi had lowered his visor again.

‘Hurry, he’s about to begin,’ said Signora Clementina, leading him into the little parlour next to the living room. They sat down solemnly. For the occasion, the signora had put on an evening gown. She looked like one of Boldini’s ladies, only older. At nine thirty sharp, Maestro Barbera struck up the first notes. And before he’d been listening even five minutes, the inspector began to get a strange, disturbing feeling. It seemed to him as if the violin had suddenly become a voice, a woman’s voice, that was begging to be heard and understood. Slowly but surely the notes turned into syllables, or rather into phonemes, and yet they expressed a kind of lament, a song of ancient suffering that at moments reached searing, mysteriously tragic heights. And this stirring female voice told of a terrible secret that could only be understood by someone capable of abandoning himself entirely to the sound, the waves of sound. He closed his eyes, profoundly shaken and troubled. But deep down he was also astonished. How could this violin have so changed in timbre since the last time he’d heard it? With eyes still closed, he let himself be guided by the voice. And he saw himself enter Michela Licalzi’s house, walk through the living room, open the glass display, and pick up the violin case … So that’s what had been tormenting him, the element that clashed with the whole! The blinding light that burst inside his head made him cry out.

‘Were you also moved?’

asked Signora Clementina, wiping away a tear. ‘He’s never played like that before.’

The concert must have ended at that very moment, for the signora plugged the phone back in, dialled the number, and applauded.

This time, instead of joining in, the inspector grabbed the phone.

^‘Maestro?.Inspector Montalbano here. I absolutely have to speak to you.’ ‘And I to you.’

Montalbano hung up, and, in one swift motion, bent over, embraced Signora Clementina, kissed her forehead, and went out

The door to the flat was opened by the housekeeper. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ ‘No, thank you.’

Cataldo Barbera came forward, hand extended.

On his way up the two flights of stairs, Montalbano had given some thought to how the Maestro might be dressed. He’d hit the nail on the head: Maestro Barbera, a tiny man with snow-white hair and small, black, but very intense eyes, was wearing a well-cut coat and tails.

The only jarring note was a white silk scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, covering his nose, mouth and chin, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed. The scarf was held in place by a gold hairpin.

‘Please come in, make yourself comfortable,’ Barbera said politely, leading him into the soundproof studio.

Inside, there was a glass display case with five violins; a complex stereo system; a set of metal office shelves stacked with CDs. LPs and cassette tapes; a bookcase, a desk and two armchairs. On the desk sat another violin, apparently the one the Maestro had just played in his recital

‘Today I used the Guarneri,’ he said, confirming Montalbano’s suspicion and gesturing towards the instrument. It has an incomparable voice, heavenly.’

Montalbano congratulated himself. Though he didn’t know the first thing about music, he had nevertheless intuited that that violin sounded different from the one he’d heard in the previous recital

‘For a violinist, believe me, it’s nothing short of a miracle to have such a jewel at one’s disposal’ He sighed. ‘Unfortunately, I have to give it back.’

It’s not yours?’

‘I wish it were! The problem is, I no longer know whom to give it back to. I’d intended to phone the police station today and ask somebody there. But since you’re here …’

‘I’m at your service.’

‘You see, that violin belonged to the late Mrs Licalzi.’

The inspector felt all his nerves tighten up like violin strings. If the Maestro had run his bow across him, a chord would have rung out.

‘About two months ago,’

Maestro Barbera recounted, ‘I was practising with the window open. Mrs Licalzi, who happened to be walking by, heard me. She was very knowledgeable about music, you know. She saw my name on the intercom downstairs and wanted to meet me. She’d been at my very last performance in Milan, after which I retired, though nobody knew that at the time.’ ‘Why did you retire?’

The bluntness of the question caught the Maestro by surprise. He hesitated, though only for a moment, then pulled out the hairpin and slowly unwrapped the scarf. A monster: half his nose was gone; his upper lip had been entirely eaten away, exposing the gums.

‘Is that a good enough reason?’

He wrapped the scarf around himself again, securing it with the pin.

‘It’s a very rare, degenerative form of lupus, totally incurable. How could I continue to appear in public?’

The inspector felt grateful to him for putting the scarf back on at once. He was impossible to look at; one felt horrified, nauseated.

‘Anyway, that beautiful, gentle creature, talking of this and that, told me about a violin she’d inherited from a great-grandfather from Cremona who used to make stringed instruments. She added that, as a child, she’d heard it said within the family that it was worth a fortune, though she’d never paid much attention to this.

These legends of priceless paintings and statuettes worth millions are common talk in families. I’m not sure why, but I became curious. A few days later she phoned me in the evening, then came round to pick me up, and took me to the house she’d recently built. The moment I saw that violin, I tell you, something burst inside me, I felt a kind of overpowering electrical shock. It was in a pretty bad state, but I knew it wouldn’t take much to restore it to perfection.

It was an Andrea Guarneri, Inspector, easily recognizable by the powerful glow of its amber-yellow varnish’

The inspector glanced at the violin, and in all sincerity he didn’t see any glow coming from it. Then again, he was hopeless in matters of music

‘I tried playing it’ said the Maestro, ‘and for ten minutes I was transported to heaven in the company of Paganini, Ole Bull and others…’

‘What’s its market value?’

asked the inspector, who usually flew close to the ground and had never come close to heaven.

‘Market value?!’ the Maestro said in horror. ‘You can’t put a price on an instrument like that!’

‘All right, but if you had to quantify—’ ‘I really don’t know … Two, three billion lire’

Had he heard right? He had.

‘I did make it clear to the lady that she mustn’t risk leaving so valuable an instrument in a practically uninhabited house. We came up with a solution, also because I wanted authoritative confirmation of my assumption - that is, that it was indeed an Andrea Guarneri. She suggested I keep it here at my place. I didn’t want to accept such an immense responsibility, but in the end she talked me into it, and she didn’t even want a receipt. Then she drove me home and I gave her one of my violins to take its place in the old case. If anyone were to steal it, little harm would be done; it wasn’t worth more than a few hundred thousand lire. The next morning I tried to reach a friend of mine in Milan, the foremost expert on violins there is. His secretary told me he was abroad, travelling the world, and wouldn’t be back before the end of this month.’

‘Please excuse me,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

He rushed out and ran all the way to headquarters on foot.

‘Fazio!’

‘At your service, Chief.’

Montalbano wrote something on a piece of paper, signed it and stamped it with the Vigata Police seal to make it official

‘Come with me.’

They took his car and pulled up a short distance from the church.

‘Give this note to Dr Licalzi. I want him to give you the keys to the house in Tre Fontane. I can’t go in there myself. If I’m seen in church talking to the doctor, who’s going to stop the rumours?’

Less than five minutes later they were already on their way to Tre Fontane.

They got out of the car, and Montalbano opened the front door. There was a foul, suffocating smell inside, owing not only to the lack of circulation, but also to the powders and sprays used by forensics.

With Fazio still behind him not asking any questions, he opened the glass display case, grabbed the violin case, went out, and relocked the door.

‘Wait, I want to see something’

He turned the corner of the house and went round to the back, which he’d never done the other times he’d been there. He found the rough draft of what would have one day become a vast garden. On the right, almost attached to the house, stood a giant sorb tree, the kind that produced httle bright-red fruits rather sour in flavour, which Montalbano ate in great abundance when he was a child.

‘I want you to climb up to the top branch’ ‘Who, me?’

‘No, your twin brother’

Fazio started climbing half-heartedly. He was well into middle age and afraid of falling and breaking his neck. ‘Wait for me there.’

‘Yes, sir. After all, I was a Tarzan fan when I was a kid’

Montalbano reopened the front door, went upstairs, turned on the bedroom light — here the smell grabbed him by the throat — and raised the rolling shutter without opening the window.

‘Can you see me?’ he yelled to Fazio.

Yes, perfectly!’

He went out of the house, locked the door, and headed back to the car.

Fazio wasn’t in it. He was still up in the tree, waiting for the inspector to tell him what to do next.

After dropping Fazio off in front of the church to give the keys back to Dr Licalzi (‘Tell him we may need them again’), he drove to Maestro Barbera’s place. There, he climbed the steps two at a time. The Maestro opened the door for him. He was now dressed in a turtleneck sweater and slacks, having doffed the coat and tails. The white silk scarf with gold pin, however, was still in place.

‘Come in,’ said Cataldo Barbera.

‘No need, Maestro. I’ll just be a few seconds. Is this the Guarneri’s case?’

The Maestro took it, studied it closely, and handed it back.

‘It certainly looks like it.’

Montalbano opened the case and, without taking the instrument out, asked, ‘Is this the violin you gave to Michela to keep?’

The Maestro took two steps backward and extended his arm as if to shield himself from an unbearable sight.

‘I wouldn’t touch that thing with my little finger.’ Look at that! It’s mass-produced! It’s an affront to any proper violin!’

Here was confirmation of what the voice of the violin had revealed to Montalbano. From the start he had unconsciously registered the difference between the container and its contents. It was clear even to him, who knew nothing about violins. Or about any other kind of instrument, for that matter.

‘Among other things’

Cataldo Barbera continued, ‘the one I gave to Michela Licalzi may have been of very modest value, but it rather looked like a Guarneri’

“Thank you. I’ll be seeing you.’

Montalbano started down the stairs.

‘What should I do with the Guarneri?’ the Maestro called out in a loud voice, still at sea, not having understood a thing.

‘Just hang on to it for now. And play it as often as you can’

They were loading the coffin into the hearse. Before the main portal of the church were many funeral wreaths lined up in a row. Emanuele Licalzi stood surrounded by a crowd of people expressing condolences. He looked unusually upset. Montalbano approached him and pulled him aside.

‘I wasn’t expecting all these people’ the doctor said.

‘Your wife inspired a lot of affection. Did you get the keys back? I may have to ask you for them again’

‘I’m going to need them between four and five o’clock, to take the estate agent to the house.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.

Listen, Doctor, when you go into the house, you’ll probably notice the violin is missing from the display case. That’s because I took it. I’ll return it to you this evening.’

The doctor looked dumbfounded.

‘Is that of any relevance to the investigation? It’s an utterly worthless object,’

‘I need it for fingerprints,’ Montalbano lied.

In that case, don’t forget that I held it in my hands when I showed it to you.’

‘I won’t forget. And, Doctor, one more thing, just for curiosity’s sake: at what time did you leave Bologna yesterday evening?’

‘I took the flight that leaves at six thirty, with a change at Rome, and arrived in Palermo at ten pm’

‘Thanks.’

‘Excuse me, Inspector, don’t forget about the Twingo!’

Jesus, what a pain in the arse about that car!

Among the crowd of people already preparing to leave, he finally spotted Anna Tropeano talking to a tall, distinguished-looking man of about forty. It had to be Guido Serravalle. Then he noticed Giallombardo passing by on the street. He called to him.

‘Where you going?’

‘Home, Inspector, for lunch.’

‘I’m very sorry, but you can’t’

‘Christ, of all days you had to pick the day my wife made pasta ‘ncasciata.’

‘You’ll eat it tonight See those two over there? That brunette lady and the gentleman she’s talking to?’

‘Yessir.’

Don’t let the guy out of your sight I’ll be back at headquarters soon. Keep me posted every half hour.

Everything he does, everywhere he goes.’

‘Oh, all right’ said Giallombardo, resigned.

Montalbano left him and walked over to the pair. Anna, who hadn’t seen him approaching, brightened at once. Apparendy Serravalle’s presence made her uncomfortable.

‘Salvo, how are you?’ She introduced them. Inspector Salvo Montalbano, Mr Guido Serravalle.’ Montalbano performed like a god. ‘Of course, we already met over the phone!’ ‘Yes, I offered my help.’

‘How could I forget? You came for the late Mrs Licalzi?’

It was the least I could do.’

‘Of course. Are you going back today?’

‘Yes, I’ll be leaving the hotel around five o’clock. I’ve got a flight out of Punta Raisi at eight’

‘Good, good,’ said Montalbano. He seemed happy that everyone was so happy and that among other things, one could count on planes leaving on time.

‘You know’ said Anna, assuming a nonchalant, worldly demeanour, ‘Mr Serravalle was just inviting me to lunch. Why don’t you join us?’

‘I would love that,’ said Serravalle, absorbing the blow.

A look of deep disappointment came over the inspector’s face.

If only I’d known earlier.’

I’ve got an appointment, alas’

He held his hand out to Serravalle.

Very pleased to have met you. However inappropriate it may seem to say so, given the circumstances’

He was afraid he might be overdoing his perfect idiot act; the role was running away with him. Indeed, Anna was glaring at him with eyes that looked like two question marks.

‘You and me, on the other hand, we’ll talk later, eh, Anna?’

In the doorway to headquarters he ran into Mimi, who was on his way out.

‘Where are you off to?’

‘To eat.’

‘Jesus, is that all anyone can think of around here?’ ‘When it’s time to eat, what else are we supposed to be thinking of ?’

‘Who’ve we got in Bologna?’

‘As mayor?’ asked Mimi, confused.

‘What the fuck do I care who the mayor of Bologna is? Have we got any friends in their police’

department who can give us an answer in an hour’s time?’

‘Wait, there’s Guggino, remember him?’

‘Filiberto?’

‘Right. He was transferred there a month ago. He’s heading the immigration section.’

‘Go and eat your spaghetti with clam sauce and all that Parmesan cheese on top’ Montalbano said by way of thanks, looking at him with contempt. How else could you look at someone with tastes like that?

It was 12.35. Hopefully Filiberto would still be in his office.

‘Hello? Inspector Salvo Montalbano here. I’m calling from Vigata. I’d like to speak with Filiberto Guggino.’ ‘Please hold.’

After a series of clicks he heard a cheerful voice.

‘Salvo! Good to hear from you! How you doing?’

Tine, Filibe. Sorry to bother you, but it’s urgent, I heed some answers within an hour, hour and a half at the most. I’m looking for a financial motive to a crime.’

‘The only thing I have to waste is time.’

‘I want you to tell me as much as you can possibly find out about someone who might be the victim of loan sharks — say, a businessman, heavy gambler

‘That makes the whole thing a lot more difficult, I can tell you who the loan sharks are, but not the people they’ve ruined.’

‘Try anyway. Here’s his name.’

‘Chief? Giallombardo here.

They’re eating at the Contrada Capo restaurant, the one right on the sea. You know it?’

Unfortunately, yes, he did know it. He’d ended up there once by chance and had never forgotten it.

‘Did they drive there separately?’

‘No, they came in one car and he drove, so—’

‘Don’t let him out of your sight, I’m sure he’s going to take the lady home, then go back to his hotel, the Delia Valle. Keep me posted.’

Yes and no, the company that rented cars at Punta Raisi Airport told him after humming and hawing for half an hour about not being authorized to give out information, so much so that he had to get the chief of airport police to intervene on his behalf. Yes, the previous evening, Thursday, that is, the gentleman in question had rented the car he was still using. And, no, the same gentleman had not rented a car from them on Wednesday evening of the previous week, according to the computer.

_SEVENTEEN

Guggino’s answer came a few minutes before three. It was long and detailed. Montalbano carefully took notes. Five minutes later Giallombardo phoned and told him Serravalle had gone back to his hotel.

‘Stay right there and don’t move,’ the inspector ordered him. ‘If you see him go out again before I’ve arrived, stop him with whatever excuse you can think of. Do a striptease or a belly dance, just don’t let him leave.’

He quickly leafed through Michela’s papers, remembering that he’d seen a boarding pass among them. There it was. It was for the last journey the woman would ever make from Bologna to Palermo. He put it in his pocket and called Gallo into his office.

‘Take me to the Delia Valle in the squad car.’

The hotel was halfway between Vigata and Montelusa and had been built directly behind one of the most beautiful temples in the world — historical conservation offices, landscape constraints and zoning regulations be damned.

“Wait for me here’ the inspector said to Gallo when they got to the hotel He then walked over to his own car. Giallombardo was taking a nap inside.

‘I was sleeping with one eye open!’ the policeman assured him.

The inspector opened the boot and took out the case with the cheap violin inside.

‘You go back to the station’

he ordered Giallombardo.

He walked into the hotel lobby, looking exactly like a concert violinist.

Is Mr Serravalle in?’

‘Yes, he’s in his room.

Whom should I say?’

‘You shouldn’t say anything. You should only keep quiet. I’m Inspector Montalbano. And if you so much as pick up the phone, I’ll run you in and we can talk about it later.’

‘Fourth floor, room four sixteen’ said the receptionist, lips trembling.

‘Has he had any phone calls?’

‘I gave him his phone messages when he got in. There were three or four.’

‘Let me talk to the operator.’

The operator, whom the inspector, for whatever reason, had imagined as a cute young woman, turned out to be an ageing, bald man in his sixties with glasses.

‘The receptionist told me everything. About twelve a certain Eolo started calling from Bologna. He never left his last name. He called again about ten minutes ago and I forwarded the call to Mr Serravalle’s room.’

In the lift. Montalbano pulled a list of the names of all those who on Wednesday evening of the previous week had rented cars at Punta Raisi airport from his pocket True, there was no Guido Serravalle; there was, however, one Eolo Portinari. And Guggino had told him this Portinari was a close friend of the antiquarian.

He tapped very lightly on the door, and as he was doing this, he remembered he’d left his pistol in the glove compartment

‘Come in, it’s open.’

The antique dealer was lying down on the bed, hands behind his head. He’d taken off only his shoes and jacket’ his tie was still knotted. As soon as he saw the inspector, he jumped to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

‘Relax, relax,’ said Montalbano.

‘But I insist” said Serravalle, hastily slipping his shoes on. He even put his jacket back on.

Montalbano had sat down in a chair, violin case on his knees.

‘I’m ready. To what do I owe the honour?’

‘The other day, when we spoke on the phone, you said you would make yourself available to me if I needed you.’

‘Absolutely. I repeat the offer,’ said Serravalle, also sitting down.

‘I would have spared you the trouble, but since you came for the funeral, I thought I’d take advantage of the opportunity’

‘I’m glad. What do you want me to do?’

‘Pay attention to me.’

Tm sorry, I don’t quite understand.’

‘Listen to what I have to say.

I want to tell you a story. If you think I’m exaggerating or wrong on any of the details, please interrupt and correct me.’

‘I don’t see how I could do that, Inspector, since I don’t know the story you’re about to tell me.’

‘You’re right. You mean you’ll tell me your impressions at the end. The protagonist of my story is a gentleman who has a pretty comfortable life. He’s a man of taste, owns a well-known antique shop, has a good clientele. It’s a profession our protagonist inherited from his father.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Serravalle, ‘what is the setting of your story?’

‘Bologna’ said Montalbano.

He continued, ‘Sometime during the past year, roughly speaking, this gentleman meets a young woman from the upper-middle class. They become lovers. Their relationship is risk free. The woman’s husband, for reasons that would take too long to explain here, turns not a blind eye, as they say, but two blind eyes on their affair. The lady still loves her husband, but is very attached, sexually, to her lover.’

He stopped short.

‘May I smoke?’ Montalbano asked. ‘Of course’ said Serravalle, pushing an ashtray closer to him.

Montalbano took the packet out slowly, extracted three cigarettes, rolled them one by one between his thumb and forefinger, opted for the one that seemed softest to him, put the other two back in the packet, then started patting himself in search of his lighter.

‘Sorry I can’t help you, I don’t smoke’ said the antique dealer.

The inspector finally found the lighter in the breast pocket of his jacket, studied it as if he’d never seen it before, lit the cigarette, and put the lighter back in his pocket.

Before starting to speak, he looked wild-eyed at Serravalle. The antiquarian’s upper lip was moist; he was beginning to sweat.

‘Where was I?’

‘The woman was, very attached to her lover.’

‘Oh, yes. Unfortunately, our protagonist has a very nasty vice. He gambles, and gambles big. Three times in the last three months he’s been caught in illegal gambling dens. One day, just imagine, he ends up in hospital, brutally beaten. He claims he was assaulted and robbed, but the police suspect, I say suspect, it was a warning to pay up old gambling debts. In any event, the situation for our protagonist, who keeps on gambling and losing, gets worse and worse. He confides in his girlfriend, and she tries to help him as best she can. Sometime before, she’d had this idea to build a house in Sicily, because she liked the place. Now this house turns out to be a perfect opportunity because, by inflating her costs, she can funnel hundreds of millions of lire to her boyfriend. She plans to build a garden, probably even a swimming pool, new sources of diverted money. But it turns out to be a drop in the ocean, hardly two or three hundred million. One day, this woman, who, for the sake of convenience, I’ll call Michela—’

‘Wait a second,’ Serravalle broke in with a snicker that was supposed to be sardonic. ‘And your protagonist, what’s his name?’

‘Let’s say … Guido,’ said Montalbano, as if this were a negligible detail.

Serravalle grimaced. The sweat was now making his shirt stick to his chest.

‘You don’t like that? We can call them Paolo and Francesca, if you like. The essence remains the same.’

He waited for Serravalle to say something, but since he didn’t open his mouth, Montalbano continued.

‘One day, Michela, in Vigata, meets a famous violin soloist who has retired there. They take a liking to each other, and Michela tells him about an old violin she inherited from her great-grandfather. Just for fun, I think, she shows it to the Maestro, and he, upon seeing it, realizes he’s in the presence of an instrument of tremendous value, both musically and monetarily. A couple of billion lire, at least. When Michela returns to Bologna, she tells her lover the whole story. If what the Maestro told her is true, they can easily sell the violin, since Michela’s husband has only seen it once or twice, and nobody is aware of its real value.

All they have to do is replace it with any old violin, and Guido’s troubles will be over for ever.’

Montalbano stopped talking, drummed on the case with his fingers, and sighed.

‘Now comes the worst part,’

he said.

‘Well,’ said Serravalle, ‘you can tell me the rest another time.’

‘I could, but then I’d have to make you come back here from Bologna or else go there myself. Too much trouble. But since you’re polite enough to listen to me, even though you’re dying of the heat in here, I’ll explain to you why I consider this the worst part.’

‘Because you’ll have to talk about a murder.^‘I’

Montalbano looked at the antique dealer, mouth agape.

‘You think that’s why? No, I’m accustomed to murder. I consider it the worst part because I have to leave the realm of concrete fact and venture into a man’s mind, enter his thoughts. A novelist would have the road laid out in front of him, but I’m simply a reader of what I think are good books. Excuse me for digressing. At this point our protagonist gathers some information on the Maestro whom Michela spoke to him about. And he discovers that not only is he a great performer of international renown, but also a connoisseur of the history of the instrument he plays. In short, there’s a ninety-nine per cent chance his hunch is right on target.

There is no question, however, that, if left in Michela’s hands, the matter will take for ever to settle. Not only will she want to sell the instrument, well, quietly, yes, but also legally, so of those two billion lire, after sundry expenses, commissions and the workings of our government, which will swoop down from above like a highwayman, she’ll be left in the end with less than a billion. But there’s a shortcut. And our protagonist thinks about it day and night. He talks about it with a friend. This friend, whom we’ll call, say, Eolo.

It had gone well for him; conjecture had become certainty. As though struck by a large-calibre bullet, Serravalle abruptly stood up from his chair only to fall heavily back down in it. He undid the knot of his tie.

‘Yes, let’s call him Eolo.

Eolo agrees with the protagonist that there’s only one way: eliminate the lady and seize the violin, replacing it with another of little value. Serravalle persuades him to give him a hand. Most importantly, theirs is a secret friendship, perhaps based on gambling, and Michela has never seen Eolo before.

On the appointed day, they take the last flight out of Bologna together, changing at Rome for the connecting flight to Palermo. Now, Eolo Portinari—’

Serravalle gave a start, but feebly, as when a dying man is shot a second time.

‘How silly of me, I gave him a last name! Anyway,

Eolo Portinari is travelling without luggage, or almost, whereas Guido brings along a large suitcase. Aboard the plane, the two men pretend not to know each other. Shortly before flying out of Rome, Guido phones Michela, telling her he’s on his way down. He says he needs her and she should come and pick him up at Punta Raisi airport. Maybe he gets her to think he’s fleeing his creditors, who want to kill him. Landing in Palermo, Guido heads to Vigata with Michela, while Eolo rents a car and also heads to Vigata, though at a safe distance. During the drive, the protagonist probably tells his girlfriend that his life was in danger if he remained in Bologna. He’d come up with the idea of hiding out for a few days at Michela’s new house. Who would ever think of looking for him down there? The woman, happy to have her lover with her, accepts the idea. Before they get to Montelusa, she stops at a bar, buys two sandwiches and a bottle of mineral water. But as she’s doing this, she stumbles on a stair and falls, and Serravalle is seen by the owner of the bar. They arrive at Michela’s house after midnight. Michela immediately takes a shower and runs into her man’s arms. They make love once, and then her lover asks her if they can do it a special way. And at the end of this second coupling, he presses her face into the mattress, suffocating her. And do you know why he asked Michela to do it that way? No doubt they’d done it before, but at that moment, he didn’t want his victim to look at him as he was killing her. Right after he’s committed the murder, he hears a kind of moan outside, a muffled ay. He goes to the window and sees, in a tree right next to the house, Illuminated by the light from the window, a Peeping Tom, or so he thinks, who has just witnessed the murder. Still naked, the protagonist rushes outside, grabbing some sort of weapon along the way, and strikes the stranger in the face with it, though the intruder manages to escape. But our protagonist hasn’t got a minute to lose. He gets dressed, opens up the display case, grabs the violin, and puts it in his suitcase. From this same suitcase he pulls out the cheap violin and puts this in the old violin’s case. A few minutes later, Eolo comes by in his car and the protagonist gets in. What they do next is of no importance. The following morning they’re at Punta Raisi to take the first flight for Rome. Up to this point everything has gone well for our protagonist who makes sure to keep track of developments by reading the Sicilian newspapers. Things begin to go even better when he learns that the murderer has been found and that he actually had enough time to admit his guilt before being killed in a gun battle. The protagonist realizes there’s no longer any need to wait before putting the violin up for sale on the black market, and so he turns it over to Eolo Portinari, who will try to make a deal. But then a new complication arises. The protagonist learns the case has been reopened. He jumps at the opportunity to go to the funeral and races down to Vigata so he can talk to Michela’s friend Anna, the only friend he knows and the only person who might be able to tell him how things stand After talking to her. he goes back to his hotel. And here he receives a phone call from Eolo: it turns out the violin is only worth a few hundred thousand lire. The protagonist realizes he’s fucked He killed someone for nothing.’

‘Therefore’ said Serravalle. who was so drenched in sweat he looked as if he’d washed his face without drying it, your protagonist stumbled into that tiny margin of error, that one per cent, he’d granted the Maestro’

‘When you’re unlucky at gambling…’ was the inspector’s comment.

‘Something to drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

Serravalle opened his minibar, took out three little bottles of whisky, poured them straight into a glass without ice, and drank it all down in two gulps.

It’s an interesting story, Inspector. You suggested I give you my impressions at the end and now, if you don’t mind, I’ll do just that. To begin. Your protagonist wouldn’t have been so stupid as to fly under his own name, would he?’

Montalbano inched the boarding pass a little out of his jacket pocket, just enough for the other to see it.

‘No, Inspector, that’s useless. Assuming a boarding pass exists, it means nothing, even if the protagonist’s name is on it. Anyone can use it, since they don’t ask for ID. As for the encounter at the bar … You say it was night, and a matter of a few seconds. Admit it, any identification would be unreliable.’

‘Your reasoning holds’ said the inspector.

‘To continue. Let me offer a variant of your story. The protagonist mentions his girlfriend’s discovery to a man named Eolo Portinari, a two-bit hood. And Portinari comes to Vigata on his own initiative and does everything you say your protagonist did. Portinari rents the car, rising his driver’s licence, Portinari tries to sell the violin that so dazzled the Maestro, and Portinari rapes the woman so the murder will look like a crime of passion’

‘Without ejaculating?’

‘Of course! The semen would have made it easy to trace the DNA!’

Montalbano raised two fingers, as if asking permission to go to the bathroom

‘I’d like to say a couple of things about your observations. You’re absolutely right. Proving the protagonist’s guilt will be long and arduous, but not impossible. Therefore, from this moment on, the protagonist will have two vicious dogs at his heels, his creditors and the police. The second thing is that the Maestro wasn’t wrong in his estimate of the violin’s value. It is indeed worth two billion lire.’

‘But just now …’

Serravalle realized he was giving himself away and immediately fell silent, Montalbano went on as if he hadn’t heard.

‘My protagonist is very crafty. Just imagine, he keeps phoning the hotel, asking for his girlfriend, even after he’s killed her. But there’s one detail he’s unaware of.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Look, the story’s so far-fetched that I’ve half a mind not to tell you.’ ‘Make an effort.’

‘I don’t feel like it — oh, all right, just as a favour to you. My protagonist found out from Michela that the Maestro’s name is Cataldo Barbera, and he did a lot of research on him.

Now, give the hotel operator a ring and ask him to phone Maestro Barbera, whose number’s in the phone book. Tell him you’re calling on my behalf, and have him tell you the story himself’

Serravalle stood up, picked up the receiver, told the operator who he wanted to talk to. He remained on the line.

‘Hello? Is this Maestro Barbera?’

As soon as the other replied, Serravalle hung up.

‘I’d rather hear you tell it.’

‘OK. Michela brings the Maestro to her house in her car, late one evening. As soon as Cataldo Barbera sees the violin, he practically faints. Then he plays it, and there can be no more doubt: it’s a Guarneri. He talks about this with Michela, and tells her he wants to have it examined by a certified expert. At the same time he advises her not to leave the instrument in a seldom-inhabited house. So Michela entrusts the violin to the Maestro, who takes it home and in exchange gives her one of his violins to put in the case. The one which my protagonist, knowing nothing, proceeds to steal. Ah, I forgot: my protagonist, after killing the woman, also filches her bag with her jewels and Piaget watch inside. How does the expression go? Every little bit helps. He also makes off with her clothes and shoes, but this is merely to muddy the waters a little more and to thwart the DNA tests.’

Montalbano was ready for anything, except Serravalle’s reaction. At first it seemed to him that the antiquarian, who had turned his back to him to look out the window,’ was crying. Then the man turned around and Montalbano realized he was trying very hard to refrain from laughing. But all it took was that split second in which his eyes met the inspector’s to make the man’s laughter burst forth in all its violence. Serravalle was laughing and crying at once. Then, with a visible effort, he calmed down.

‘Maybe it’s better if I come with you,’ he said.

‘I advise you to do so,’

said Montalbano. ‘The people waiting for you in Bologna have other things in mind for you.’

‘Let me put a few things in my bag and we can go.’

Montalbano saw him bend over a small suitcase that was on a bench. Something in Serravalle’s movement disturbed him and he sprang to his feet.

‘No! the inspector shouted, leaping forward.

Too late. Guido Serravalle had put the barrel of a revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Barely suppressing his nausea, the inspector wiped away the warm, viscous matter that was dripping down his own face.

_EIGHTEEN

” Half of Guido Serravalle’s head was gone. The blast inside the small hotel room had been so loud that Montalbano heard a kind of buzz in his ears. How was it possible that nobody had yet come knocking on the door to ask what had happened? The Hotel Delia Valle had been built in the late nineteenth century and had thick, solid walls. Maybe at that hour all the foreigners were out amusing themselves taking pictures of the temples. So much the better.

The inspector went into the bathroom, washed his sticky, bloodied hands as best he could, and picked up the phone.

Inspector Montalbano here.

There’s a police car in your car park. Tell the officer to come up here. And please send me manager immediately.’

The first to arrive was Gallo. The moment he saw his superior with blood on his face and clothes, he got scared.

‘Chief, Chief! You hurt?’

‘Calm down, it’s not my blood. It’s that guy’s.’ ‘Who’s that?’

‘Mrs Licalzi’s murderer.

But for the moment, don’tsay anything to anybody. Hurry into Vigata and have Augello send out an all-points bulletin to Bologna, telling them to be on the lookout for a shady character named Eolo Portinari. I’m sure they’ve already got the facts on him. He’s his accomplice,’ he concluded, gesturing at the suicide. ‘And listen. Come straight back here when you’re done.’

Gallo, at the door, stepped aside to let in the hotel manager, a giant at least six and a half feet tall and of comparable girth. When he saw the corpse with half a head and the room in disarray the manager said, ‘What?’ as if he hadn’t understood a question, dropped to his knees in slow motion, then fell face forward on the floor, out cold. The manager’s reaction had been so immediate that Gallo hadn’t had time to leave. Together they dragged the colossus into the bathroom, propped him up against the edge of the bath, whereupon Gallo took the shower extension, turned on the water, and aimed it at his head. The man came to almost at once.

‘What luck! What luck!’ he mumbled while drying himself off.

As Montalbano gave him a questioning look, the manager confirmed what the inspector had been thinking, and explained, ‘The Japanese group are all out for the day.’

Before Judge Tommaseo, Dr Pasquano, the new captain of the Flying Squad and the forensics team got there, Montalbano was forced to change out of his suit and shirt, haying yielded to the pressures of the hotel manager, who insisted on lending him some of his own things. He could have fitted twice into the giant’s clothes. With his hands lost in the sleeves, and the trousers gathered like accordions over his shoes, he looked like Bagonghi the dwarf. And this put him in a far worse mood than the fact of having repeatedly to describe, each time from the top, the details of his finding the killer and then witnessing his suicide. Between all the questions and answers, observations and explanations, the yeses, nos, buts and howevers, he wasn’t free to return to the Vigata — to the station, that is -until almost eight o’clock that evening.

‘Have you shrunk?’ asked Mimi upon seeing him.

By the skin of his teeth he managed to dodge the punch Montalbano threw at him, which would have broken his nose.

There was no need for the inspector to say ‘Everybody in my office!’ since they all came in of their own accord. And he gave them the satisfaction they deserved, explaining, in minute detail, how the clouds of suspicion first came to gather over Serravalle and how he met his tragic end. The most intelligent observation was made by Mimi Augello. It’s a good thing he shot himself. It would have been hard to keep him in jail without any concrete proof. A good lawyer could have sprung him in no time.’

‘But the guy killed himself !’ said Fazio.

‘So what?’ Mimi retorted.

It was the same with that poor Maurizio Di Blasi. Who can say he didn’t come out of the cave with his shoe in his hand in the hope that they’d shoot him down, which they did, thinking it was a weapon?’

‘In fact, Inspector, why was he shouting he wanted to be punished?’ asked Germana.

‘Because he’d witnessed the murder and hadn’t been able to prevent it,’ Montalbano concluded.

While the others were filing out of his office, he remembered something, and he knew that if he didn’t get it taken care of at once, by the following day he was liable to have forgotten about it entirely.

‘Gallo, listen. I want you to go down to our garage, get all the papers that are in the Twingo, and bring them up here to me. Also, talk to our chief mechanic and have him draw up an estimate for repairs. Then, if he’s interested in selling it, tell him to go ahead.’

‘Chief, hear me out for jest a minute?’ ‘Come on in, Cat.’

Catarella was red in the face, embarrassed and happy. ‘What’s the matter? Talk.’

‘Got my report card for the first week, Chief. The course runs from Monday to Friday morning. I wanted to show it to you.’

It was a sheet of paper folded in two. All A’s. Under the heading ‘Observations’, the instructor had written, ‘He was first in the class.’

‘Well done, Catarella! You’re the pride of the department!’

Catarella nearly started crying.

‘How many are there in your class?’

‘Amato, Amoroso, Basile, Bennato, Bonura, Catarella, Cimino, Farinella, Filippone, Lo Dato, Scimeca and Zicari. That makes twelve, Chief. If I had my computer here, I’d a done it faster’

Montalbano put his head in his hands.

Was there a future for humanity?

Gallo returned from his visit to the Twingo.

‘I talked to the mechanic.

Said he’d take care of selling it. In the glove compartment I found the registration card and a road map.’

He set it all down on the inspector’s desk, but didn’t leave. He looked even more uneasy than Catarella.

‘What’s the matter?’

Without answering, Gallo handed him a little rectangle of heavy paper.

‘I found this on the front seat, passenger’s side.’

It was a boarding pass for Punta Raisi airport, 10 p.m.

The date on the stub corresponded to Wednesday of the previous week, and passenger’s name was G.

Spina. Why, Montalbano asked himself, did people always use their real initials when assuming a false name? Guido Serravalle had lost his boarding pass in Michela’s car. After the murder, he hadn’t had the time to look for it, or else he thought he still had it in his pocket. That was why, when speaking of it, he had denied its existence and even mentioned the possibility that the passenger hadn’t used his real name. But with the stub now in Montalbano’s hand, they could have traced the ticket back, however laboriously, to the person who actually did take that flight Only then did he realize that Gallo was still standing in front of his desk, a dead-serious expression on his face.

‘If we’d only looked inside the car first…’

Indeed. If only they’d searched the Twingo the day after the body was found, the investigation would have taken the right path. Maurizio would still be alive and the real murderer would be in jail If only…

It had all been, from the start one mistake after another. Maurizio was mistaken for a murderer, the shoe was mistaken for a weapon, one violin was mistaken for another, and this one mistaken for a third. And Serravalle wanted to be mistaken for someone named Spina … Just past the bridge, he stopped the car, but did not get out The lights were on in Anna’s house; he sensed she was expecting him. He lit a cigarette, but halfway through he flicked it out of the window, put the car back in gear, and leftIt wasn’t a good idea to add another mistake to the list.

He entered his house, slipped out of the clothes that made him look like Bagonghi the dwarf, opened the refrigerator, took out ten or so olives, and cut himself a slice of caciocavallo cheese.

He went and sat outside on the veranda. The night was luminous, the sea slowly churning. Not wanting to waste any more time, he got up and dialled the number.

‘Livia? It’s me. I love you.’

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Livia, alarmed.

In the whole time they’d been together, Montalbano had only told her he loved her at difficult, even dangerous, moments.

‘Nothing. I’m busy tomorrow morning; I have to write a long report for the commissioner. Barring any complications, I’ll hop on a plane in the afternoon and come.’

‘I’ll be waiting for you,’

said Livia.

_{Author’sNote}

This fourth investigation of Inspector Montalbano (of which the names, places and situations have been invented out of whole cloth) involves violins. Like his character, the author is not qualified to talk or write about musical instruments (for a while, to the despair of the neighbours, he attempted to study the tenor sax). Therefore all pertinent information has been culled from books on the violin by S. F. Sacconi and F.

Farga.

I also express my gratitude to Dr Silio Bozzi, who saved me from falling into a few technical errors in recounting the investigation.