Voice of the Violin

At that exact moment Francois came back in with a resolute expression on his face, hands clenched in fists at his sides. He stopped in front of Montalbano, looked him long and hard in the eye, and said in a quavering voice, ‘You’re not going to take me away from my brothers’

Then he turned and ran out.

It was a heavy blow. Montalbano felt his mouth go dry. He said the first thing that came into his head, and unfortunately it was something stupid.

‘His Italian’s become so good!’

‘What I was going to say, well, the boy just said it,’ said Franca. ‘And, mind you, both Aldo and I have done nothing but talk to him about Livia and you, and how eventually he’s going to live with the two of you, and how much you all love each other, and how much more you’ll all love each other one day. But there was nothing doing. The idea entered his head without warning one night about a month ago. I was sleeping, and then I felt something touch my arm. It was him.

‘“You feel sick?”

‘“No.”

‘“Then what’s wrong?” ‘ “I’m afraid.” ‘“Afraid of what?”

‘ “That Salvo’s going to come and take me away.”

‘And every now and then, when he’s playing, when he’s eating, the thought will pop into his head, and he’ll turn all gloomy and even start misbehaving.’

Franca kept on talking, but Montalbano was no longer listening. He was lost in a memory from the time he was the same age as Francois, actually one year younger. His grandmother was dying, his mother had fallen gravely ill (though he didn’t realize these things until later), and his father, to take better care of them, had taken him to the house of his sister Carmela, who was married to the owner of a chaotic shop, a kind, mild man named Pippo Sciortino. They didn’t have any children. Sometime later, his father came back to get him, wearing a black tie and, he remembered very clearly, a broad black band around his left arm. He refused to go.

‘I’m not coming. I’m staying with Carmela and Pippo. My name is Sciortino now.’

He could still see the sorrowful look on his father’s face, and the embarrassed expressions of Pippo and Carmela.

‘… because children aren’t just parcels that you can deposit here or there whenever you feel like it,’ Franca concluded.

On the way home he took the easier route and was already back in Vigata by nine o’clock. He decided to drop in on Mimi Augello.

‘You look better.’

‘This afternoon I managed to get some sleep. So, you couldn’t pull the wool over Franca’s eyes, eh? She called me all worried.’

‘She’s a very, very intelligent woman.’

‘What did she want to talk to you about?’

‘Francois. There’s a problem.’

‘The kid’s grown attached to them?’

‘How did you know? Did your sister tell you?’

‘She hasn’t said a thing about it to me. But is it so hard to figure out? I kind of imagined it would turn out this way.’

Montalbano made a dark face.

‘I can understand how you might feel hurt’ said Mimi, ‘but who’s to say it’s not actually a stroke of luck?’ Tor Francois?’

‘For Francois, too. But, above all, for you, Salvo. You’re not cut out to be a father, not even an adoptive father.’

Just past the bridge, he noticed that the lights were on in Anna’s house. He pulled up and got out of the car.

‘Who is it?’

‘Salvo.’

Anna opened the door and showed him into the dining room. She was watching a movie, but immediately turned off the television.

‘Want a little whisky?’

‘Sure. Neat’

‘You down?’

‘A little’

‘It’s not easy to stomach.’

‘No, it’s not.’

He thought a moment about what Anna had just said to him: it’s not easy to stomach. How on earth did she know about Francois.’

‘But, Anna, how did you find out?’

‘It was on TV, on the evening report.’

What was she talking about?

‘What station?’

‘TeleVigata. They said the commissioner had assigned the Licalzi murder case to the captain of the Flying Squad.’ Montalbano started laughing.

‘You think I give a shit about that? I was talking about something else.” ‘

“Then tell me why you’re feeling down.’ ‘I’ll tell you another time. I’m sorry.’ ‘Did you ever meet Michela’s husband?’ ‘Yeah, yesterday afternoon.’

‘Did he tell you about his unconsummated marriage?’ ‘You knew?’

‘Yes, Michela had told me about it. She was very fond of him, you know. But in those circumstances, taking a lover wasn’t really a betrayal. The doctor knew about it.’

The phone rang in another room. Anna went and answered, then returned in an agitated state.

‘ ‘That was a friend. She heard that about half an hour ago, this captain of the Flying Squad went to the home of Engineer Di Blasi and brought him into Montelusa headquarters. What do they want from him?’

‘Simple. They want to know where Maurizio is.’

‘So they already suspect him!’

‘It’s the most obvious thing, Anna. And Captain Ernesto Panzacchi, chief of the Flying Squad, is an utterly obvious man. Well, thanks for the whisky. Goodnight.’

‘What, you’re going to leave just like that?’

Tm sorry, I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

A dense, heavy gloom had suddenly come over him.

He opened the door to his home with a kick and ran to answer the telephone.

‘What the fuck, Salvo! Some friend!’

He recognized the voice of Nicolo Zito, newsman for the Free Channel, with whom he had a genuine friendship.

Is it true you’re no longer on the case? I didn’t report it because I wanted to check it with you first.

But if it’s true, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I’m sorry, Nicolo, it happened late last night, and I left the house early this morning. I went to see Francois.’

‘Want me to do anything on television?’

‘NO! that’s all right, thanks.

Oh, but here’s something you don’t already know that’ll make up for everything.

Captain Panzacchi brought Aurelio Di Blasi, the construction engineer from Vigata, into Montelusa headquarters for questioning.’

‘Did he kill her?’

‘No, the real suspect is his son Maurizio, who disappeared the same night that Mrs Licalzi was killed.

He, the kid, was madly in love with her. Oh, and another thing. The victim’s husband is in Montelusa at the moment, at the Hotel Jolly.’

‘Salvo, if they kick you off the police force, I’ll hire you here. Watch the midnight news. And thanks.

Really.’

The gloom lifted as Montalbano set down the receiver.

That would fix Captain Ernesto Panzacchi. At midnight all his moves would enter the public domain.

He really didn’t feel like eating. He undressed, got into the shower, and stayed there a long time. Emerging, he put on a clean pair of briefs and undershirt. Now came the hard part.

‘Livia.’

‘Oh, Salvo, I’ve been waiting so long for your call! How is Francois?’

‘He’s great. He’s grown a lot.’

‘Did you notice the progress he’s made? Every week, when I call, his Italian gets better and better. He’s become so good at making himself understood, don’t you think?’

‘Even too good.’

Livia paid no attention; she had another pressing question.

‘What did Franca want?’

‘She wanted to talk to me about Francois.’

‘Why, is he too energetic?

Disobedient?’

‘Livia, that’s not the problem. Maybe we made a mistake keeping him so long with Franca and her husband. The boy has grown attached to them. He told me he doesn’t want to leave them.’

‘He told you himself?’

‘Yes, of his own free will.’

‘Of his own free will!

You’re such an idiot!’

‘Why?’

‘Because they told him to say that to you! They want to take him away from us! They need free labour for their farm, the rascals!’

‘Livia, you’re talking nonsense.’

‘No, it’s true, I tell you!

They want to keep him for themselves! And you’re happy to turn him over to them!’ ‘Livia, try to be rational.’

‘Oh, I’m rational, all right, I’m very rational! And I’ll show you and those two kidnappers just how rational I am!’

She hung up. Without putting on any additional clothing, the inspector went and sat out on the veranda, lit a cigarette, and finally gave free rein to his melancholy.

Francois, by now, was a lost cause, despite the fact that Franca was leaving the decision up to Livia and him. The truth of the matter, plain and unvarnished, was what Mimi’s sister had said to him: children aren’t parcels that you can deposit here or there whenever you feel like it. You can’t not take their feelings into account. Rapisardi, the lawyer who was following the adoption proceedings for the inspector, had told him it would take another six months at least. And that would give Francois all the time in the world to put down roots at the Gagliardo home. Livia was crazy if she thought Franca could ever put words in the child’s mouth. He, Montalbano, had got a good look at Francois’s expression when he ran up to embrace him. He remembered those eyes well now: there was fear in them, and childish hatred. Besides, he could understand how the kid felt. He’d already lost his mother and was afraid to lose his new family. In the end, he and Livia had spent very little time with the boy; their images hadn’t taken long to fade in his mind. Montalbano felt that he would never, ever have the courage to inflict another trauma on Francois. He had no right. Nor did Livia. The kid was lost to them for ever.

For his part, he would consent to the child’s remaining with Aldo and Franca, who were happy to adopt him. But now he felt cold, so he got up and went inside.

‘Were you sleeping, Chief?

Fazio here. I wanted to inform you that we held a meeting this afternoon. And we wrote a letter of protest to the commissioner. Everybody signed it, starting with Inspector Augello. Let me read it to you: “We the undersigned, as members of Central Police Headquarters of Vigata, deplore—’” ‘Wait. Did you send it?’

‘Yes, Chief.’

‘What a bunch of fucking idiots! You could at least have let me know before sending it!’

‘Why? Before or after, what’s the difference?’

‘I would have talked you out of making such a stupid move!’

He cut off the connection, enraged.

It took him a while to fall asleep. Then an hour later he woke up, turned on the light, and sat up in bed.

Something like a flash had made him open his eyes. During his visit to the crime scene with Dr Licalzi, something — a word, a sound — had seemed, well, dissonant. What was it? He lashed out at himself. ‘What the fuck do you care?

The case isn’t yours any more.’

He turned off the light and lay back down.

‘And neither is Francois,’

he added bitterly.

_TEN

The next morning, at headquarters, the staff was almost at full strength: Augello, Fazio, Germana, Gallo, Galluzzo, Giallombardo, Tortorella and Grasso. The only one missing was Catarella, who had a legitimate excuse for his absence, attending the first class in his computer training course. Everyone was wearing a long face fit for the Day of the Dead, avoiding Montalbano as if he were contagious, not looking him in the eye. They’d been doubly offended: first by the commissioner, who’d taken the investigation away from their chief just to spite him, and, second, by their chief himself, who had reacted meanly to their letter of protest to the commissioner. Not only had he not thanked them — what can you do, the inspector was just that way — but he had called them a bunch of fucking idiots, and Fazio had told them this.

All present, therefore, but all bored to death, because, except for the Licalzi homicide, it had been two months since anything substantial had happened. For example, the Cuffaro and Sinagra families, two criminal gangs perpetually engaged in a turf war who were in the custom of leaving behind, with near-perfect regularity, one corpse per month (one month a Cuffaro, the next month a Sinagra), seemed to have lost their enthusiasm a while back. Such indeed had been the case ever since Giosue Cuffaro, after being arrested and having suddenly repented of his crimes, had helped lock up Peppuccio Sinagra, who, after being arrested and having suddenly repented of his crimes, had helped put away Antonio Smecca, a cousin of the Cuffaros, who, after suddenly repenting of his crimes, had pulled the plug on Cicco Lo Carmine, of the Sinagra gang, who.

The only noise to be heard in Vigata had been made the previous month, at the San Gerlando festival, by the firework display.

‘The number-one bosses are all in jaili’ Commissioner Bonetri-Alderighi had triumphantly exclaimed at a jam-packed press conference.

And the five star bosses are still in place, the inspector had thought.

That morning Grasso, who had taken Catarella’s place at the switchboard, was doing crossword puzzles, Gallo and Galluzzo were testing each other’s mettle at the card game of scopa, Giallombardo and Tortorella were engrossed in a game of draughts, and the others were either reading or contemplating the wall.

The place, in short, was buzzing with activity.

On his desk Montalbano found a mountain of papers to be signed and various other matters to be dealt with. Subde revenge on the part of his men?

The bomb, unexpectedly, exploded at one, when the inspector, his right arm stiffening, was considering going out to eat.

‘Chief, there’s a lady, Anna Tropeano, asking for you. She seems upset,’ said Grasso.

‘Salvo! My God! On the TV

news headlines they said Maurizio’s been killed!’

As there weren’t any television sets at the police station, Montalbano shot out of his office, on his way down to the Bar Italia.

Fazio intercepted him.

‘Chief, what’s happening?’

‘They killed Maurizio Di Blasi.’

Gelsomino, the owner of the bar, along with two clients, were staring open-mouthed at the television screen, where a TeleVigata reporter was talking about the incident.

‘… and during this night-long interrogation of the engineer Aurelio Di Blasi, Ernesto Panzacchi, captain of the Flying Squad, surmised that Di Blasi’s son, Maurizio, a prime suspect in the Michela Licalzi murder case, might be hiding out at a country house belonging to the Di Blasi family in the Raffadali area. The father, however, maintained that his son had not taken refuge there, since he’d gone there himself to look for him the previous day. At ten o’clock this niorning, Captain Panzacchi went to Raffadali with six other police officers and began a detailed search of the house, which is rather large. Suddenly one of the policemen spotted a man running along one of the slopes of the barren hill that stands almost directly behind the house. Giving chase, Captain Panzacchi and his men found the cave into which young Di Blasi had fled. After properly positioning his men outside, Captain Panzacchi ordered the suspect to come out with his hands up. Suddenly, Di Blasi came forward shouting, “Punish me!

Punish me!” and brandishing a weapon in a threatening manner. One of the police officers immediately opened fire and young Maurizio Di Blasi fell to the ground, killed by a burst of automatic-weapons fire to the chest. The young man’s almost Dostoyevskian entreaty of “punish me” was tantamount to a confession. Meanwhile, Aurelio Di Blasi, the father, has been enjoined to appoint himself a defence lawyer. He is expected to be charged with complicity in his son’s escape, which came to such a tragic end’

When a photo of the poor kid’s horsey face appeared on the screen, Montalbano left the bar and returned to headquarters.

If the commissioner hadn’t taken the case away from you, that poor wretch would surely still be alive!’ Mimi shouted angrily.

Saying nothing, Montalbano went into his office and closed the door. There was a contradiction, big as a house, in the newsman’s account. If Maurizio Di Blasi had wanted to be punished, and if he was so eager for this punishment, why was he threatening the policemen with a weapon? An armed man aiming a pistol at the people who want to arrest him doesn’t want to be punished, he’s trying to avoid being arrested, to escape.

It’s Fazio. Can I come in, Chief?’

To his amazement, the inspector saw Augello, Germana, Gallo, Galluzzo, Giallombardo, Tortorella and even Grasso, enter behind Fazio.

Tazio just talked to a friend of his on the Montelusa Flying Squad,’ said Miml Augello. Then he gestured to Fazio to continue.

‘You know what he said the weapon was the kid threatened Panzacchi and his men with?’

‘No.’

‘A shoe. His right shoe.

Before he fell, he managed to throw it at Panzacchi.’

‘Anna? Montalbano here.’

‘It couldn’t have been him, Salvo! I’m sure of it! It’s all a tragic mistake! You must do something!’

‘Listen, that’s not why I called. Do you know Mrs Di Blasi?’

‘Yes. We’ve spoken a few times.’

‘Go and see her at once.

I’m very worried. I don’t want, her left alone with her husband in jail and her son just killed.’

I’ll go right away.’

‘Chief, can I tell you something? That friend of mine from the Frying Squad just called back.’

‘And he told you he was only kidding about the shoe, it was all a joke.’

‘Exactly. Therefore it’s true.’

‘Listen, I’m going home now, and I think I’ll stay there for the rest of the afternoon. Give me a ring if you need me.’

‘Chief, you gotta do something.’ ‘Get off my fucking back, all of you!’

After the bridge, he drove straight on. He didn’t feel like hearing again, this time from Anna, that he absolutely had to take action. By what right? Here’s your fearless, flawless knight in shining armour! Here’s your Robin Hood, your Zorro, your Night Avenger all in one: Salvo Montalbano!

His appetite was gone now.

He filled a saucer with green and black olives, cut himself a slice of bread, and, while munching on these, dialled Zito’s number.

‘Nicolo? Montalbano here.

Do you know if the commissioner has called a press conference?’

‘It’s set for five o’clock this afternoon.’

‘You going?’

‘Naturally.’

‘You have to do me a favour. Ask Panzacchi what kind of weapon Maurizio Di Blasi threatened them with. Then after he tells you, ask him if he can show it to you.’

What’s behind this?’

I’ll tell you in due time.’

‘Can I tell you something, Salvo? We’re all convinced here that if you’d stayed on the case, Maurizio Di Blasi would still be alive.’

So Nicolo was jumping aboard, too, behind Mimi.

‘Would you go and get fucked!^’

‘Thanks, I could use a little, it’s been a while. By the way, we’ll be broadcasting the press conference live.’

He went and sat on the veranda with the book by Denevi in his hands, but he was unable to read it. A thought was spinning round and round in his head, the same one he’d had the night before: what strange, anomalous thing had he seen or heard during his visit to the house with the doctor?

The press conference began at five on the dot. Bonetti-Alderighi was a maniac for punctuality (‘It’s the courtesy of kings,’ he used to repeat whenever he had the chance, his noble lineage having apparently gone so far to his head that he now imagined it with a crown on top).

There were three of them seated behind a small table covered with green cloth: the commissioner in the middle, flanked by Panzacchi on the right and Dr Lattes on the left. Behind them, the six policemen who had taken part in the operation. While the faces of the policemen were grave and drawn, those of the three chiefs expressed moderate contentment — only moderate because somebody had been killed.

The commissioner spoke first, limiting himself to praising Ernesto Panzacchi (‘a man with a brilliant future ahead of him’) and briefly taking credit for having-assigned the case to the captain of the Flying Squad, who had managed to solve it in twenty-four hours, when others, with their antiquated methods, would have taken untold days and weeks.’

Montalbano, sitting in front of the screen, took it all in without reacting, not even mentally.

Then it was Ernesto Panzacchi’s turn to speak, and he repeated exactly what the inspector had heard the TeleVigata newsman say earlier. He didn’t dwell on the details, however, and seemed in rather a hurry to leave.

‘Does anyone have any questions?’ asked Dr Lattes.

Somebody raised a hand.

‘Are you sure the suspect shouted “Punish me”?’ ‘Absolutely certain. He said it twice. They all heard it.’

He turned to the six policemen behind him, who nodded in agreement, looking like puppets on strings.

‘And in a desperate tone of voice.’ Panzacchi piled it on. ‘Desperate.’

‘What is the rather accused of?’ asked a second journalist.

‘Being an accessory after the fact,’ said the commissioner.

‘And maybe more’ added Panzacchi with an air of mystery.

‘Being an accomplice to murder?’ ventured a third newsman.

‘I didn’t say that,’

Panzacchi said curtly. Finally Nicolo Zito signalled that he wanted to speak.

‘What kind of weapon did Maurizio Di Blasi threaten you with?’

Of course, the journalists, who had no idea what had actually happened, didn’t notice anything, but the inspector distinctly saw the six policemen stiffen and the half-smile on Captain Panzacchi’s face vanish. Only the commissioner and the head of his cabinet had no perceptible reaction.

‘A hand grenade’ said Panzacchi.

‘Where did he get it?’ Zito pressed him.

‘Well, it was war surplus, but still functioning. We have a suspicion as to where he might have found it, but we need further confirmation’

‘Could we see it?’

‘The forensics lab has it’

And so ended the press conference.

At six thirty Montalbano called Livia. The phone rang a long time to no avail He started to feel worried. What if she was sick? He called Giovanna, Livia’s friend at work. She said Livia’d shown up at work as usual, but she, Giovanna, had noticed she looked very pale and nervous. Livia also told her she’d unplugged the telephone because she didn’t want to be disturbed.

‘How are things between the two of you?’ Giovanna asked him.

‘Not great, I’d say,’

Montalbano replied diplomatically.

No matter what he did -whether he read a book or stared out at the sea smoking a cigarette — the question kept coming suddenly back to him, precise and insistent: what had he seen or heard at the house that hadn’t seemed right?

‘Hello, Salvo? It’s Anna. I’ve just come from Mrs Di Blasi’s. You were right to tell me to go there. Her family and friends have made a point of not coming round — you know, keeping their distance from someone with a husband in jail and a son who’s a murderer.’

‘How is Mrs Di Blasi?’

‘How do you expect? She’s had a breakdown; I had to call a doctor. Now she’s feeling a litde better; her husband’s lawyer phoned saying he’d be released shortly.’

‘They’re not charging him with complicity?’

‘I really can’t say. I think they’re going to charge him anyway, but release him on bail Are you coming round?’

‘I don’t know, I’ll see.’

‘Salvo, you’ve got to do something. Maurizio was innocent, I’m sure of it, and they murdered him.’

‘Anna, don’t get any wild ideas.’

‘Hullo, Chief ? Zatchoo in poisson? Catarella here. The vikkim’s huzbin called sayin’ as how yer sposta call ‘im poissonally at the Jolly t’nite roundabout ten aclack.’

‘Thanks. How’d the first day of class go?’

‘Good, Chief, good. I unnastood everyting. Teacha complimented me. Said peoples like me’s rilly rare.’

An inspiration came to him shortly before eight o’clock, and he put it into action without wasting another minute. He jumped in the car and drove off in the direction of Montelusa.

‘Nicolo’s on the air’ said a secretary at the Free Channel studios, ‘but he’s almost finished.’

Less than five minutes later, Zito appeared, out of breath.

‘I did what you said; did you see the press conference?’

‘Yes, Nicolo, and I think we hit the mark.’

‘Can you tell me why that grenade is so important?’

‘Do you underestimate grenades?’

‘Come on, tell me what’s behind this’

‘I can’t, not yet. Actually, you’ll probably work it out very soon, but that’s your business. I haven’t told you anything’

‘Come on! What do you want me to say or do on the news? That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? By now you’ve become my secret director.’

‘If you do it, I’ll give you a present.’

He took one of the photos of Michela that Dr Licalzi had given him out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Nicolo.

‘You’re the only journalist who knows what the woman looked like when she was alive. The commissioner’s office in Montelusa doesn’t have any photos. All her IDs, driver’s licence, or passport, if she had one, were in the bag that the murderer took with him. You can show this to your viewers if you want’

Nicolo twisted up his face.

‘You must want an awfully big favour. Fire away’

Montalbano stood up, went over, and lacked the door

to the newsman’s office.

‘No,’ said Nicolo.

‘No what?’

‘No to whatever it is you’re going to ask me. If you need to lock the door, I don’t want any part of it.’

‘Look, if you give me a hand, afterwards I’ll give you all the facts you need to create a nationwide uproar.’

Zito said nothing. He was clearly torn,

‘What do you want me to do?’ he finally asked in a low voice.

‘To say you received phone calls from two witnesses.’ ‘Do they exist?’

‘One does, the other doesn’t.’ j

‘Tell me only what the one who exists said.’ ‘No, both. Take it or leave it’

‘But you do realize that if anybody finds out I invented a witness they’re liable to strike me off the register?’

‘Of course. And in that case, I give you permission to say I talked you into it. That way, they’ll send me home, too, and we can go and grow broad beans together.’

‘Tell you what. Tell me about the fake one first If the thing seems feasible, you can tell me about the real one afterwards.’

‘OK. This afternoon, following the press conference, somebody phoned you saying he was out hunting in the area where the police shot down Maurizio Di Blasi. He said that things did not happen the way Panzacchi said.

Then he hung up without leaving his name. He was clearly upset and afraid You tell your viewers you’re mentioning this episode only in passing and nobly declare that you don’t lend it much weight, since it was, in fact, an anonymous phone call and your professional ethics do not allow you to spread anonymous rumours.’

‘And in the meantime I’ve actually repeated it.’

‘But isn’t that standard procedure for you guys, if you don’t mind my saying so? Throwing the stone but keeping the hand hidden?’

‘I’ll tell you something about that when we’re through. For now, let’s hear about the real witness.’

‘His name is Gillo Jacono, but you’re to give only his initials, G.J., nothing more. This gentleman, shortly after midnight last Wednesday, saw the Twingo pull up by the house in Tre Fontane, and saw Michela and an unidentified man get out of the car and walk quietly towards the house. The man was carrying a suitcase. Not an overnight bag, a suitcase. Now, the question is this: why did Maurizio Di Blasi bring a suitcase when he went to rape Mrs Licalzi? Did it maybe contain clean sheets in the event they soiled the bed? Also: did the Flying Squad find this suitcase anywhere? It was certainly nowhere inside the house.’

Is that it?’

‘That’s it,’

Nicolo had turned chilly.

Apparently Montalbano’s criticism of journalistic methods hadn’t gone down well with him.

‘As for my professional ethics, this afternoon, following the press conference, I received a phone call from a hunter who told me that things had not happened the way the police said. But since he wouldn’t give me his name, I didn’t report it.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

‘Let me call my secretary, and you can listen to the tape recording of the call,’ said the journalist, standing up. Tm sorry, Nicolo. There’s no need.’

_ELEVEN

Montalbano tossed about in bed all night, unable to fall asleep. He kept seeing the scene of Maurizio falling to the ground and managing to throw his shoe at his tormentors, the simultaneously comical and desperate gesture of a poor wretch hunted down like an animal. ‘Punish me!’ he had cried out, and everyone rushed to interpret that exclamation in the most obvious, reassuring manner possible. That is, punish me because I raped and killed, punish me for my sin. But what if, at that moment, he had meant something else entirely? What was going through his head?

Punish me because I’m different, punish me because I loved too much, punish me for being born … One could go on for ever, but here the inspector stopped himself, both because he didn’t like to slip into cheap philosophizing, and because he had suddenly understood that the only way to exorcize that obsessive image, and that cry, lay not in generic self-questioning but in examining the facts. To do this, one path, and only one, presented itself. And at this point he managed at last to shut his eyes for a couple of hours.

‘All of you,’ he said to Mimi Augello, entering headquarters.

Five minutes later, they were all standing before him in his office.

‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ said Montalbano. ‘This is not an official meeting, but a talk among friends.’

Mimi and two or three others sat down, while the rest remained standing. Grasso, Catarella’s replacement, leaned against the door frame, listening for the phone.

‘Yesterday, Inspector Augello, when he learned that Di Blasi had been killed, said something that hurt me. He said, more or less: if you’d remained on the case, today that kid would still be alive. I could have answered that it was the commissioner who’d taken the investigation away from me, and that therefore I bear no responsibility. And this, strictly speaking, is true. But Inspector Augello was right. When the commissioner summoned me and ordered me to stop investigating the Licalzi murder, pride got the better of me. I didn’t protest, I didn’t rebel, I basically gave him to understand that he could go and fuck himself. And in so doing, I gambled away a man’s life. Because one thing’s certain, none of you would ever have shot down some poor guy who wasn’t right in the head.’

They’d never heard him speak this way before and everyone looked at him flabbergasted, holding their breath.

‘I thought about this last night, and I made a decision. I’m going to resume the investigation.’

Who was it that applauded first? Montalbano managed to turn his emotion into sarcasm.

‘I’ve already told you once you’re a bunch of fucking idiots, don’t make me say it again.’ And he continued, The case, as of today, is closed. Therefore, if you’re all in agreement, we’re going to operate underwater, with only our periscope showing.

But I’m warning you: if they find out about this in Montelusa, it could mean real trouble for every one of us.’

Inspector Montalbano? This is Emanuele Licalzi.’

Montalbano remembered that Catarella had told him the night before that the doctor had called. He’d forgotten.

Tm sorry, but yesterday evening I had–’

‘Oh, not at all, Inspector.

Especially since everything has changed since yesterday.’

In what sense?’

In the sense that late yesterday afternoon I’d been assured that by Wednesday morning I could leave for Bologna with my poor Michela. Then early this morning the commissioner’s office phoned to tell me that they needed a postponement and the funeral would have to wait until Friday. So I’ve decided to leave and come back on Thursday evening.’

‘Doctor, you must have heard, of course, that the investigation—’

‘Yes, of course, but I wasn’t referring to the investigation. Do you remember the car we mentioned briefly, the Twingo? Could I perhaps talk to someone about reselling it?’

‘Tell you what, Doctor: I’ll have the car brought myself to our own personal mechanic We did the damage ourselves and it’s only right we should pay for it. And if you like, I could ask the mechanic to try and find a buyer for it.’

‘You’re a fine man, Inspector.’

‘But tell me something, sin what will you do with the house?’

Tm going to put that up for sale, too.’

‘Nicolo here. QED.’

‘Explain.’

‘I’ve been summoned to appear before Judge Tommaseo at four o’clock this afternoon”

‘And what’s he want from you?’

‘You’ve got a lot of nerve!

What, you get me into this mess and you can’t figure it out? He’s going to accuse me of having withheld valuable testimony from the police.

And if he ever finds out that I don’t even know who one of the witnesses is, then the shit is really going to hit the fan. That man is liable to throw me in jail’ Keep me posted.’

‘Right. You can come visit me once a week and bring me oranges and cigarettes.’

‘Listen, Galluzzo, I’m going to need your brother-in-law, the newsman for TeleVigata.’

‘I’ll tell him right away, Inspector.’

Galluzzo was on his way out of the room, but curiosity got the better of him.

‘Actually, if it’s something I can know about too…’

‘Gallu, not only can you know it, you’ve got to know it I need your brother-in-law to collaborate with us on the Licalzi story. Since we can’t work out in the open, we must take advantage of any help the private TV stations can give us.

But we have to make it look like they’re acting on their own. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Think your brother-in-law’d be willing to help us?’ Gallo started laughing.

‘Chief, for you, the guy would go on TV and say the moon is made out of Swiss cheese. Don’t you know he’s just dying of envy?’

‘Who does he envy?’

‘Nicolo Zito, that’s who.

Says you make special considerations for Zito.’

It’s true. Last night Zito did me a favour and now he’s in trouble.’

‘And now you want the same to happen to my brother-in-law?’

If he’s game.’

Tell me what you want from him, it’s no problem.’ ‘All right, you tell him what he’s supposed to do. Here, take this. It’s a photograph of Michela Licalzi’ ‘Man, what a beauty!’

‘Now, your brother-in-law must have a photo of Maurizio Di Blasi somewhere in the studio. I think I saw them broadcast one when they reported his death. I want him to show both photos, one next to the other, on the one p.m. news, and on the evening report.

I want him to say that since there’s a five-hour gap between when she left her friend at seven thirty on Wednesday night and when she was seen going into her house with a man shortly after midnight, your brother-in-law would like to know if anyone has any information on the movements of Michela Licalzi during that period. Better yet, if anyone saw her during that period in the company of Maurizio, and where. Is that dear?’

‘Clear as day’

‘You, from this moment on, will bivouac at TeleVigata.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you’ll be there all the time, as if you were an editor. As soon as somebody comes forward with information, you show him in and talk to him. Then you report back to me.’

‘Salvo? It’s Nicolo. I’m going to have to disturb you again.’ ‘Any news? Did they send the carabinieri for you?’ Apparendy Nicolo was in no mood for jokes. ‘Can you come to the studio immediately?’

Montalbano was stunned to find Orazio Guttadauro, the controversial defence lawyer, legal counsel to every mafioso in the province and even outside the province, at the Free Channel studios.

Well, if it isn’t Inspector Montalbano, what a lovely sight!’ said the lawyer as soon as he saw him come in. Nicolo looked a tad uncomfortable.

The inspector eyed the newsman enquiringly. Why had he summoned him there with Guttadauro? Zito responded verbally, ‘Mr Guttadauro was the gentleman who phoned yesterday, the one who was hunting.’

‘Ah,’ said the inspector.

With Guttadauro, the less one spoke, the better. He was not the kind of man one would want to break bread with.

‘The words that the distinguished journalist here present,’ began the lawyer in the same tone of voice he employed in court, ‘used to describe me on television made me feel like a worm!’

‘Good God, what did I say?’

asked Nicolo, concerned.

‘You used these exact words, and I quote: “unknown hunter” and “anonymous caller”.’

‘What’s so offensive about that? There’s the Unknown Soldier..

‘…and the Anonymous Venetian’ Montalbano chimed in, beginning to enjoy himself.

‘What? What?’ The lawyer went on as if he hadn’t heard them, ‘Orazio Guttadauro, implicitly accused of cowardice? I couldn’t bear it, and so, here I am.’

‘But why did you come to us? It was your duty to go to Captain Panzacchi in Montelusa and tell him—’

‘Are we kidding ourselves, boys? Panzacchi was twenty yards away from me and told a completely different story! Given the choice between me and him, people will believe him! Do you know how many of my clients, upright citizens all, have been implicated and charged on the basis of the lying words of a policeman or carabiniere?

Hundreds!’

‘Excuse me, sir, but in what way is your version different from Captain Panzacchi’s?’ asked Zito, finally giving in to curiosity.

‘In one detail, my good man.’

‘Which?’

“Young Di Blasi was unarmed.’

‘No, no, I don’t believe it. Are you trying to tell us that the Flying Squad shot him down in cold blood, for the sheer pleasure of killing a man?’

‘I said simply that Di Blasi was unarmed. The others, however, thought he was armed since he did have something in his hand It was a terrible misunderstanding.’

‘What did he have in his hand?’ Nicolo Zito’s voice had risen in pitch.

‘One of his shoes, my friend’

While the journalist was collapsing into his chair, the lawyer continued,

‘I feel it is my duty to make this fact known to the public I believe that my solemn civic duty requires …’

Montalbano began to understand Guttadauro’s game. Since it wasn’t a Mafia killing, and he wouldn’t, by testifying, be harming any of his clients, he had a perfect opportunity to publicize himself as a model citizen and at the same time stick it to the police.

‘I’d also seen him the previous day,’ the lawyer said

‘Who?’ Zito and Montalbano asked together, both lost in thought until that moment.

‘The Di Blasi kid who else?

The hunting’s good in that area. I saw him from a distance, I didn’t have binoculars. He was limping. Then he went inside the mouth of the cave, sat down in the sun, and began eating.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Zito.

‘Are you saying the man was hiding there and not at his own house, which was a stone’s throw away?’

‘What do you want me to say, my dear Zito? The day before that, when passing in front of the Di Blasi house, I saw that the front door was bolted with a padlock the size of a trunk.

I am positive that at no point did he hide out at his house. Maybe he didn’t want to compromise his family’

Montalbano was convinced of two things: the lawyer was prepared to belie the assertions of the Flying Squad captain even as concerned the young man’s hideout, which meant that the charge against the father would have to be dropped, with grave prejudice to Panzacchi.

As for the second thing, he needed confirmation.

‘Would you tell me something, sir?’

‘At your orders, Inspector’

‘Are you always out hunting? Aren’t you ever in court?’

Guttadauro smiled at him.

Montalbano smiled back. They had understood each other. In all likelihood, the lawyer had never gone hunting in his life. Those who’d seen the incident and sent him on this mission must have been friends of the people Guttadauro called his clients. And the objective was to create a scandal for the Montelusa police department. The inspector had to play shrewdly; he didn’t like having these people as allies.

‘Was it Mr Guttadauro who told you to call me?’ the inspector asked Nicolo.

‘Yes.’

Therefore they knew everything. They were aware he’d been wronged, they imagined he was determined to avenge himself, and they were ready to use him.

‘You, sir, must certainly have heard that I am no longer in charge of the case, which in any event should be considered closed’

‘Yes, but—’

‘There are no buts, sir. If you really want to do your duty as a citizen, go to Judge Tommaseo and tell him your version of the events. Good day.’

He turned around and walked out. Nicolo came running after him and grabbed him by the arm.

‘You knew! You knew about the shoe! That’s why you told me to ask Panzacchi what the weapon was!’

‘Yeah, Nicolo, I knew. But I advise you not to mention it on your news programme. There’s no proof that things went the way Guttadauro says, even though it’s probably the truth. Be very careful’

‘But you yourself are telling me it’s the truth!’

Try to understand, Nicolo.

I’d be willing to bet that our good lawyer doesn’t even know where the fuck the cave that Maurizio hid in is located. He’s a puppet, and his strings are pulled by the Mafia. His friends found something out and decided they could take advantage of it. They cast a net into the sea and they’re hoping to catch Panzacchi, the commissioner and Judge Tommaseo in it. That would make some pretty big waves. However, to haul the net back into the boat, they need somebody strong, that is, me, who they think is blinded by the desire for revenge. Now do you get the picture?’

Yes. What line should I take with the lawyer?’

‘Repeat the same things I said Let him go and tell it to the judge. He’ll refuse, you’ll see. But it’s you who will repeat to Tommaseo, word for word, what Guttadauro said If he’s not a fool, and he’s not, he’ll realize that he, too, is in danger.’

‘But he had nothing to do with the killing of Di Blasi.’

‘But he signed the indictment against his father. And those guys are prepared to testify that Maurizio never hid in his father’s house at Raffadali. Tommaseo, if he wants to save his arse, has to disarm Guttadauro and his friends.’

‘How?’

‘How should I know?’

Since he was in Montelusa anyway, the inspector decided to go to Montelusa Central Police Station, hoping not to run into Panzacchi. Once there, he headed immediately to the basement, where forensics was located He walked straight into the office of the chief.

‘Hello, Arqua.’

‘Hello,’ the other said, iceberg-cold ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I was just passing by, and I became curious about something.’

‘I’m very busy.’

‘Of course you are, but I’ll only steal a minute of your time. I want some information about the grenade Di Blasi tried to throw at those police officers.’

Arqua didn’t move a muscle.

‘I’m not required to tell you anything.’

How could he be so self-controlled?

‘Come on, colleague, be a sport. I need only three things: colour, size and make.’

Arqua looked sincerely baffled. His eyes were clearly asking whether Montalbano hadn’t gone completely mad.

‘What the hell are you saying?’

‘Let me help you. Black?

Brown? Forty-three? Forty-four? Moccasin? Superga? Varese?’

‘Calm down,’ said Arqui, though there was no need. He was sticking to the rule that one should try to humour madmen.’Come with me.’

Montalbano followed behind him. They entered a room with a big, white half-moon table around which stood three busy men in white smocks.

‘Caruana,’ Arqua said to one of the three men, ‘show our colleague Montalbano the grenade.’

As this man was opening a metal cabinet, Arqua continued talking.

It’s dismantled now, but when they brought it here it was live and dangerous.’

He took the plastic bag that Caruana held out to him, and showed it to the inspector.

‘An old OTO, issued to our army in 1940.’

Montalbano was unable to speak. He studied the pieces of the grenade as if looking at the fragments of a Ming vase that had just fallen to the floor.

‘Did you take fingerprints?’

‘They were very blurry for the most part, but two of Maurizio Di Blast’s came out very clearly, the thumb and index finger of the right hand.’

Arqua set the bag on the table, put his hand on Montalbano’s shoulder, and pushed him out into the corridor.

I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I had no idea the commissioner would take you off the case.’

He was attributing what he thought was a momentary lapse of Montalbano’s mental abilities to the shock of his removal A good kid, deep down, Dr Arqua.

The chief of the crime lab had undoubtedly been sincere, Montalbano thought as he drove down to Vigata. He couldn’t possibly be that brilliant an actor. But how can one throw a hand grenade gripping it only with the thumb and index finger? The best thing that might happen if you threw it that way is that you’d blow your balls to bits.

Arqua should have been able to get a print of much of the right palm as well Given all this, where had the Flying Squad performed the feat of taking two of the already dead Maurizio’s fingers and pressing them by force against the grenade? No sooner had he posed the question, than he turned around and headed back to Montelusa.

_TWELVE

‘What do you want?’ asked Pasquano as soon as he saw him enter his office.

‘I need to appeal to our friendship’ Montalbano began.

‘Friendship? You and I are friends? Do we ever dine together? Do we confide in each other?’

Dr Pasquano was like that, and the inspector didn’t feel the least bit upset by his words. It was merely a matter of finding the right formula.

‘Well, if not friendship, then mutual esteem.’

‘That, yes.’

He’d guessed right. It would be smooth sailing from here.

‘Doctor, what other tests do you have to run on Michela Licalzi? Are there any new developments?’

‘New developments? I told the judge and the commissioner long ago that as far as I was concerned, we could turn the body over to the husband.’

‘Oh, really? Because, see, the husband himself told me he got a call from the commissioner’s office saying that the funeral couldn’t be held until Friday morning.’

‘That’s their goddamn business.’

‘Excuse me, Doctor, for taking advantage of your patience. Was everything normal with the body of Mauri zioDi Blasi?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, how did he die?’

‘What a stupid question. A burst of machine-gun fire. They practically cut him in two. They could’ve made a bust of him and put it on a column.’

‘And the right foot?’

Dr Pasquano narrowed his beady eyes.

‘Why are you asking me about the right foot?’

‘Because I don’t find the left one very interesting.’

‘Right. He hurt himself, a sprain or something, couldn’t get his shoe back on. But he’d hurt himself a few days before he was killed His face was all swollen from some kind of blow.’

Montalbano gave a start.

‘Had he been beaten?’

‘I don’t know. He was either hit hard in the face with a stick or club or ran into something. But it wasn’t the policemen. The contusion dated from some time before that.’

‘From when he hurt his foot?’ ‘More or less, I suppose.’

Montalbano stood up and held out his hand to the doctor.

‘Thank you. I’ll be on my way. One last tiling. Did they inform you immediately?’

Inform me of what?’

‘Of the fact they’d shot Di Blasi.’ Dr Pasquano squinted his eyes so

far that he looked as if he’d suddenly fallen asleep. He didn’t answer immediately.

‘Do you dream these things up at night? Do the crows whisper them in your ear? Do you talk to ghosts? No, they shot the kid at six in the morning. They didn’t inform me until around ten. Said they wanted to finish searching the house first,’

‘One final question.’

With all your final questions, you’re going to keep me here till nightfall’

‘After they turned Di Blasi’s body over to you, did anyone from the Flying Squad ask for your permission to examine it alone?’

Dr Pasquano looked surprised.

‘No. Why would they do that?’

Montalbano returned to the Free Channel. He had to bring Nicolo Zito up to date on the latest developments. He was sure Guttadauro the lawyer would be gone by now.

‘Why’d you come back?’

‘Tell you in a second, Nicolo. How’d it go with the lawyer?’

‘I did what you told me to do. I suggested he go and talk to the judge. He said he’d think about it. Then he added something curious, that had nothing to do with anything. Or so it seemed. You never know with these people. He said, “Lucky you, who live among images! Nowadays only images matter, not words.” That’s what he said. What’s it mean?’

‘I don’t know. You know, Nicolo, they’ve got the grenade.’

‘God! So what Guttadauro told us is untrue!’

‘No, it’s true. Panzacchi’s a shrewd one, he’s covered himself very cleverly. The crime lab’s examining a grenade that Panzacchi gave them, and it’s got Di Blasi’s fingerprints on it’

‘Jesus, what a mess!

Panzacchi’s covered himself from every angle! What am I going to tell Tommaseo?’

‘Exactly what we agreed on.

Except you shouldn’t appear too sceptical about the existence of the grenade.

Understood?’

To get to Vigata from Montelusa there was, aside from the usual route, a little abandoned road the inspector was very fond of. He turned onto it, and when he’d reached a small bridge spanning a torrent that had ceased being a torrent centuries ago and was now merely a depression of stones and pebbles, he stopped the car, got out, and wended his way into a thicket at the centre of which stood a gigantic Saracen olive tree, one of those twisted, gnarled ones that creep along the ground like snakes before ascending to the sky. He sat down on a branch, lit a cigarette, and started meditating on the events of the morning.

Mimi, come in, close the door, and have a seat, I need some information from you.’ ‘Ready.’

If I seize a weapon from someone, say, a revolver or a submachine gun, what do I do with it?’

‘Usually, you give it to whoever’s standing closest to you.’

‘Did we wake up this morning with a sense of humour?’

‘You want to know the regulations on the subject? Weapons seized must be turned immediately over to the appointed office at Montelusa Central Police Station, where they are registered and then put away under lock and key in a small depository at the opposite end of the building from the forensics lab of, in this case, Montelusa. Good enough?’

‘Yes. Now, Mimi, I’m going to venture a reconstruction. If I say anything stupid, interrupt me. Here goes:

Panzacchi and his men search Engineer Di Blast’s country house. The front door, mind you, is bolted with an enormous padlock.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Mimi, don’t take advantage of the permission I just gave you. A padlock is not something stupid. I know it was there, period. They, however, think it might be a ruse — that is, they think Di Blasi senior, after supplying his son with provisions, locked him up inside so the house would appear uninhabited. He would go and free him after things cooled down a little. Suddenly, one of the men spots Maurizio on a nearby hillside going into the cave. They go and surround the entrance, Maurizio comes out holding something in his hand, and one of the more nervous policemen shoots and kills him. When they realize the poor bastard was holding his right shoe in his hand because he could no longer fit it on his injured foot—’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Mimi, if you don’t knock it off, I’m going to stop telling you the story. When they see it’s only a shoe, they realize they’re in shit up to their necks. The brilliant operation of Ernesto Panzacchi and his dirty half dozen is in danger of creating a terrible stink. After thinking long and hard, they realize the only way out is to claim that Maurizio actually was armed. OK, but with what?

And that’s where our Flying Squad captain has a brainstorm: a hand grenade.’

‘Why not a gun, which is more likely?’

‘Face it, Mimi, you’re just not on Panzacchi’s level. The captain of the Flying Squad knows that Engineer Di Blasi doesn’t have a licence to carry a gun, nor has he ever reported owning any weapons. But a war memento, which you’ve got before your eyes each day, is no longer considered a weapon. Or else it’s packed away in an attic and forgotten.’

‘May I say something? In 1940 Engineer Di Blasi was about five years old, and if he was doing any fighting, it was with a popgun.’

‘What about his father, Mimi?

An uncle, perhaps? A cousin? His grandfather? His great-grandfather? His—’

‘OK, OK.’

‘The problem is, where does one find a war-surplus hand grenade?’

In the Montelusa police depository,’ Mimi Augello said calmly.