Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions (15 page)

Poldi had just paid the bill and left her usual generous tip, so she was temporarily distracted. That's the thing about stake-outs: something always happens just when you aren't looking. When she did look up he was standing beside her table in his creased grey work suit. His grumpy face lit by the setting sun, he might have
been magicked there by some genie with a taste for bad jokes. He shook hands with Aunt Luisa and introduced himself. It was all Luisa could do not to beam at him, because that would have been bad form without Poldi's all-clear.

“I'll leave you two alone together,” she managed to say without grinning, and hurriedly withdrew, though not without giving the commissario an appraising glance.

Montana sat down on the vacant chair. No kiss, no word of greeting.

“What are you doing here, Poldi?”

“I could ask you the same thing. How did you find me?”

Montana shrugged. “Mobile phone tracking.”

Poldi was speechless for a moment. “You mean I'm still under suspicion?”

“Why don't you answer your phone? Why didn't you respond to my texts?”

She looked at him. “Because we've nothing to discuss, Vito. And, my dear, because I've been busy.”

Montana looked even more downcast than before. “What are you doing here, Poldi?”

“Just sitting. It isn't against the law, is it?”

“All day long?”

“No, just at this moment.”

Montana shook his head. “We had an agreement, Poldi.”

“Yes, thanks for the reminder, and goodbye,” she growled in German.

“What?”

“Our agreement concerned Russo, and I've kept it. Have you discovered the identity of Mr X?”

He shook his head. “Have you?”

Poldi rose from her chair with a sigh. “It's getting late; I must go home.” And because she couldn't resist, seeing him so downcast, she gave him a little pat on the head. “So long, Vito Between-Two-Stools.”

“I'll call you,” said Montana, and Poldi actually managed a smile.

“Whenever it's convenient.”

She left the café without once looking round and collected Aunt Luisa, who had been loitering in front of a shop window.

“My, he's sexy,” Luisa whispered.

“I don't want to talk about him.”

Luisa nodded. “Of course not. He is sexy, though.”

“Luisa.”

“I was only saying.”

Poldi pulled herself together. She went to the multi-storey with Luisa, paid for her ticket in the machine, found her Alfa, sat behind the wheel for a moment, and only then wept a little. Only a little, because she didn't really have much time for self-pity, but there are occasions when one just can't help it. Not even my Auntie Poldi could, so she shed a tear or two and Luisa held her hand the whole time and kept saying, “There, there, Poldi.”

Mr X didn't show up the following day either, but that evening Poldi was overtaken by her past in the shape of an old acquaintance: black leather suit, shades, rings on every finger. He was on his own. No one had recognized him, no one was hassling him for an autograph; he simply walked down the Corso, spotted my Auntie Poldi, and sat down at her and Luisa's table.

“Why, Ringo,” Poldi cried, profoundly touched, and threw her arms around him.

“Just a minute,” I interrupted suspiciously when she described the scene in detail on my next visit in September. “Ringo who?”

“Why, Ringo Starr, of course.”

“You don't mean
the
Ringo Starr?”

“I was surprised myself that he recognized me after all those years, but he homed in on me as if it was only yesterday when Peppe and I had a meal with him and his Barbara. Such a nice couple, those two.”

I stared at her. “I don't believe you.”

“Don't, then.”

“What did Ringo Starr want?”

“Nothing. A bit of a chat, that's all. How was I, and how was Peppe doing – he didn't know that Peppe wasn't with us any more, you see. We'd completely lost touch. Oh yes, and he wanted to know what I was doing in Sicily. He promptly started to flirt with Luisa, and he invited us to his open-air concert at the Teatro Greco the following night. Backstage, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And then he said we'd be welcome to visit his house in Surrey any time we got sick of our Mediterranean paradise, the winters there were so splendidly dank and dreary. ‘Wonderful, darling,' I told him, ‘we'll give it some thought.' And what do you think I did then?”

“You showed him the photo of Mr X.”

“
Cento punti
. And just imagine, Ringo recognized him.”

8

                  
Tells of Inspector Chance and how Poldi discovers the identity of Mr X with his help. She has to swallow her pride several times in quick succession, and she isn't the only one. She gets a lecture on aerodynamics, is able to hold Montana's hand and eat a dumpling, and eventually has every reason to feel satisfied.

One of the most successful investigators in the whole history of crime since Oedipus, Poldi knew, is Inspector Chance. No case has ever been solved without him, and he's always needed at some stage. Poldi liked to picture Inspector Chance as an ill-shaven slob whose mother still does his washing. Trainers, old jeans, scruffy hoodie, nerd glasses, never really grown up. An unreliable colleague with no particular ambition except in regard to his work–life balance. He does the minimum of work in his office at the far end of some corridor, where the air smells of cleaning fluids and stale coffee – a cubbyhole where junk and old files are stored and he's sometimes simply forgotten. That's all right with Inspector Chance, just as long as no one bugs him and he can work at half-speed ahead. He seldom shows his face at departmental meetings or operational briefings, on the firing range or in the field. He prefers to be warm and cosy. No stress – if he's hassled, he simply clams up. If prevailed on to process a file at the start of a case, for instance, Inspector Chance can be relied on to send the investigation down the tubes. Inspector Chance has a problem with authority. He's moody and has a mordant sense of humour. An only child, Poldi surmised. No wonder Inspector Chance isn't popular with his colleagues, who tirelessly compile facts and leads and toil away in order to render him redundant. Given his lax work ethic, he should have been kicked out long ago, public servant or no. Ironically enough, however, Inspector Chance can point to some notable successes. Completely belying his puny appearance, he can pounce with unexpected speed and precision, can unravel knotty problems, collate leads and shine a light on hidden mysteries. He is needed, and he knows it. On the other hand, he never complains if colleagues deck themselves with his laurels – he's quite relaxed about it. He usually profits from their meticulous spadework, after all, so he expects no thanks. A little
namaste
at most, and Poldi made sure to give him one.

Namaste
, Inspector Chance.
Namaste
, Ringo.

Ringo had already spent a week in Taormina for the concert and a video shoot. In keeping with his status, he was staying at the Timeo, the best hotel in town, and it was in the lobby of that luxury establishment that he had seen Mr X deep in conversation with someone. Ringo had recognized that someone as a person to be avoided after being buttonholed and bullied into accepting his business card the day before. That was why Ringo remembered Mr X. And because he had heedlessly pocketed the business card and forgotten it instead of throwing it away, he was able to give it to my Auntie Poldi. The business card was that of Corrado Patanè.

“Well, well, well,” I exclaimed when she told me. I was impressed.

“That surprised you, didn't it? Yes, but you only win the lottery if you buy a ticket.”

“So you hurried over to the Timeo and made inquiries, of course.”

“It was the logical thing to do, but I might have known they wouldn't give me any information about a guest, the smart-arses. They wouldn't even tell me if Mr X
was
a guest.”

“They'd probably have told Montana, though.”

“Yes, I thought of that, naturally.”

“So what stopped you?”

Her pride, of course. My aunt was determined to solve this case on her own and then rub Montana's nose in it. To hell with him.

But Poldi also knew that she mustn't push her luck too far. Inspector Chance was capricious, and he liked to knock off early sometimes. Her persevering stake-out had rewarded her with a lead –
namaste
, Inspector Chance,
namaste
, Ringo – but how to proceed further?

She could, of course, seek out Patanè and ask him point-blank about Mr X. The surprise effect might even elicit an honest answer, but it was likelier that Patanè would flatly deny having seen or even met him, let alone known him personally. After all, the sole weapon in Poldi's armoury was an old acquaintance's recollection of a fleeting encounter several days ago. And besides, Ringo was no spring chicken and his memory might not be entirely reliable on account of his widely publicized – though decades-old – prior history in regard to the consumption of mind-expanding substances. Fundamentally, therefore, Mr X was still a phantom.

And possibly Valentino's murderer.

And consequently a potential danger to Poldi.

She could of course run the risk of entering the lion's den alone and wait for Mr X at the Timeo, but my aunt had never been one to let pride and vanity stand in her way when the chips were down. The solving of this case was her top priority, even if she had to swallow her pride. And Poldi knew a thing or two about swallowing one's pride.

With a sigh, she unblocked Montana's number in her mobile phone and sent him a text:

            
Can u come to the Timeo? It's important.

Pling-plong-pling. The reply came back at once.

            
Now?

Poldi:

            
Please.

Then she sent Aunt Luisa home and waited for Montana. Less than an hour later, from a comfortable sofa right at the back of the lobby, she saw him enter the luxury hotel and look around for her. She savoured the sight for a moment before she waved to him, feeling a familiar tension permeate her body as she did so; the sort of tightening of the skin that's a prelude to sunburn, a presentiment of the special pain for which one yearns on lonely nights.

“Tell me,” she said once he had sat down beside her, “have you made a vow or something?”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, to go on wearing that awful grey suit on duty until it hangs off your body in rags and tatters.”

Montana's face creased in a sour smile.

“Is that why you sent for me?”

“No.” Squaring her shoulders, Poldi gave him a succinct account of her investigation to date. Montana didn't interrupt her once, just knit his brow briefly at the mention of Ringo. Then, without a word, he rose and went over to the reception desk. Poldi saw him show his ID to the snotty youth with gelled hair behind the counter, saw the snotty youth raise his hands defensively, saw Montana add something to which the snotty youth clearly took great exception, saw a manager summoned and his fingers speed over a keyboard, whereupon, quite magically and unbureaucratically, a printout slid out of the printer and was discreetly handed to the commissario, with a look of indignation.

Montana signalled to Poldi that he would be busy for a little while longer and put in a call on his mobile, pacing up and down the lobby as he did so. Poldi found that she enjoyed watching him pace up and down, even in that eternally crumpled suit. After a while, he closed his mobile and came over to her.

“There's good news and bad news. The good news is, we know who the man is: a Dr Frank Tannenberger. Lives in Munich.”

Munich, of all places. Poldi heaved a sigh of surprise.

“He flew back the day before yesterday,” Montana added.

“And the bad news?”

Montana looked harassed. “It's a crock of shit. The man is a senior official in the…” – he glanced at the printout – “Bayerische Staatskanzlei.” He almost dislocated his tongue pronouncing the words. “What the hell's that?”

“A kind of department of the Bavarian state government.”

“What do you mean, ‘state'? I thought Bavaria was a German province.”

“Are you crazy? We're a Freistaat, a
free
state. We could go independent any time we chose and do our own thing. Federally speaking and in spaghetti Western terms, the Bavarian Free State is a loaded Colt pointed at the heart of Germany.”

“I see. Anyway, this Dr Tannenberger visits Taormina regularly on official business and always stays at the Timeo. A regular guest at government expense, it seems.”

“So where's the crock of shit?”

“Don't you understand? If I want to question him I'll have to put in an official request and indent for travel expenses. Have you any idea of the paperwork that would entail? It could take weeks. And all because of some vague hint from an ex-Beatle and a German woman who came briefly under suspicion and has been obstructing my inquiries ever since. Madonna, they'll bust a gut laughing at the prefecture. Besides, the man's a government official – I'd be stirring up a hornet's nest again, and me with my prior history with that senator? Thanks a lot.”

Poldi looked at him. “The man may have murdered Valentino.”

Montana drew a deep breath. “I'll have a word with the German authorities tomorrow, then they can question this Dr Tannenberger.”

Poldi shook her head disapprovingly. “What if you simply fly to Munich and ask Herr Tannenberger a few questions?”

“Unannounced, you mean? What if he isn't there at all?”

“Have you got the Internet on your smartphone?”

“Er, yes. Why?”

“Give it here.”

Poldi took Montana's phone from him and keyed “Dr Frank Tannenberger Bayerische Staatskanzlei” into the search box of his browser.

“Got him,” she exclaimed. “Our Herr Tannenberger, aka Mr X, heads the department for EU relations at the Bayerische Staatskanzlei. If the head of department flies regularly to Sicily in person, it must be in connection with some major project. He's bound to have to report to some committee or other, so he wouldn't jet off elsewhere right away. No, believe me, he'll be sitting in his office overlooking the Hofgarten, good as gold.”

Montana shook his head firmly. “It's no use anyway. An Italian policeman can't go nosing around in Germany, least of all when a German government official is involved.”

“But as a private individual? What's to stop you?”

“That's a crazy idea. Nothing I discovered could be used in court. On the contrary, if this man Tannenberger claimed I'd threatened him, the whole case could go down the tubes and me with it. It'd be a crock of shit.”

“You're repeating yourself, Vito. So what
are
you going to do?”

Montana clasped his hands together impotently to indicate that they were tied by forces beyond his control. “I can only go through proper channels.”

Poldi thought for a moment. “Well,” she said eventually, getting to her feet, “you're probably right. We'll just have to wait and see.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home. It's getting late.”

“I thought we might have a drink together.”

It wasn't that Poldi hadn't had the same idea, but she had certain reasons for staying sober on two levels. Besides, she was in a hurry all of a sudden.

“Another time. I'm really tired, and I've got a headache coming on.”

“Shall I drive you?”

“Don't worry, I left my car down in the Lumbi car park.”

She leant forward and kissed Montana lightly on both cheeks. “See you.”

He caught her by the arm, though, and eyed her suspiciously. “Poldi?”

“Vito?”

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing. Look, I really am tired. Would you let go of me, please?”

Poldi called Luisa from her car as soon as she passed the autostrada toll booth.

“For tomorrow morning?” Luisa, who worked for a travel agent, was taken aback. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Please could you try, Luisa?”

“But what about your —”

“No good. I'll have to manage on my own.”

Aunt Luisa wasn't the type to refuse a favour, no matter what the time was.

“I'll call you back right away. Drive carefully.”

By the time Poldi reached Torre Archirafi, Luisa had managed to make the reservations online – not for peanuts, it must be added. Poldi gulped in dismay when Luisa told her the cost of the flights. Her small pension was just enough to cover her everyday living expenses, and she had really hoped to reserve her meagre savings for urgent house repairs and other emergencies. On the other hand, she told herself, this was a kind of emergency in itself. Never mind: she would simply be unable to afford another pair of strappy sandals this summer. The case took priority.

The flight left at ten. Catania Airport, which had long been awake, smelt of kerosene, coffee and
cornetti
and was humming a melody of wanderlust and homecoming. Extended families thronged the arrivals hall, waiting to welcome relations from Germany and Belgium, England and Denmark. As soon as the automatic doors opened even a crack, someone always tried to squeeze through and help Alfio and Alessia get their baggage off the carousel. Young German students patiently queuing up in front of the check-in desks shook their heads as they were barged aside by grey-haired Sicilians with monstrous suitcases big enough to emigrate with. At the security barrier, a symbol of the Italian crisis: raised voices, gesticulating hands, everything brought to a standstill. Somebody – not Uncle Martino for once – had been found to have a shrink-wrapped octopus in his hand luggage as a gift for his nearest and dearest in Mannheim and was loudly protesting at having to leave it behind. My Auntie Poldi groaned.

Have I already told you that my Auntie Poldi was scared stiff of flying? Well, she was. She mistrusted the laws of aerodynamics, the complex technology, and, above all, the young men in the cockpit and their unctuous, oh-so-reassuring in-flight announcements. She was afraid of the way airliners lurched and wobbled, of the dull roar of the engines, of air pockets and landing procedures. She detested travelling through the air cooped up at 500 mph and an altitude of five miles, with nothing but a bit of aluminium between you and a free fall. Or death by asphyxia. Twenty years earlier, Poldi and my Uncle Peppe had almost succumbed to the latter on a flight from Munich to Catania in a friend's small private jet, which lost cabin pressure over the Alps. They spent quarter of an hour gasping and panting for their lives in atmospheric pressure similar to that prevailing on the summit of Annapurna. Since then, Poldi had been as averse to flying as Satan to holy water. Sometimes, however, even Satan gets splashed, and sometimes even Poldi had to bite the bullet. She normally backed up her willpower with tranquillizers, but they were precluded this time by her need to keep a clear head. Her only remaining hope was that a friendly fellow passenger would take pity on her and hold her hand. That was what Poldi and my Uncle Peppe had done at 25,000 feet: held each other's hand. The whole time. One's fear of death may not be entirely dispelled by holding someone's hand, even a total stranger's, but it helps.