A Voice in the Night (14 page)

For the first half-hour the vegetation had grown sparse and more sparse, and now there was only scorched earth around them, dotted with a few clumps of yellow, wild grass, dead for lack of
water.

Every so often, little mountains of white stone looking like piles of bones formed dwarf pyramids, the domains of vipers and hares.

The motion of the car had Montalbano crashing into Fazio one minute and the passenger’s side door the next, and at one point the seat belt, which didn’t work well, started trying to
strangle him. ‘How long till we get there?’

‘It’s just past the next bend.’

Past the bend they saw not only the green house, but also a man walking in front of it.

‘That’s Leopoldo,’ said Fazio.

‘Do me a favour,’ said Montalbano. ‘
You
talk to him.’

‘Why?’

‘My voice is a little hoarse today.’

This was a lie, of course, but how could he ever talk to Leopoldo if he himself started stuttering?

‘G-good af-ft . . . ternoon,’ Leopoldo greeted them as they got out of the car.

Montalbano returned the greeting with a vague hand gesture.

The green house was made up of two cube-shaped rooms, one on top of the other, and a third cube off to the right-hand side.

The inspector started looking all around the desolate landscape, wondering what mysterious reasons a man might have for building a house in such a godforsaken place. Unless, of course, he was a
hermit.

‘Over here, Chief,’ said Fazio, heading for the third cube, which was a stable with no animals and no door.

He and Fazio went in, while Leopoldo went into the house.

The corpse was curled up on its side, on a bit of straw, as though sleeping. Except for the blood that stained the straw.

It wouldn’t be easy to identify him. It was hot, and one could smell that the poor bastard had been dead for a few days already. On top of that, the bullet’s exit wound had destroyed
his face.

‘I think it’s him,’ said Fazio.

He took the photograph the inspector had given him from his pocket.

‘Have a look for yourself,’ he continued.

Overcoming his nausea, the inspector crouched down and spent a long time studying what remained of the man’s face. Then he stood up.

‘I think it’s him too, but I’m not sure. They clearly had him kneel down and then fired a shot into the base of the skull. The Mafia’s signature. Let’s go
outside.’

Despite the fact that there was no door, the air in there was unbreathable.

‘Did Leopoldo tell you how he found the body?’

‘Yes. He’d been wanting to have a new door installed on the stable after he’d used the old one as firewood, since it was already broken up, and so he came in to take
measurements.’

They went outside and breathed deep the clean country air.

‘Let’s do this. You call the three-ring circus: prosecutor, Forensics, and Pasquano. Then ring Gallo, and if he’s already back at the station, tell him to come and pick me up.
There’s nothing for me to do here.’

While Fazio was phoning, Leopoldo came out of his house and walked up to him. He told him something, and Fazio acted as interpreter.

‘Leopoldo says that since it’s lunchtime, we’re welcome to join him at the table. He says he’s made rabbit cacciatore and nobody in the world makes it as well as he does.
I declined the offer, but if you want . . .’

How long was it since he’d last eaten rabbit cacciatore?

The dish wasn’t part of Enzo’s repertoire, and Adelìna never cooked game.

An irresistible desire came over him.

Leopoldo spurred him on.

‘It . . . it’s . . . v-ve . . . ry . . . c-cl-ean . . . i-in . . . h-h-ere.’

‘I-I . . . n-nev . . . ver . . . d-doubt . . . ed . . . it . . . f-fo . . . for a . . . a . . . m-min . . . ute.’

Leopoldo at first furrowed his brow, thinking the inspector was mocking him, but then, seeing the confused expression on Montalbano’s face, he became convinced he was a stutterer just like
him.

‘S . . . so, wh-wha . . . d-dya s . . . say?’

‘I . . . I . . . I . . . ac-cept . . . , th-tha . . . nk . . . y-you.’

As Leopoldo went into the house, Montalbano instructed Fazio:

‘Iii . . . if . . . an . . . y . . . of th . . . ose guys . . . c-comes w-when . . . I’m . . . in . . . side, don’t te . . . ll . . . an-any . . . one . . . th-that I’m .
. . h-here. If th-they ask . . . , t-tell them . . . I . . . I . . . w-went b-back t-to . . . th-the sta . . . tion.’

Fazio looked perplexed. ‘I didn’t understand a thing, Chief. You feel OK?’

Montalbano took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and started writing:

When the others arrive, don’t tell them I’m here. Don’t call Gallo to come and pick me up.

He got Fazio to read it, then put it back in his pocket and followed Leopoldo into the house.

*

The meal featured not only an outstanding rabbit cacciatore, but also a dish of spaghetti in tomato sauce, an aged pecorino cheese, some homemade salami, and a nice hearty wine,
all of which made the inspector blissfully groggy.

Fazio called Leopoldo to come and give his deposition to Tommaseo.

Montalbano kept on eating.

Leopoldo, moreover, was a perfect tablemate. Since he had trouble speaking, he ate in silence. He and Montalbano communicated with their eyes. Some two hours later, Fazio came in.

‘They’ve all left. Forensics noticed the victim had his wallet on him and looked in it. His ID card confirmed that he was, in fact, Tumminello.’

He looked at the inspector’s plate.

‘Any of that left for me?’

And so, to keep Fazio company, Montalbano ate a second helping of rabbit cacciatore.

*

The road back was a real
via crucis
.

With each jolt, the rabbit jumped up into Montalbano’s throat, as if the animal had returned to life and wanted to race back to the pyramid of rocks from which it had carelessly emerged
one day only to get shot by Leopoldo.

At about the halfway point Fazio received a call from an agitated Catarella, who said that Mr C’mishner needed to talk immoigently and straightawayslike with Inspector Montalbano.

‘What should I tell ’im?’

It wasn’t a good moment to talk to the c’mishner, what with the rabbit about to jump out of his mouth.

‘Tell him I’ve gone missing.’

*

By the grace of God, they finally got back to town.

‘Where do you want me to drop you off?’

‘By the harbour.’

Before getting out of the car, he asked Fazio:

‘When are you going to see Mrs Tumminello?’

‘Right now.’

His stomach began to feel a little less heavy after he walked out to the end of the jetty and back twice.

But before returning to the station, he realized he needed to drink a strong double espresso.

*

‘Ahh, Chief! Ahh, Chief, Chief!’ Catarella wailed, seeing him enter. ‘The c’mish—’

‘Yeah, I know. Fazio told me.’

Catarella goggled at the inspector.

‘So it wadn’t true you was done missin’! Man, I’m so glad! Thank the Loord! I’s rilly scared!’

‘Why?’

‘I dunno. Jess the idea of it.’

‘Of what?’

‘Done missin’.’

‘It’s “gone missing”, Cat.’

‘An’ wha’d I say? Done missin’, no?’

Better let it slide again.

‘Listen, how did the commissioner seem to you?’

‘Chief, I din’t see ’im poissonally in poisson! I only ’oid ’is verse!’

‘OK, did it seem hoarse to you?’

‘Nah, it juss soun’ed strange.’

‘How?’

‘’S like ’e was a li’l sleepy.’

Was it possible he was still under the effect of the four tranquillizers?

‘Get him on the line for me right away.’

‘Yessir. But I gotta tell yiz sum’m. I prinnit out everytin’ ’at was onna kapewter.’

‘Good! Keep it all in your drawer. An’ how’s it going with the impy tree?’

‘I’m jess startin’ on it now. Wan’ me t’call the c’mishner?’

‘Yeah, call him now.’

*

‘At your command, sir! Montalbano here.’

‘Ah, yes, hello. What are you calling about?’

A li’l sleepy? Mr C’mishner didn’t seem right in the head.

‘Mr Commissioner, it was you who called me earlier this afternoon, when I was—’

‘Ah, yes. I called you because Dr Lattes told me you urgently needed to talk to me.’

‘That’s correct, sir.’

‘If you want to come now . . .’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour. Thank you.’

He really didn’t sound like the usual Bonetti-Alderighi. He was completely changed. There was an unprecedented politeness in his tone of voice.

*

Waiting for him in the commissioner’s anteroom was Dr Lattes.

‘He’s on the telephone. Just be patient for a couple of minutes.’

‘How are things?’

He was referring to the commissioner, but Lattes misunderstood.

‘I’m quite well, with thanks to the Lord. And you?’

‘Likewise, with thanks to the same. And how is
he
?’

Lattes seemed a little embarrassed.

‘I don’t know what to tell you. He’s undergone a sort of transformation.’

For better or worse?
he wanted to ask, but said nothing. Lattes went up to the commissioner’s door, opened it with caution, as if there was a killer on the other side ready to
shoot, stuck his head inside, pulled it back out, and turned to Montalbano.

‘You can go in.’

Montalbano entered and Lattes closed the door behind him.

Mr C’mishner Bonetti-Alderighi, viewed from the outside, was back to his old self, well groomed and flawless in appearance.

He was sitting as he usually did, straight-backed with arms resting on the desktop, head leaning slightly back so that his chin was thrust forward, his eyes fixed on his interlocutor.

Except that now the gaze of those eyes was directed not at Montalbano, but to the right of him, where the window was.

‘Please sit down.’

Normally he let him remain standing. When Montalbano would sit down, it was always on his own initiative, not upon invitation by the commissioner.

Before he could open his mouth, Bonetti-Alderighi said:

‘First of all, I’d like to apologize.’

Never had he heard the commissioner apologize to anyone. He remained open-mouthed, unable to say anything.

‘I apologize for the truly ignoble scene I subjected you to the other day. I really wasn’t myself, believe me. And I beg you please to forget all about it.’

This new Bonetti-Alderighi intrigued him.

‘I’ve already forgotten it, Mr Commissioner.’

Bonetti-Alderighi turned his gaze from right to left, that is, towards the wall on which hung a tapestry representing a scene from the Sicilian Vespers.

‘Thank you. Now, tell me.’

Montalbano was about to open his mouth, but the commissioner stopped him, raising one hand but looking all the while at the tip of a ballpoint pen he was holding in the
other.

‘I’m sorry, but it seems essential first to make a few things clear. There’s no need to remind you that the two cases you have on your hands – I’m referring to the
supermarket burglary that led to the manager’s suicide, and the murder of the girlfriend of the provincial president’s son – will both inevitably be met with political
obstructions and reprisals. We’ve already had the first warning shots from the Honourable Mongibello. Now, I’m well aware that you often neglect to keep me informed of the full scope of
your investigations. That you, in short – as you Sicilians like to say – sing me only half the Mass. I’m sure you have your reasons for this, and this is not the time to discuss
it. But on this occasion, I’m asking you, for once, to sing me the whole Mass. In your own interest and mine, dear Montalbano. We’re in the same boat: do you realize that? And therefore
we must row in tandem to steer us away from a whirlpool that could prove fatal to us both. Have I made myself clear? Now you can go ahead and talk.’

He stopped studying the tip of the ballpoint pen and started staring at the fine chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

He’d been extremely clear – not in what he’d said, but in what he hadn’t done. He hadn’t been able even once, during his speech, to look Montalbano straight in the
eye.

And to think that one day he’d confided to him that he always looked at the people he spoke to, because he was able to divine, just by observing their eyes, what they were about to say to
him. So why had he avoided doing so this time?

‘Well, in keeping with your request,’ Montalbano began, ‘I should tell you straight away that Borsellino was murdered.’

The commissioner gave a little start in his chair, but kept on staring at the chandelier. Montalbano realized he’d hit the mark. Now he had two options before him: either tell him
everything, or sing him the usual half Mass. On the spur of the moment he decided to tell him everything, starting with what Pasquano had told him. If he made a mistake, he would try to correct
it.

‘It was Dr Pasquano . . .’ he began, going on to fill him in on the details.

He told only one lie along the way – which was that they’d had the prosecutor’s authorization for their nighttime incursion into the supermarket and Borsellino’s home. At
any rate the commissioner would never bother to check.

‘Unfortunately we have no proof of anything,’ Bonetti-Alderighi said by way of conclusion, staring at his left hand.

‘So far. But tomorrow morning you’ll receive a report on another crime closely connected to the supermarket burglary. It concerns a nightwatchman who had the bad luck to be passing
in front of the supermarket when he shouldn’t have.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said the commissioner, eyeing the priceless inkwell he kept on his desk, a present from the Prefecture.

‘But you still don’t know who killed him,’ he added, now staring at his right hand. ‘And when you do find out, whoever is behind it all will try to destroy us.’

He sighed, picking up a letter opener and studying its handle.

‘And unfortunately I think they’ll succeed.’

Another sigh. He turned the letter opener around and started examining the tip.