Rounding the Mark (18 page)

“He found me, actually.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Remember when you saw me naked on TV?”

“Yes.”

“The dead body I bumped into on my swim was his.”

Only then did Ingrid bring the glass to her lips, and she didn’t lower it until there wasn’t a drop of whisky left in it. Then she got up, went to the veranda, and stepped outside. Montalbano took his first sip and lit a cigarette. Ingrid came back inside and went into the bathroom. She returned after washing her face, sat back down, and refilled her glass.

“Have any more questions?”

“A few more. Is there anything of yours at the villa in Spigonella?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you leave anything of yours there?”

“Like what?”

“How should I know? A change of clothes . . .”

“Panties?”

“Uh . . .”

“No, there’s nothing of mine there. As I said, I never felt like spending the whole night there with him. Why do you ask?”

“Because, sooner or later, we’ll have to search the villa.”

“Don’t worry about that. Any other questions? I’m feeling a little tired.”

Montalbano pulled the photos out of his pocket and handed them to Ingrid.

“Which one looks most like him?”

“But aren’t these pictures of him?”

“They’re computer composites. His face was very badly deteriorated, unrecognizable.”

Ingrid studied them, then chose the one with the mustache.

“This one,” she said. “But . . .”

“But?”

“Two things are wrong. His mustache was a lot longer and had a different shape, kind of a handlebar mustache . . .”

“And the other thing?”

“The nose. The nostrils were wider.”

Montalbano took the dossier out of the envelope.

“As in this shot?”

“That’s him, all right,” said Ingrid. “Even without the mustache.”

There was no longer any doubt: D’Iunio and Errera were the same person. Catarella’s wacky theory had proved true.

Montalbano stood up and held his hand out to Ingrid, making her get up. When she was fully erect, he embraced her.

“Thanks,” he said.

Ingrid looked at him.

“Is that all?” she said.

“Let’s take the bottle and glasses out on the veranda,” said the inspector. “Now the fun begins.”

 
 
They settled onto the bench very close to each other. The night now smelled of brine, mint, whisky, and apricot, which was exactly what Ingrid’s skin smelled like. It was a blend not even a prize
parfumeur
could have invented.

They didn’t speak. They were happy just the way they were. Her third glass Ingrid left half full.

“Do you mind if I lie down on your bed?” she murmured suddenly.

“Don’t you want to go home?”

“I don’t feel up to driving.”

“I’ll take you home in my car. You can come pick it up—”

“I don’t want to go home. But if you really don’t want me to stay here, I’ll just lie down for a few minutes. Then I’ll go. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ingrid stood up, kissed him on the forehead, and went inside.
I don’t want to go home
, she’d said. What did Ingrid’s and her husband’s house represent for her? Perhaps a bed even more alien than the one she was presently lying in? And if she’d had a child, would her home have seemed different to her, warmer, more welcoming? Poor woman! How much loneliness and melancholy might she be hiding under her apparently superficial joie de vivre? He felt a new emotion towards Ingrid well up inside him, a kind of heartbreaking tenderness. He swallowed a few more sips of whisky and, as a cool wind had started to blow, went inside with the bottle and glasses. He glanced over at the bedroom. Ingrid was sleeping with her clothes on, having removed only her shoes. He sat back down at the table. He wanted to let her sleep another ten minutes or so.

Meanwhile let’s do a brief review of the previous episodes
, he said to himself.

Ernesto Errera is an habitual offender, born, perhaps, in Cosenza, and in any case operating around there. He has a fine curriculum vitae that ranges from breaking and entering to armed robbery. A wanted man, he becomes a fugitive from justice. Up to this point, no different from hundreds and hundreds of other crooks just like him. Then at some point Errera resurfaces in Brindisi.

He seems to have established excellent relations with the Albanian mafia and is now involved in illegal immigration. But how? In what capacity? We don’t know.

On the morning of March 11 of last year, a shepherd from the Cosenza area finds a man’s mangled body on the railroad tracks. In an unfortunate accident, the poor bastard slipped and wasn’t able to get out of the way of the coming train. He is so badly mutilated that the only way to identify him is from the documents in his wallet and a wedding ring. His wife has him buried in the Cosenza cemetery. A few months later, Errera turns up again in Spigonella, Sicily. Except now his name is Ernesto D’Iunio, a widower and former captain of an oil tanker. He leads an apparently solitary life, though he has frequent telephone contact and often talks over a two-way radio. One unfortunate day somebody drowns him and lets him rot. Then they put him out to sea. While sailing the seas, the corpse ends up crossing paths with none other than himself.

First question: what the hell was Mr. Errera doing in Spigonella after having himself officially declared dead? Second question: who had made sure that he was not only officially but concretely dead, and why?

It was time to wake Ingrid up. He went into the bedroom. She had undressed and got under the covers. She was sleeping soundly. Montalbano didn’t have the heart to wake her. He went in the bathroom and then slipped ever so gently between the sheets. The apricot scent of Ingrid’s skin immediately assailed his nostrils; it was so strong he began to feel slightly dizzy. He closed his eyes. Ingrid moved in her sleep and stretched out one leg, placing her calf against Montalbano’s. A few minutes later, she got more comfortable. Now her whole leg was resting against him, imprisoning him. Some words came back to him, words he had memorized for a play as a teenager:
There are . . . certain good apricots . . . that break down the middle . . . press them lengthwise with your fingers . . . and they open like two succulent lips
. . .

Bathed in sweat, the inspector counted to ten and, with a series of almost imperceptible movements, managed to free himself, got out of bed, and, cursing the saints, went to lie down on the couch.

Jesus Christ! Not even Saint Anthony would have made it through that one!

13

He woke up aching all over. For some time now, sleeping on the sofa meant getting up the next morning with broken bones. On the dining room table was a little note from Ingrid.

He was headed for the bathroom when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch: barely eight o’clock.

“Inspector, I need to see you.”

He didn’t recognize the voice.

“Who is this?”

“Marzilla, Inspector.”

“Come to the station.”

“No, not the station. They might see me. I’ll come to your place, now that you’re alone.”

How the hell did he know that first he had company and now he was alone? Was he hiding somewhere nearby, spying on him?

“Where are you, anyway?”

“In Marinella, Inspector. Practically outside your door. When I saw the woman come out, I called.”

“Wait just a minute and I’ll let you in.”

He quickly washed his face and went to open the door. Marzilla, who was leaning against the door as if to take shelter from some nonexistent rain, came inside, sidestepping the inspector. As he passed, Montalbano got a whiff of rancid sweat. Standing in the middle of the room and panting as if he’d just run a great distance, Marzilla was even paler than before and wild-eyed, his hair sticking straight up.

“I’m scared to death, Inspector.”

“Is there going to be another arrival?”

“Several, and all at the same time.”

“When?”

“The day after tomorrow, at night.”

“Where?”

“They didn’t say. But they did let me know that it’s going to be a big deal, even though I won’t be involved.”

“So why are you afraid? You’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“Because the person I mentioned, who told me about the arrivals, also told me to call in sick today, so I can be at his disposal.”

“Did he let you know what he wants?”

“Yessir. At ten-thirty tonight, I’m supposed to drive a fast car—which they’re going to leave in front of my house—to a place near Capo Russello, pick up some people, then drop them off where they tell me to.”

“So, for now, you don’t know where you’re supposed to take them.”

“No sir. They’ll tell me after they get in the car.”

“What time was it when you got the call?”

“Very early this morning, before six. I tried to refuse, Inspector, you’ve got to believe me. I explained that as long as it involved the ambulance, okay . . . But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He repeatedly said that if I didn’t obey, or if something went wrong, he would have me killed.”

He started crying and collapsed into a chair. Montalbano found his tears unbearable, obscene. This man was a piece of shit. A piece of shit quivering like a bowl of jelly. The inspector had to restrain himself from jumping on him and rearranging his face into a bloody mass of skin, flesh, and bones.

“What should I do, Inspector? What should I do?”

Fear had turned his voice into the squawk of a strangled rooster.

“What they told you to do. But the minute they leave the car in front of your place, you have to tell me the model, color, and, if possible, the license plate number. Now get the hell out of here. The more you blubber, the more I feel like kicking your teeth in.”

Never, even if the guy were dying before his eyes, would he forgive him for the shot he had given the little boy in the ambulance. Marzilla sprang to his feet in terror and ran to the door.

“Wait. First tell me exactly where you’re meeting those people.”

Marzilla explained. Montalbano didn’t really understand, but since he remembered that Catarella had once told him he had a brother who lived in that area, he decided to ask him later on. Marzilla then said:

“What do you intend to do?”

“What do
I
intend to do? You just call me tonight when you’re through, and tell me where you’ve taken those people and what they’re like.”

 
 
He resolved—while shaving—not to inform anyone at headquarters of what Marzilla had just told him. After all, the investigation into the little boy’s murder was an entirely personal matter, a debt he’d incurred which he was convinced would be very hard, if not impossible, to pay off. Still, he was going to need at least a little help. Among other things, Marzilla had told him they were going to leave a fast car parked in front of his place. Which meant that he, Montalbano, wasn’t up to the task. Given his meagre abilities behind the wheel, he would never manage to keep up with Marzilla, who would certainly be asked to drive fast. He had an idea, which he immediately dismissed. Stubbornly, the idea came back to him, and just as stubbornly, he dismissed it again. The idea resurfaced a third time as he was drinking a last coffee before going out. And this time he gave in.

“Hullo? Who ’peakin?”

“This is Inspector Montalbano. Is Signora Ingrid there?”

“You wett, I go see.”

“Salvo! What is it?”

“I need you again.”

“You’re insatiable! Wasn’t last night enough for you?” said Ingrid, teasing.

“No.”

“Well, if you really can’t hold out any longer, I’ll be right over.”

“No, there’s no need for you to come right now. If you don’t have any other engagements, could you be here around nine tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And, listen, have you got another car?”

“I could take my husband’s. Why?”

“Yours attracts too much attention. Is your husband’s a fast car?”

“Yes.”

“See you tonight, then. Thanks.”

“Wait. In what role?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yesterday I came to your place as a witness. And tonight?”

“Tonight you’ll be deputy sheriff. I’ll give you a star.”

 
 
“Chief, Marzilla din’t call!” said Catarella, jumping to his feet.

“Thanks, Cat. But stay on the alert, I mean it. Could you send in Inspector Augello and Fazio?”

As he’d decided, he would tell them only about the swimming corpse. Mimì was the first to come in.

“How’s Beba?”

“Better. We were finally able to get a little sleep last night.”

Then Fazio appeared.

“I have to tell you,” the inspector began, “that, entirely by chance, I’ve managed to identify the drowned man. You, Fazio, did a great job, finding out that he’d recently been spotted in Spigonella. That’s where he lived. He’d rented the villa with the big terrace overlooking the sea. D’you remember it, Fazio?”

“Of course.”

“He said he was captain of an oil tanker, and went by the name of Ernesto—‘Ninì’ to friends—D’Iunio.”

“Why? What was his real name?” asked Augello.

“Ernesto Errera.”

“
Madunnuzza santa!
” said Fazio.

“Like the guy in Cosenza?” asked Mimì again.

“Exactly. They were the same person. Sorry to say, Mimì, but Catarella was right.”

“I want to know how you arrived at this conclusion,” Mimì insisted coldly.

Apparently he was finding the news hard to swallow.

“I didn’t arrive at it myself. My friend Ingrid did.”