The Scent of the Night (12 page)

‘
Didn't I already tell you? Two.'

'And nothing else?
’

'He also had a briefcase, a small one. He kept his papers in it.'

‘
Do you know what kind of papers?'

'Do I look to you like the kind of person who goes sticking her nose into other people's things? What do you think I am, some kind of no-good busybody?'

'Signora Catarina, how could you think I could ever think such a thing? I merely meant that if the briefcase happened to be left open, somebody might get a glimpse of what's inside, by chance, you know, by accident...'

'Actually that did happen, once. But by accident, mind you. And there were all kinds of letters inside, and sheets of paper full of numbers, some agendas, and a few of those black things that look like little disks—'

'Computer diskettes?'

'Yeah, things like that.'

'Did Giacomo have a computer?'

'He did. And he always carried it around with him, in a special case.'

‘
Did he have an Internet connection?'

Inspector, I don t know anything about these things.
But I do remember one time when I had to talk to him
about a leaky pipe, I tried phoning him and the line was
always busy
’

'Excuse me, signora, but why did you call him instead of just going downstairs?'

'You think it's nothing, going down a flight of stairs, but for me, with my weight—'

'I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking
’

'Well, I called and called, but the line was always busy. So I gathered up my strength, went downstairs, and knocked on his door. I told Jacurninu he maybe left his phone off the hook. But he told me the line was busy 'cause he was connected to this Interneck
’

‘I
see. So when he left he also took the briefcase and the computer?'

'Of course. What was he gonna do, leave 'em with me?'

Montalbano headed back to the station in a bad mood. It was true that he should have been pleased to learn that PeUegrino's papers did exist and that he'd probably taken them with him; but the fear of having to deal again with computers, diskettes, CD-ROMs and other such bothers — as he'd had to do in the case that came to be called the 'Excursion to Tindari' — made his stomach churn. Good thing there was Catarella to lend him a hand.

He recounted to Fazio what Signora Catarina had told him in both his first and second meetings with her.

'OK
’
said Fazio, after thinking things over a little. 'Let's assume Pellegrino escaped to a foreign country. The first question is: Why? He was not involved, in any direct way, in Gargano's scam. Only some nutcase like the late Mr Garzullo could have ever held it against him. The second question is: Where did he get the money to build the new house?'

'There is one conclusion that can be drawn from this business of the house
’
said Montalbano.

'And what's that?'

'That Pellegrino wanted to go into hiding for a little while, but that he did want to come back sooner or later, preferably on the sly, and enjoy his little villa in peace. Otherwise why would he have built it? Unless some new and unforeseen development came up, forcing him to flee, maybe forever, and leave the house to the dogs
’

'And there's another thing,' Fazio resumed. It's logical that he would take his documents, papers, and computer when leaving the country. But I really don't think he would bring his motorbike to Germany, if he ever went there
’

'Call the uncle, see if he left it with him.'

Fazio went out and came back a few minutes later.

‘
No, he didn't leave it with him. He doesn't know anything about it Look, Chief, that uncle is starting to prick up his ears. He asked me why we're getting so interested in his nephew. He seemed worried. He'd always bought that story about the business trip to Germany.'

'And now we're left high and dry
’
the inspector
con
cluded.

A silence of defeat fell over them.

'But there's still something we can do
’
the inspector decided after a moment. 'You, tomorrow morning, go and make the rounds of the banks in Vigata and try to find out which one of them Pellegrino's got his money in. It's certainly not going to be in the same one as Gargano. If you've got any friends in the business, see if you can find out how much he's got, whether he's been depositing money on top of his salary, that kind of thing. And one last favour, what was the name of that guy who sees flying saucers and three-headed dragons?'

Before answering, Fazio made a puzzled face.

'Antonino Tommasino's his name. But I'm warning you, Chief: the guy's a raving lunatic, you can't take what he says seriously.'

‘
Fazio, what does a man do when he's deathly ill and the doctors throw their hands up? To escape death, he's liable to turn to a wizard, a warlock, a charlatan. And
We,
my dear friend, at this hour of the night, we are on death's doorstep as far as this investigation is concerned. Give me the phone number
’

Fazio went out and returned with a sheet of paper.

'This is his voluntary deposition. He says he has no phone.'

'Does he have a home, at least?'
‘
Yes he does, Chief, But it's hard to get to. Want me to make you a map?'

As he was opening the door to his house, he noticed there was an envelope in the letter box. Picking it up, he recognized Livia's handwriting. But there was no letter inside, only a newspaper clipping, an interview with an elderly philosopher who lived in Turin. Overcome with curiosity, he decided to read it at once, even before finding out what Adelina's niece had left him in the fridge. Talking about his family, the philosopher said at one point: 'When you get old, affections count more than concepts.'

He immediately lost his appetite. If, for a philosopher, there comes a moment when speculation means less than affection, then how much could a criminal investigation mean for a cop heading into the sunset? In spite of himself, he had to admit that there was only one answer to this question: that an investigation probably meant even less than a concept. He slept badly.

By six the next morning he was already out of the house. The day looked promising: bright, clear sky, no wind. He'd put the little map drawn by Fazio down on the passenger's seat beside him and consulted it from time to time. Tommasino Antonino or Antonino Tommasino, whatever
the hell his name was, lived in the countryside near Montereale, and therefore was not too far from Vigata. The problem lay in choosing the right route, for it was easy to get lost there. The landscape was a kind of treeless desert scarred with unmade roads, goat trails, and caterpillar tracks, and dotted here and there by peasant cottages and a few rare country houses. The area was doing its best to avoid being transformed overnight into a jumble of weekend getaway bungalows, but one could already see the first signs of the futility of such resistance: trenches for water mains, lamp-posts, telephone poles, foundations for out-and-out four-lane roads. He drove around inside the desert three or four times, always coming back to the same point Fazio's map was too vague. Feeling lost, he headed resolutely towards a kind of farmstead. He pulled up and got out of the car. The door to the house was open. 'Anybody here?
’

'Come in,' a woman's voice called out

He found himself in a tidy, well-kept sort of living-dining room with old but shiny furniture. A woman of about sixty, well groomed and dressed in grey, was chinking a cup of coffee, the espresso pot on the table still steaming.

‘
I just need some information, ma'am I'd like to know where Mr Antonino Tommasino lives.'

'He lives right here. I'm his wife.'

For some reason he'd imagined Tommasino as a semi-vagrant or, at best a
viddrano,
a peasant farmer, that is, an endangered species in need of protection.

‘I’m
Inspector Montalbano
’

‘I
recognized you,' said the woman, nodding towards the television in the corner.
‘I’ll
go get my husband. In the meantime please have some coffee. I make it strong.'

Thank you.'

She poured it for him, left the room, then reappeared almost at once.

'My husband asked if you could go to him, if it's not too much trouble.'

They walked down a whitewashed corridor, and the woman gestured to him to go in the second door
On
the left. It was a genuine study, with tall shelves lined with books and old nautical charts on the walls. The man who got up from an armchair to greet him was also about sixty, tall and erect, with beautiful white hair and wearing an elegant blazer and spectacles. A fairly imposing figure. Montalbano had been convinced he would be up against a wild-eyed crackpot with a string of spittle hanging from a comer of his mouth. He felt confused. Was he certain there was no mistake?

'Are you Antonino Tommasino?' he asked. But he would have liked to add, just to be sure: the raving mad-man who sees monsters and flying saucers?

‘
Yes, And you are Inspector Montalbano. Please make yourself comfortable.'

He sat him down in a cosy armchair.

‘I’m
at your service. What can I do for you?'

That indeed was the question. How to open the discussion without offending Mr Tommasino, who seemed to be
perfectl
y normal in the head, as far as that was concerned

'Reading anything interesting these days?'

The question had slipped out, and it was so idiotic and absurd that the inspector blushed Tommasino, for his part, smiled

‘I’m
reading the so-called
Book of Roger,
by Al-Idrisi, the medieval Arab geographer. But you didn't come here to ask me what I'm reading. You came to find out what I saw one night a little over a month ago. I guess they've changed their minds down at the station.'

Yes, thank you,' said Montalbano, grateful that the other had taken the initiative. He was not only normal, this Tommasino, but a refined, cultured, intelligent man.

'Just one thing, before we begin. What did they tell you about me?
’

Montalbano balked embarrassed Then he decided that it was always best to tell the truth.

'They said that, every now and then, you see things that don't exist.'

‘
You're very kind Inspector. To get right to the point, they say I'm a madman. A peaceable madman, of course, who pays his taxes, respects the law, never does anything obscene or violent, never threatens anyone or mistreats his wife, but a madman nonetheless. You put it
perfectl
y: every now and then, I see things that don't exist.'

'Excuse me
’
Montalbano interrupted him, 'but what do you do?'

‘
You mean professionally? I used to teach geography at the secondary school in Montelusa. But I've been retired a few years. May I tell you a story?
’

'Of course
’

‘I
have a grandson, Michele, who's now fourteen. One day, about ten years ago, my son came to visit with his wife and son. Which he still does, I'm happy to say. Michele and I went to play outside. At a certain point, Michele started screaming, saying the courtyard was full of terrible, ferocious dragons. And I played along, and started howling in fear myself. But then the little boy got scared by my fear and wanted to reassure me. "Grampa," he said, "those aren't real dragons. You're not supposed to be afraid. I just made them up, for. fun.'' You know, Inspector, for a few years now, I've been in a situation much like that of my young grandson. One part of my brain must, in some way, and for some mysterious reason, have regressed to the childhood level. With the difference that, unlike the child, I take what I see to be real and continue to believe it for some time. Then I get over it, and I realize that what I saw wasn't real Is that clear so far?'

'Perfectly clear
’
said the inspector.

'May I ask you what they told you I saw?
’

'Well, I think it was a three-headed sea monster and a flying saucer.'

Is that all? They didn't tell you about the flock of winged fish made of tin I saw perched in a tree? Or the time a midget from Venus popped up in my kitchen and asked me for a cigarette? Shall we stop here, before we stray too far off the track?
’

'As you wish.'

‘
Now, let's review the things I just mentioned and the things you already knew. A three-headed sea monster, a flying saucer, a flock of tin-winged fish, and a Venusian midget. Do you agree with me that none of these things are real?
’

'Of course.'

‘
Now, if I come to you and say, "Look, the other night I saw a car that was like this or like that," why shouldn't you believe me? Do cars not exist? Are they objects of fantasy? I'm talking about an everyday thing, a real car, with four wheels, a licence plate, registration. I'm not talking about a space scooter that can fly up to Mars!'