The Scent of the Night (16 page)

'And what's the reality?'

'That in the best of cases, Gargano's living it up on some Polynesian island. And in the worst, he's being eaten by the fish in the sea.'

They arrived. Michela gave Montalbano a kiss on the cheek and got out. Then she leaned into the open window and said:

'Actually I have three exams to take in Palermo.' 'Good luck,' said Montalbano. 'Let me know how it goes.'

He went straight home to Marinella. As soon as he stepped inside, he noticed that Adelina had returned to work. The linen and shirts were on the bed, ironed and folded. He opened the fridge and found it empty, except for some black olives, fresh anchovies dressed in olive oil, vinegar, and oregano, and a generous slice of caciocavallo cheese. His mild disappointment vanished when he opened the oven: inside was a casserole of the legendary
pasta 'ncasdata!
Four servings
’
worth. Slowly and with perseverance, he shovelled it all down. Then, since the weather permitted, he settled himself in on the veranda. He needed to think. But he didn't do any thinking. Before long, the sound of the surf gently lulled him to sleep.

Good thing I’m not a crocodile, or I’
d drown in my own tears.

This was the last meaningful, or meaningless, thought that came into his head.

By four he was back in his office, and
Mimì
immediately popped in.

'Where were you?' the inspector asked him.

'Out doing my job. As soon as I heard the news, I rushed to the scene and made myself available to Guamotta. On your behalf, according to our commissioner's guidelines. That's our turf, isn't it? Did I do the right thing?'

When he put his mind to it, Augello could show them all a thing or two.

'Absolutely. Well done.'

‘I
told him I was only there in a supporting role. If he wanted, I would even go buy cigarettes for them. He was very appreciative.'

'Did they find Gargano's body?'

‘
No, and they're discouraged. They consulted a fisherman from the area, and he told them that unless Gargano's been held up by some rock, by this point, with all the
strong currents they've got around there, that body's already sailing to Tunisia. So, if they don't find anything by tonight, they're going to stop looking.'

Fazio appeared in the doorway. The inspector signalled to him to come in and sit down. Fazio had a solemn look on his face. It was obvious he could barely hold himself back.

'And so?' Montalbano asked Mimì
'So Guarnotta's scheduled a press conference for tomorrow morning.'

'Know what he's going to say?'

'Of course. Why else do you think I dashed all the way out to that horrible place? He's going to say that both Gargano and Pellegrino are victims of a vendetta by the Mafia, which our
ragioniere
had taken for a ride.'

'But how, I ask you, could this blessed Mafia have possibly known a day in advance that Gargano was going to bail out on his commitments, and then killed him? If they'd killed him on the first or second of September, I would understand. But to kill him the day before, doesn't tha
t seem just a teeny littl
e bit odd to you?'

'Of course it seems odd to me. Extremely odd. But don't ask me, ask Guarnotta.'

The inspector, smiling broadly, turned to Fazio.

'And where have you been hiding yourself?'

‘I’m
packing,' said Fazio, dead serious. 'Big guns.'

What he meant was that he had some high cards to play. Montalbano asked him no questions, letting Fazio take his time and savour his achievement. Fazio took a little piece of paper out of his pocket, consulted it, and resumed speaking.

‘I
succeeded in finding out what I wanted to know, and it cost me a lot.'

'Did you have to pay? asked Augello.

Fazio shot him an annoyed glance.

‘I
meant it cost me a lot of talk and patience. Banks refuse to give information on their clients' little business ventures, especially when these ventures have a bad smell about them. But I managed to talk an official into spilling the beans anyway. He got down on his knees and asked me not to repeat his name. Are we in agreement on that?'

'Yes
’
said Montalbano. 'Especially since this is isn't our case. We're acting out of pure and simple curiosity. Call it private curiosity.'

'So
’
said Fazio. 'On the first of October of last year, at the bank where he deposited his monthly pay cheque, a wire transfer of two hundred million lire was credited to the account of Giacomo Pellegrino. A second transfer of the same amount came in on the fifteenth of January of this year. The last such transfer, this time for three hundred million, was made on the seventh of July. Seven hundred mi
llion lire in all,
Pellegrino didn't have any other accounts at any other bank in Vigata or Montelusa.'

'Who was wiring these transfers?' asked Montalbano.

‘Emanuele Gar
gano.'

'Wow
’
said Augello.

'But from the bank where he kept his personal account, not the one he used for King Midas
’
Fazio continued. 'Therefore the money sent to Pellegrino had nothing to do with Midas's business dealings. It was clearly a personal matter
’

When Fazio had finished speaking, he was wearing a long face. He was disappointed that Montalbano showed no surprise. The information seemed to have left the inspector indifferent, Fazio, however, refused to give up and tried again.

'And you want to know something else I discovered? Every time he received a new transfer of funds, the next day Pellegrino would turn the money over to—'

'—to the construction company building his house
’
Montalbano concluded.

There's an old story that tells how, once upon a time, the King of France, sick and tired of hearing his wife, the Queen of France, tell him he didn't love her because he never got jealous, asked a gentleman of the court to come into the queen's bedchamber the following morning, throw himself at her royal feet, and pledge his undying love to her. The king would then barge in a few minutes later and, seeing what was transpiring, throw a terrible jealous fit in front of his wife. And so the following morning the king took up position behind the queen's door, waited for the courti
er to come in, counted to one h
undred, unsheathed his sword and burst into the room. But what he saw were the queen and courtier, naked on the bed, rucking with such gusto that they didn't even notice he'd come in. The poor king left the room, put the sword back in its sheath, and said: 'Damn! They ruined my scene!'

Fazio did exactl
y the opposite of the King of France. Seeing Montalbano ruin his scene, he bolted out of his chair, turned bright red, cursed, and stormed out of the room, muttering to himself.

'What's with him?' asked Augello, surprised.

'The fact is that sometimes I'm kind of an idiot,' said Montalbano.

"You're telling me!' said Augello, himself a frequent victim of Montalbano's idiocy.

Fazio returned almost immediately. One could see he'd gone out to wash his face.

'Sorry about that,' he said.

'No, I
’
m the one who's sorry,' the inspector replied in all sincerity. Then he continued: 'So the villa was entirely paid for by Gargano. The only question is: why?
’

Mimì
opened his mouth, but a gesture from the inspector made him close it again.

‘I
first want to know if I'm remembering something correctly,' said Montalbano, turning to Fazio. 'Was it you who told me that when Pellegrino rented a car in Montelusa he specified that he wanted one with a spacious boot?'

'Yes,' said Fazio.

'And at the time we thought it was for his suitcases?'

‘Y
es.'

'Which was incorrect, because he left his suitcases at his new house.'

'Then what did he want to put in the boot?' Augello cut in.

'His motorbike. He rented the car in Montelusa, put his motorbike in the boot, drove out to Punta Raisi to do his little number with the plane tickets, drove back to Montelusa, returned the rented car, and came back to Vigata on his motorbike.'

'That doesn't seem very important to me,'
Mimì
commented.

It is, in fact, very important Because I've learned, among other things, that he'd once put his motorbike in the boot of Gargano's car.'

'OK, but—'

'Let's forget the motorbike for a moment Let's return to the question of why Gargano paid for the construction of Pellegrino's new house. Bear in mind that I've also learned — and I trust my source — that Gargano was a skinflint, always careful not to waste any money.'

Augello spoke first

‘
Why couldn't it have been for love? From what you've told me yourself, there was more than just sex between them.'

'What do you think?' Montalbano asked Fazio. Inspector Augello's explanation could be right But,
and I can't really say why, I'm not convinced. I would lean more towards blackmail'
‘
Blackmail over what
’

‘
I dunno, maybe Pellegrino threatened to tell everyone they had a relationship — that Gargano was gay...'

Augello burst out la
ughing. Fazio gave him a puzzled look.

'Come on, Fazio! How old are you? Nowadays, thank God, nobody gives a shit if you're gay or not!
’

'Gargano made a point of not letting it show,' Montalbano cut in. 'But I don't think it would have been such a big deal even if there had been some danger of the fact becoming known. No, that sort of threat would not have made someone like Gargano succumb to blackmail.'

Fazio threw his hands up and stopped defending his hypothesis. Then he stared at the inspector. Augello, too, started staring at him.

‘
What's wrong with you two?'

'What's wrong with us is that it's your turn to talk,' said
Mimì

'All right,' said the inspector. 'But let me preface this by saying that what I'm about to describe is a novel. In the sense that there isn't the slightest trace of proof for any of it. And, as in all novels, as the story gets written, events sometimes go their own way, leading to unforeseen conclusions.'

'OK,'said Augello.

'We begin with something we know for certain: Gargano organizes a scam that, by definition, cannot be pulled off over the course of a week, but requires a long time to develop. Not only that: he also needs to set up a genuine business with offices, employees, and so on. Among the employees he hires in Vigata is a kid named Giacomo Pellegrino. After a while, the two begin to have an affair. They sort of fall in love; it's not just a one-night stand. The person who told me this added that, though they tried to hide it, their relationship became visible in their behaviour. Some days they'd smile at each other and seek each other out, while other days they'd pout and snub each other. Exactly the way lovers do. Isn't that how it is,
Mimì
? You know about these things, don't you?'

‘
Why, you don't?'

'The point is,' Montalbano continued, 'you're both right. Their story begins in ambiguity and is played out in ambiguity. Pellegrino is one of those partial intelligences that—'

'Stop right there,' said Mimì
‘
What does that mean?'

'By partial intelligence I mean the intelligence of someone who works in money. Not in farming, business, industry, construction, or what have you, but in money for its own sake.
These people know or sense ever
ything there is to know about money, every hour, every minute of the day. They know it as well as they know themselves. They know how it pissed today, how it shat, ate, and slept, how it woke up this morning. They know its good days and its bad days, they know when it wants to give birth — that is, when it wants to produce more money — or when it's contemplating suicide, when it wants to remain sterile, and even when it wants to have sex without commitments. They know when it will take off, they know when it will go into free fall, as the specialists on the TV news like to put it. These partial intelligences are called things like financial wizards, big bankers, big brokers, big speculators. Their brains, however, function only on that one wavelength. In every other respect they're ill equipped, awkward, limited, backward, even downright stupid. But never naive.'

'Your portrait seems a little excessive to me,' said Augello.

'Oh, yeah? And in your opinion that guy who was found hanged under Blackfriars Bridge in London wasn't a partial intelligence? How about that other guy, the one who faked being kidnapped by the Mafia, shot himself in the leg, and then drank a cup of poisoned coffee in prison? Give me a break!'