The Scent of the Night (3 page)

He returned to Montelusa Central with a broad gauze bandage wrapped around his head, making him look like a Vietnam War survivor. In the waiting room outside the commissioner's office, he ran into the latter's cabinet chief, Dr Lattes, whom everybody called 'Caffe-Lattes' for his cloying manner. Lattes noticed — he could hardly have done otherwise — the enormous bandage.

‘
What happened to you?'

'A minor car accident. Nothing serious.'

'Thank the Lord!'

‘I
already have, thanks.'

'And how's the family, dear Inspector? Everyone all right?
’
Everybody and his dog knew that Montalbano was an orphan, unmarried, and with no secret children out of wedlock, either. And yet, without fail, Lattes always asked him the same exact question. And the inspector, with similar obstinacy, never disappointed him.

'They're all fine, thank the Lord. How are yours?'

‘Fine, fine, thank the heavens’
said Lattes, pleased that Montalbano had afforded him the chance to add a little variation to the theme. 'So,' he continued, what pleasant task brings you this way?'

What? Hadn't the commissioner told the chief of his cabinet that he'd been summoned to see him? Was it such a secret matter?

'Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi phoned me, said he wanted to see me.'

'O
h, really?' Lattes marvelled. ‘I’l
l tell the commissioner at once that you're here.'

He knocked discreetly on the commissioner's door, went inside, closed the door behind him. A moment later the door opened and Lattes reappeared, his face transformed and no longer smiling.

'You can go in now,' he said.

Walking past him, Montalbano tried to look him in the eye but was unable to. The cabinet chief was keeping his head down. Shit. It must really be serious. But what had he done wrong? He went in. Lattes closed the door behind him, and to Montalbano it seemed as if the lid of a coffin had just been lowered over him.

The commissioner, who whenever he received Montalbano mounted a stage-set for the occasion, had resorted this time to lighting effects similar to those one might see in a black-and-white film by Fritz Lang. The shutters were tightly closed, the shades all pulled down except one, letting a thin ray of sun, filter through, the purpose of which was to slice the ro
om in two. The only source of ill
umination was a low, mushroom-shaped table lamp, which shed its light on the papers spread out over the commissioner's desk but kept his face entirely in darkness. Based on the decor, Montalbano became convinced that he was about to be subjected to an interrogation somewhere between the kind once carried out by the Holy Inquisition and
the
kind in fashion with the SS. 'Come in.'

The inspector stepped forward. In front of the desk were two chairs, but he did not sit down, and in any case the commissioner had not invited him to do so. Montalbano did not greet his superior, and neither did Bonetti-Alderighi, for his part, greet him. The commissioner kept reading the papers he had before him.

A good five minutes passed. The inspector then decided to counterattack. If he did not take the initiative, Bonetti-Alderighi was liable to leave him standing there in the dark, literally and figuratively, for several hours. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket, extracted a packet of cigarettes, took one out, put it between his lips, and fired up his lighter. The commissioner leapt out of his chair, the little flame having had the same effect as the blast of a
lu
para.

‘
What are you doing?!' he cried, looking up in terror from his papers.

‘I’m
lighting a cigarette.'

‘
Put that thing out at once! Smoking is strictly forbidden here!'

Without a word, the inspector extinguished the lighter. But he continued to hold it in his hand, just as he continued to hold the cigarette between his lips. He had, however, achieved the result he'd wanted, for the commissioner, frightened by the threat of the lighter about to spring into action, went straight to the heart of the matter.

'Montalbano, I've unfortunately been forced to stick my nose into some dossiers on a rather malodorous investigation of yours from a few years ago, before I became commis
sioner of Montelusa Police’

Y
our nose is too sen
sitive for the line of work you’
re
in.

Th
e comment had slipped out; he hadn't managed to hold it in. And he immediately regretted it. He saw Bonetti-Alderighi's hand come into the cone of light cast by the lamp and clutch the edge of the desk, knuckles pale from the effort he was making to control himself. Montalbano feared the worst, but the commissioner restrained himself. He resumed speaking in a tense voice.

‘I’
m talking about the case of that Tunisian prostitute who was later found dead, and who ha
d a son by the name of Francois’

The boy's name cut straight to his heart like a dagger. My God, Francois! How long had it been since he'd seen him.
’
He resolved, however, to pay close attention to the commissioner's words; he didn't want the surge of emotion to overwhelm him and leave him unable to defend himself. For it was clear that Bonetti-Alderighi was about to begin
making accusations. He tried to recall to mind all the details of that distant case. Want to bet that Lohengrin Pera, that son of a bitch from the Secret Service, had found a way to take his revenge after all these years? But the commissioner's next words threw him for a loop.

'Apparently you had originally intended to get married and adopt this child. Is this true?'

‘
Yes, it's true,' replied the inspector, stunned.

What the hell did this personal detail have to do with the investigation? And how did Bonetti-Alderighi know these things?

'Good. Later you apparently changed your mind about the adoption. And thereafter Francois was entrusted to the care of a sister of your second-in-command, Inspector Domenico Augello. Is that correct?'

What was this damn son of a bitch getting at?

‘
Yes, that's correct.'

Montalbano was feeling more and more worried. He knew neither why the commissioner was so interested in this story, nor from what angle the inevitable blow was going to come.

'All in the family, eh?'

Bonetti-Alderighi's sardonic tone contained a clear yet inexplicable insinuation. What on earth was going through the imbecile's head?

'Listen, Mr Commissioner. It seems to me you've formed a clear idea of an affair I scarcely remember anymore. Whatever the case, please weigh your words carefully.'

'Don't you dare threaten mei' Bonetti-Alderighi screamed hysterically, bringing his fist down hard on the desk, which reacted with a
crack
'Come on, tell me: what ever happened to the booklet?'

'What booklet?'

He honestl
y had no recollection of any booklet,

'Don't play dumb with me, Montalbano!'

It was those very words,
Don't
play
dumb,
that finally set him off. He hated cliches and stock phrases; they aroused an uncontrollable rage in him
’

This time it was his turn to bring his fist down on the desk, which reacted with a
crick-crack

‘
What damn booklet are you babbling about?'

'Hey, hey!' the commissioner sneered.
‘
Nose not too clean, Montalbano?'

He felt that if, after the
playing dumb
and the
nose not too clean
,
the commissioner were to come out with another of these expressions, he was going to grab Bonetti-Alderighi by the neck and strangle him to death. By some miracle he managed not to react or even to open his mouth.

‘
But before we get to the booklet,' the commissioner resumed, 'let's talk about the boy, the prostitute's son. You, without telling anyone, brought this orphan into your house. That's illegal confinement of a minor, Montalbano! There's a court for these kinds of things, don't you know that? There are special judges for minors, don't you know that? You're supposed to follow the law, not avoid it! This is not the Wild West!'

Exhausted, he paused. Montalbano didn't breathe a word.

'And that's not all!
Not content with this fine exploit, you make a present of the boy to your assistant's sister, as if he were some kind of object! This is the stuff of heartless people, the stuff of actionable offences! But we'll come back to that part. It gets worse. The prostitute possessed a bank booklet, a passbook showing half a billion lire on deposit. At some point, this booklet passed into your hands. And then it disappeared! What happened to it? Did you split the money with your friend and accomplice Domenico Augello?'

Very slowly, Montalbano placed his hand on the desk, then, also very slowly, he leaned his upper body forward; and, very slowly, he brought his head into the cone of light made by the lamp. Bonetti-Alderig
hi got scared. Half lit, Montal
bano's face looked exactly like an African mask, the sort that might be worn before a human sacrifice. After all — the commissioner probably thought, feeling a chill — it's not that far from Sicily to Africa. The inspector looked him deep in the eye, then began to speak very slowly and very softly.

‘I’
m going to tell you man to man. Forget about the kid. Leave him out of this. Got that? He's been properly adopted by Augello's sister and her husband. Leave him out of this. For your personal vendettas, your personal bullshit, there's always me, and that should be enough. Agreed?'

The commissioner didn't answer. Fear and rage made it hard for him to speak.

'Agreed?' Montalbano asked again.

And the lower, the calmer, the slower his voice became, the more Bonetti-Alderighi sensed the barely restrained violence behind it.

'Agreed,' he finally said in a faint voice.

Montalbano withdrew his face from the light and stood up straight

‘
May I ask, Mr Commissioner, where you got all this information?'

Montalbano's sudden chang
e in tone, now formal and slightl
y obsequious, so shocked the commissioner that he ended up saying what he had resolved not to say.

'Somebody wrote to me.'

Montalbano understood immediately.

'An anonymous letter, right?'

‘
Well, let's say unsigned.'

'You should be ashamed of yourself,' said the inspector, turning and heading for the door, deaf to the commissioner's shouting.

'Montalbano, come back here.''

He wasn't some kind of dog that obeyed all commands. He tore the useless wrapping off his head, enraged. In the corridor he ran straight into Lattes, who stammered:

‘I
... think ... the commissioner's calling you.'

‘I
think he is too.'

At that moment Lattes realized that Montalbano was no longer wearing the bandage and that his head was intact.

‘
You're already healed?'

'Didn't you know
the
commissioner's a miracle-worker?'

The amazing thing about this whole business, he thought, hands squeezing the steering wheel as he drove back towards Marinella, was that he wasn't upset at the person who'd written the anonymous letter, surely a secret vendetta on the part of Lohengrin Pera, the only one in a position to reconstruct the story of Francois and his mother. And he wasn't even upset at the commissioner. The rage he was feeling was against himself. How could he have forgotten so utterly about the passbook for the live hundred million lire? He'd entrusted it to a friend of his, a notary — this much he remembered perfectly — so that he could manage the money and turn it over to Francois as soon as he came of age. He also remembered, though rather vaguely this time, that about ten days later the same notary had sent him a receipt. But he had no idea where he'd stuck it. The worst of it was that he'd never made any mention of this passbook to either
Mimì
Augello or his sister. Which meant that
Mimì
, though totally unaware of anything, might well be called to task by Bonetti-Alderighi's fertile imagination, when in fact he was innocent as Christ.

In scarcely an hour's time he made his house look like a place that had been visited by skillful, conscientious burglars. Drawers pulled completely out of his desk, the papers inside strewn across the floor, next to books half opened, skimmed and abused. In the bedroom both night tables were thrown wide open, ditto
the
armoire and dresser, their contents scattered over the bed and the chairs. Montalbano looked and kept on looking, and finally became convinced that never in a million years would he succeed in finding what he was searching for. Then, just when he'd given up hope, inside a box in the dresser's bottom drawer, next to a photo of his mother, who'd died before an image of the living person could form in his memory, together with a photo of his father and a few of his rare letters, Montalbano found the envelope sent to him by the notary, opened it, took out the document, read it, reread it, went out of the house, got in his car, remembered that in one of
the
first buildings at the edge of Vigata there was a tobacco shop with a photocopier, copied the document, got back in his car, went home, took fright at the shambles he'd made of his house, started looking for a sheet of paper and an envelope, cursing all the while, found these, sat down at his desk, and wrote:

Esteemed Commissioner of Vigata Police,

Given that you are inclined to lending an ear to anonymous letters, I won't sign this one. Enclosed herewith is a copy of a receipt from the notary Giulio
Carlentini, clarifying
the
position of Inspector Salvo Montalbano. The original is of course in the possession of the present writer and may be viewed upon polite request.

Signed,

a friend

He got back in his car, went to the post office, sent the letter registered mail with return receipt requested, left, leaned over to open his car door, and froze in that position like somebody suddenly seized by one of those violent back spasms that, at the slightest move, stab you like a knife, and all y
ou can do is stand perfectl
y still in the hope that some miracle might, at least momentarily, make the pain go away. What had made the inspector blanch was the sight of a woman pas
sing by at that moment, apparentl
y on her way to a nearby delicatessen. It was none other than Mariastella Cosentino, vestal of the temple of
ragioniere
Gargano. Having closed up the agency at the end of the afternoon shift, she was buying groceries before going home. The sight of Mariastella Co
sentino had brought to mind a ch
illing thought, followed by an even more chilling question: What if, by some terrible luck, the notary had invested Francois's money with Gargano's firm? If so, the cash by now had already evaporated and headed towards the South Seas, which meant not only that the kid would never see a lira of his mother's estate, but also that he, Montalbano, after having just sent that taunting letter to the commissioner, would have an awfully hard time explaining the money's disappearance. Try as he might to say he had nothing to do with it, the commissioner would never believe him. At the very least he would think the inspector had plotted with the notary to split the poor orphan's five hundred million lire.

He managed to rouse himself, opened the car door, and sped off, screeching the tyres the way policemen and imbeciles often do, in the
direction of the notary Carlen
tini's office. There, he raced up two flights of stairs, getting winded in the process. The door was closed, and outside was a small sign posting the office hours. It was an hour after closing time, but somebody might still be inside. He rang the doorbell and, just to be sure, knocked as well. Barely had the door begun to open when he burst through it with a violence worthy of Catarella. The girl who had come to the door jumped back, terrified.

‘
What
...
what do you want? Please
...
please don t hurt me.'

She was obviously convinced the man before her was a robber. She had turned deathly pale.

‘I’m sorry if I frightened you’
said Montalbano.
‘
I have no reason to hurt you. Montalbano's the name.'

'Oh, how silly of me’
the girl said.
‘
I remember you now. I saw you once on television. Please come in.'

'Is Mr Carlentini here?' the inspector asked, following her inside.

‘
You haven't heard?'

'Haven't heard what?' said Montalbano, becoming even more distressed.

‘
Poor Mr Carlentini—'

‘
Is dead?' Montalbano howled, as if she'd just informed him that the person he loved most in the world had died. The girl looked at him with mild stupefaction. 'No, he isn't dead. He had a stroke. He's recovering.' 'But can he speak? Can he remember things?' 'Of course.'

'How can I talk to him?'

‘N
ow?'

‘Now!
'

The girl glanced at her watch.

'Maybe there's still time. He's at Santa Maria Hospital in Montelusa.'

She went into a room full of papers, folders, dossiers, and binders, dialled a number, and asked for Room 114. Then she said:

'Giulio—' But she interrupted herself. It was a well-known fact that the notary never let a pretty one get away. And the young woman on the phone was thirtyish and tall, with long black hair down to the small of her back and beautiful legs.

'Mr Carlentini’
she continued. Inspector Montalbano's here at the office and would like to speak with you
...
OK? I'll talk to you later’

She handed the phone to Montalbano and discreedy left the room

'Hello, Mr Carlentini? Montalbano here. I just wanted a little information from you. Do you remember, a few years back, I turned over to you a passbook account for five hundred million lire
...
? Oh, so you do remember? I'm asking you because I was worried you might have inv
ested the money with Mr Gargano’s
firm and so
...
No, no, please don't be offended
...
no, of course not, I didn't mean
...
As you can imagine, I
...
OK, OK, I'm very sorry. And get well soon.'

He hung up. The notary, at the mere mention of Gargano's name, had taken offence.

'Do you think I would be so stupid as to trust in a crook like Gargano?
’
he had said.

Francois's money was safe.

Still, as he was getting in his car to go to the station, Montalbano swore he would make
ragioniere
Gargano pay, dearly and in full, for the terrible fright he'd given him.

_FOUR

But he never made it to the station, for on the way there he determined he'd had a rough day and therefore deserved a consolation prize. He'd heard vague mention of a trattoria that had opened a few months back about six miles past Montelusa, off the provincial road to Giardina, where the food was supposed to be good. He even remembered the name,
Giugiu 'u Carritte
ri,
that is, 'Giugiu the Carter'. After failing four times to find the right road, and at the very moment he'd decided to turn back and put in yet another appearance at the Trattoria San Calogero — since meanwhile he was getting more and
m
ore ravenous — he saw in the beam of the headlights a sign for the restaurant, a hand-painted piece of wood attached to a lamppost. After five minutes of authentic dirt road of the sort that no longer exists — all pits and rocks — he finally arrived, though for a moment he suspected it might all be a hoax on the part of Giugiu, who was probably only pretending to be a carter when he was actually a rally driver.

Still feeling suspicious, he was hardl
y convinced by the secluded littl
e white house he came to. Poorly whitewashed and with no neon sign, it consisted of a single, ground-floor room with another room on top. A dim, depressing light filtered out through the two windows on the bottom floor. Surely the final touch on the hoax. There were two cars in the parking area. He got out and hesitated, feeling indecisive. He didn't want the evening to end with food poisoning. He tried to remember who it was that had recommended the place to him, and it finally came back to him: Assistant Inspector Lindt, the son of a Swiss couple ('Any relation to the chocolate?' he'd asked when they were introduced), who until six months ago had worked in Bolzano.

'That guy probably can't tell a chicken from a salmon!' he said to himself.

But at that moment, borne ever so lightly on the evening breeze, an aroma reached his nostrils and opened them up; it was a scent of genuine, savoury cooking, of dishes cooked the way the Lord intended them to be. His misgivings dispelled, he opened the door and went inside. There were eight small tables in the room, one of which was taken by a middle-aged couple. He sat down at the first table he came upon.

‘I’m
sorry, but that one's reserved,' said the waiter and owner, a bald, sixtyish man, tall and paunchy, with a handlebar moustache.

Obediendy, the inspector stood back up. He was about
to set his buttocks down at the next table when the man with the moustache spoke again. 'That one too.'

Montalbano began to feel irritated. Was this guy messing him around or something? Was he trying to pick a fight?

"They're all reserved.
If
you want, I can
set a place for you here,' the
waiter-owner said, seeing the troubled look in his customer's eyes.

He was pointing to a tiny little sideboard covered with cutlery, glasses, and dishes, very near the kitchen door, through which wafted that aroma that sated you before you'd even begun eating.

'That'd be great,' said the inspector.

He found himself sitting as if in the corner at school, with the wall practically in his face. To view the room he would have had to sit sideways in the chair and twist his neck halfway around. But what the hell did he care about viewing the room?

If you feel up to it, I’
ve got burning
pirciati
tonight,' said the man with the moustache.

Montalbano was familiar with
pirciati,
a kind of pasta, but wondered what the
‘
burning' referred to. He didn't want to give the man the satisfaction of being asked how the
pirciati
were cooked, so he limited himself to a single question:

‘
What do you mean, "If I feel up to it"?'