A Voice in the Night (12 page)

‘Wait a second, please!’ said Montalbano, grabbing the edge of the window as Pasquano started the car again.

‘Were there any signs of a struggle?’

Pasquano looked at him with pity.

‘How could there have been any kind of struggle if I just told you that the first stab cut her jugular?! Can’t you see that you’re already completely senile? The girl went into
the study and was immediately killed.’

‘But why did she go into the study naked?’

‘How the hell should I know? That’s your job to find out.’

‘What kind of knife did he use?’

‘It wasn’t really a knife, but something very sharp and thin. Like a razor or a box cutter, something like that.’

‘Have Forensics recovered the weapon?’

‘Can’t you see you’re really not right in the head? If Forensics had found the weapon, I would have told you precisely what was used to kill the girl. Can I go now?’

‘Of course. Thanks.’

Montalbano went and moved his car.

Pasquano passed slowly in front of him, then stuck his head out the window.

‘Oh, I almost forgot. She was pregnant.’

‘How far along?’ Montalbano shouted.

‘Two months,’ Pasquano replied.

Then he accelerated.

*

Now it was late. Before driving back to Marinella, he dropped in at headquarters to see if there was any news.

Not only was there no news, but there was no one there at all except Catarella.

‘How far along are you with Borsellino’s computer?’

‘Jess finishin’ up now, Chief.’

‘What’s inside it?

‘The kapewter’s got tree icones isside it, one fer corrisponnences, which’d be the litters ’e wrote to diff ’rint companies consoinin’ the stuff the foresaid
was asposta send to the supermarket, y’ know, the ordnances . . .’

‘Purchase orders.’

‘Whativver ya wanna call ’em. An’ insomuch as the supermarket riceived ’em more or less inna mount the foresaid supermarket ast fer, annat—’

‘OK, I get the picture. What’s in the other two?’

‘Well, Chief, one of ’em’s got the calculations of each day’s preceeds . . .’

‘Proceeds, Cat.’

‘Whativver. Ann’iss is follered by the wickly preceeds, an’ then the manthly preceeds, an’ then—’

‘I get the picture, Cat. What about the third one?’

‘Inna toid icone ’ere’s the wickly clarence odda moichandise, the clarence—’

‘OK, that’s enough. Is there anything else?’

‘Yeah, I still gotta look at tree more files.’

‘All right, I’ll be seeing you. I’m going home.’

*

In the entranceway he ran into Augello, who was coming in.

‘Can you hang around for another five minutes?’ asked Mimì. ‘I need to talk to you.’

He seemed clearly agitated.

‘Sure,’ said the inspector, turning on his heel and heading back to his office.

‘I have to tell you what I learned entirely by chance from Fazio, a small detail concerning Borsellino.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘That he didn’t commit suicide but was strangled and then made to look as if he’d hanged himself.’

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ asked Montalbano, sincerely surprised.

‘No, you didn’t. Whereas I’m the first person you should have told.’

‘I apologize, I just didn’t think of it.’

‘Apologies aren’t enough.’

‘Do you want me to kneel down, too? Are you really so offended?’

‘Yes I am. I told you how upset I was over what that idiot journalist said when he accused us of driving Borsellino to suicide, and it would have been a relief for me to find out that
he’d been murdered.’

There was something about Augello’s attitude that Montalbano didn’t like.

‘Well, now that you know, you can sleep easy and be happy.’

‘Don’t try to be funny, this really isn’t the time for it. I want you to say it publicly.’

‘Say what publicly?’

‘That Borsellino was murdered. That way I can sue that journalist.’

‘And lose.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, you see, nowhere has it been said that Borsellino was murdered.’

Mimì became flustered.

‘But how did you find out? Fazio told me that Pasquano told you.’

‘That’s true. He did tell me, but he didn’t put it in writing. In his report, that is. He didn’t want to put it in writing because, he said, the explanations for the
bruises on Borsellino’s arms could be given a different interpretation by the defence.’

‘It’s not Pasquano’s business to worry about what the defence might say.’

‘Well, he did anyway.’

‘But why?’

‘Because the Mafia scares everyone, especially when it has ties as powerful as in this case. But I’ll make you a deal.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I don’t want to handle the Strangio case; I’m in a rather delicate position. As soon as he can see me, I’m going to ask the commissioner to turn it over to
you.’

On his way out he again passed Catarella, who was still busy working on Borsellino’s computer.

A thought flashed through his brain like a lightning bolt.

‘Cat, get me the command office of the customs police of Montelusa and put the call through to my office, would you?’

He went and sat back down at his desk, and the phone rang.

‘This is Inspector Montalbano of Vigàta Police. I’d like to speak with Marshal Laganà.’

‘Who did you say, please?’

The receptionist seemed a little flustered.

‘Laganà.’

‘Hold the line, please.’

He could hear him muttering to someone.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I’m new here. Marshal Laganà retired about a year ago.’

He felt his heart sink. But there was still hope.

‘Do you by any chance have a telephone number for him?’

‘Wait just a minute and I’ll find out.’

After a brief spell, the inspector got the bad news.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but nobody here has—’

‘Thanks anyway.’

*

So how was he ever going to track down the marshal? He remembered that Laganà had once told him he was originally from Fiacca and that he’d inherited a house there from his father .
. . It was possible that upon retiring he’d returned to the town of his birth. The inspector rang Catarella and called him into his office. It was better to tell him in person what he wanted
him to do.

‘At yer command, Chief.’

‘Listen carefully, Cat. I want you to call the central police station in Fiacca and find out if they know if there’s a former customs marshal named Laganà living there in
town. Repeat the name.’

‘Lacanna.’

‘There’s no “canna”, for Christ’s sake! Laganà. Repeat.’

‘Laghianà.’

‘Remove the i.’

‘I just did.’

‘Say it.’

‘Laganà.’

‘Good. Now don’t forget it. If their answer is yes, ask them to give you the phone number, dial it, and then put the call through to me. Got that?’

‘Assolutely, Chief.’

But he didn’t move.

‘Well?’

‘Chief, c’n I say som’hn’?’

‘Say it.’

‘Wouldja ’llow me, isstead o’ callin’ a Fiacca police an’ doin’ everyting all roundaboutlike, to take a shortcut?’

There was a shortcut?

‘How?’

‘I’ll jess ’ave a look inna Fiacca phone book t’ see if Laganà’s in it.’

Montalbano felt humiliated.

‘OK, do it.’

It was true that the phone book is usually the last thing that comes to mind when you’re looking for someone, but sincerely, this was too much.

Dr Pasquano was right. His advancing age was making him fall apart.

To dispel his agitation, he went over to the window and lit a cigarette. Then the telephone rang.

‘I foun’ it, Chief!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Crass my ’eart, Chief! Iss rilly him! The ix-marshal!’

‘Thanks, Cat. Put him on . . . Marshal Laganà? Remember me? This is Inspector Montalbano.’

‘How could I ever forget you? What a nice surprise! What a pleasure to hear from you! How are you?’

Better not answer the question. At that moment, owing to this telephone-book business, he felt like shit.

‘And you?’

‘So so. I had to take an early retirement because of my heart . . .’

‘I’m really sorry to hear it.’

‘You caught me at home purely by chance, you know. I was on my way out.’

‘Oh, really? Where are you going?’

‘To Ragusa, with my wife. We’re going to visit our grandchildren.’

‘How many do you have?’

‘Two. A boy and a girl. Did you need something, Inspector? I’m no longer in the service, but maybe I can give you the name of a colleague of mine who—’

‘Actually, Marshal, if you’ve got five minutes, we may be able to resolve the whole thing over the phone.’

‘All right, then, what is it?’

Montalbano told him about Borsellino’s two computers.

‘So,’ said Laganà, ‘they managed to get their hands on the computer the manager kept at home but not on the one he kept at the supermarket, is that right?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘And you want to know why they wanted both computers?’

‘Exactly.’

‘There’s only one possible explanation. To prevent anyone in the police from getting the idea to compare the two computers.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’ll explain. You said the supermarket computer contains among other things the records of the proceeds and the quantity of merchandise sold each day. I’m sure that if you
show these files to a colleague of mine, he’ll tell you that it’s all in order – that the proceeds and sales tally perfectly with each other.’

‘But if it’s all in order, then why . . . I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand.’

‘You will in just a minute. If by chance you’d managed to get your hands on the other computer, the one that was in his home, you’d have been able to see for yourself that the
figures for the proceeds and the respective sales on a given day were different from the ones registered on the supermarket computer.’

‘I get it!’ the inspector said finally. ‘The figures registered on the home computer were the real figures, while the ones on the office computer were false. They took in more
money and sold more goods than what they showed on the, so to speak, “official” computer, the one in the manager’s office. But this is all destined to remain purely groundless
conjecture because they’ve now made it impossible ever to compare the two computers.’

‘See? You had no trouble understanding. Listen, will you make me a promise?’

‘Whatever you like.’

‘If you happen to find the other computer, will you let that colleague of mine have a look at it? Wait just a second and I’ll get you his number. His name is Sclafani. If my
hypothesis is correct, it’ll teach those supermarket people a good lesson.’

*

On his way out, he stopped in front of Catarella.

‘It’s not so urgent about that computer any more.’

‘But I’m jess finishin’, Chief,’ said Catarella, disappointed.

‘I didn’t say we don’t need it any more. I just wanted to let you know you can take your time.’

At that moment Augello walked by, head down, and muttered: ‘Goodbye.’

And he headed towards the car park. Montalbano followed him and stopped beside him.

‘Still angry?’

‘I’ll get over it.’

‘Mimì, when we spoke in my office, I didn’t tell you that the fact that I don’t want people knowing about Pasquano’s suspicion was because it’s a whole lot
better for us that way.’

‘In what sense?’

‘It’s important that the killers think that we still believe that Borsellino committed suicide.’

‘Do you expect them to make some kind of false move, thinking they’re in the clear?’

‘Not really, but it’s always possible. No, it’s better for us because that way, we can work with a murder in mind while they still think we’re working on a suicide. Is
that clear?’

‘Good luck,’ said Augello, getting in his car.

‘Same to you,’ said the inspector in turn. And he turned to open the door to his own car, which was parked next to Mimì’s.

‘Chief, wait!’

It was Catarella, arriving on the run.

‘What the hell is it now?’ the inspector asked in irritation.

‘Iss ’at ’ere’s the lawyer Ne’er-Do-Well onna phone ’oo says ’e’s gotta talk t’yiz rilly oigently an’ poissonally in poisson.
Wha’ shou’ I tell ’im? Are ya ’ere or not?’

Was it Destiny itself that wouldn’t let him go home that evening?

‘Go and tell him I’m here.’

Catarella dashed off, whereas the inspector took things easy, lit a cigarette, strolled about the car park while smoking it, then went inside. He found Catarella frozen, with the receiver in
hand.

‘Count to ten and then put the call through.’

He went back into his office, sat down, and the telephone rang.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘I’m sorry to bother you at this hour; the switchboard operator said you were on your way home.’

‘Don’t worry about it. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s about my client, Strangio.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘More than one, unfortunately. You see, after my client gave his deposition to Prosecutor Tommaseo, for which I was not, unfortunately, present, everything has inexplicably come to a
halt.’

Montalbano was waiting for a third, conclusive ‘unfortunately’, but unfortunately it never came.

‘Inexplicably? I don’t understand, sir. Among other things I don’t believe Prosecutor Tommaseo has taken any restrictive measures concerning your client.’

‘Well, it depends on how you define “restrictive”. If by “restrictive” you mean detention or arrest, then no, that hasn’t happened. That would take the cake!
My client has an iron-clad alibi!’

Tissue paper would better describe your client’s alibi!
thought Montalbano.

But he said nothing, asking only:

‘So where are these problems?’

‘The problems lie in the fact that the prosecutor has strictly forbidden my client to leave Vigàta and has put seals up on his house and garage.’

‘But as a lawyer you must know that this is routine procedure.’

‘Fine. You, however, are forgetting, as did Prosecutor Tommaseo, that my client is a representative of a Roman firm and therefore needs to be able to move about freely and continuously
throughout Sicily. And on top of everything else, he can’t even use his car, which is now blocked in his garage.’