A Voice in the Night (15 page)

‘And the further we get in the investigation, the more danger we’ll be in.’

‘Do you want us to stop? Or to start going round in circles, at least?’ the inspector asked him.

But not even a question like that could get Bonetti-Alderighi to look at him. So Montalbano decided to force his hand. But how far could he push things? Should he risk it or not? If he
didn’t, he would never manage to get a clear confirmation of the idea he’d formed of the commissioner’s real intentions. So he risked it. He started laughing.

‘Do you find the situation amusing?’ The commissioner asked the question while eyeing a button on his jacket.

‘No, no, on the contrary. But I just remembered something I read once in a novel . . . The story takes place in France. It’s about a police inspector who, while investigating a
burglary at the home of a daughter of a senior minister, discovers that it’s the father himself who ordered the burglary. Not for the jewellery – that was stolen just for cover –
but for a rather compromising letter from the minister which the girl was using to blackmail him. As soon as the minister realizes the inspector is on the right track, he threatens to ruin his
career. And so the inspector charges a petty thief with the crime and—’

‘Excuse me,’ the commissioner interrupted him, eyes fixed on the window. ‘I assume the thief defended himself?’

‘They don’t give him the chance. They kill him in a shoot-out.’

‘Ah!’ said Bonetti-Alderighi, eyes on the chandelier.

There was a long pause.

‘Do you still have a copy of this novel?’

‘I think so.’

‘If you find it, could I borrow it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Now tell me about the murder of the girl,’ the commissioner resumed.

And Montalbano told him at great length about his doubts and the impropriety of his conducting that investigation. Wouldn’t it be better, he concluded, if the case were turned over to
Inspector Augello?

‘It makes no difference whether it’s you or Augello,’ said the commissioner, staring at a stain on the wooden desktop. ‘Everybody knows how much influence you have on
your deputy.’ He shook his head. ‘No, the investigation should remain in your hands. Turning it over to someone else would look like an admission of guilt before the fact. Just carry on
and proceed with that sense of fairness and honesty that has always distinguished your work.’

But hadn’t Mr C’mishner said a while back that the Vigàta Police were a gang of Mafiosi with Montalbano as the boss?

The commissioner stood up. Montalbano likewise.

‘I’d like you to give priority to the investigation of the girl’s murder. That way, at least, we won’t expose ourselves to malevolent conjectures. And keep me informed on
everything,’ he emphasized, staring at the lapels of the inspector’s jacket.

He held out his hand, and the inspector shook it.

‘Never fear, Mr Commissioner. And thank you for your kind words about me.’

*

It was late. By that hour everyone at the station had gone home. He decided to go straight to Marinella.

He hadn’t realized that more than two hours had gone by in the commissioner’s office, with him doing most of the talking. He’d told him everything, revealing even his
conjectures and hypotheses. Bonetti-Alderighi had asked him for complete frankness, and he’d got it.

‘We’re in the same boat,’ he’d said.

Except – and this was something Montalbano had understood from the commissioner’s behaviour barely two minutes into their meeting – that Bonetti-Alderighi was ready to push him
out of the boat at the first opportunity and let him fall among the sharks circling it.

The man was capable of anything to save himself. The way he’d jumped at the bait of the French novel, which Montalbano had invented on the spot, was proof enough of this. He wanted to
borrow the novel to see whether the situation was the same as in the supermarket case!

So now the inspector had to watch his back even with Bonetti-Alderighi.

But having understood what the commissioner had in mind was already a big deal. Because he was sure at this point of having won his superior’s self-interested trust. He could therefore
tell him whatever he liked and he would swallow it whole.

*

The first thing he did when he got home was to call Augello on his mobile.

‘What did the commissioner have to say?’ Mimì asked at once.

‘He firmly rejected my request to have the girl’s murder investigation turned over to you. He wants me to do it. And maybe it’s better for you this way.’

‘What do you mean, it’s better for me?’ Mimì asked grumpily.

‘I’ll explain tomorrow. I rang you to tell you that as soon as you get to work tomorrow you must summon Strangio and his lawyer to the station for five o’clock.’

He hung up and realized he wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t digested his double helping of rabbit cacciatore very well.

But he also didn’t feel like sitting there going over what the commissioner had said.

He opened the French windows and was greeted by a cool wind that lifted his spirits.

Sitting down in the armchair, he turned on the TV and watched
Once Upon a Time in America
again.

Then Livia called.

‘Can you give me half an hour of your time, or are you already half-asleep?’ he asked her.

‘I can give you even more than half an hour. What do you want to tell me?’

‘It’s a long story.’

It was always best to have one’s hunches confirmed by feminine intuition.

He told her everything: the supermarket burglary, the faked suicide, the commissioner’s initial terrified reaction, the murder of the girl, his own doubts, and his last meeting with
Bonetti-Alderighi.

‘So, what do you think?’ he asked her when he’d finished.

‘In my opinion Bonetti-Alderighi has given you free rein so that if things go wrong, you’ll be the one to take the fall. He’s coddling you so you’ll become the perfect
scapegoat,’ Livia replied without the slightest hesitation.

‘I agree,’ said Montalbano.

‘What do you think you’ll do?’

‘I’ll just carry on.’

‘Wait a second. Why don’t you call in sick and come and spend some time with me?’

‘Livia, you ought to know me by now. If anything, I find this new situation stimulating . . . More than that, it’s fun.’

‘Well, good luck,’ said Livia.

*

The first part of the night he spent tossing and turning in bed. At around five o’clock in the morning, he finally fell asleep and slept through till nine, when he was
awakened by the sounds of his housekeeper rummaging about in the kitchen.

‘Adelì, bring me a coffee, would you?’

‘Comin’ right up, Isspector.’

Ah, how wonderful, how comforting to drink one’s coffee in bed!

The ceiling of the room seemed to take on a heavenly, light-blue hue.

Then he got up, showered, dressed, and went into the kitchen.

‘Would you make me another coffee, please?’

‘Issa bubblin’ uppa righ’ now.’

‘What are you making for dinner tonight?’

‘Mullet an’ onions.’

Maybe, all things considered, life wasn’t really so bad, he thought, immediately forgetting his recent digestive problems.

*

As he was entering the station, a jubilant Catarella immediately appeared before him.

‘Chief, I finished woikin’ onna impy tree.’

‘Was there a lot of stuff on it?’

‘Nah, jess four conversations wit’ people from the supermarket an’ then ’is talk – ’im bein’ the manatcher – wit’ Isspecter Augello
an’ ’enn ’is talk wit’ yiz, which’d be you, Chief, talkin’ witta manatcher.’

‘Holy shit!’ the inspector howled, like a wolf.

Catarella froze in terror.

‘Wha’d I say, Chief? Wha’, did I do som’n’ wrong?’

Wrong? Hardly!

‘Come here, Cat.’

Catarella took a step forward, cringing as though fearing that Montalbano might beat him.

The inspector gave him a big hug.

‘
Bravo! Bravissimo
!’

Catarella wiped away a tear with the sleeve of his jacket.

A tear of happiness.

‘Gad! Ya ’ugged me twice in one week!’

‘Where did you put the papers with the transcriptions?’

‘’Ey’re on yer desk, Chief.’

Montalbano ran into his office.

Catarella had outdone himself.

In fact, he’d even given a title to each recorded dialogue. ‘Talk with Micheli’; ‘Talk with the girl Nunzia’; ‘Talk with the holeseller Gesumundo’ (who
must have been a wholesaler, and whose real name must have been Gesmundo); ‘Talk with ya-can’t-till-who’; and, lastly, ‘Talk with Isspector Augello and with Isspector
Montalbano’. The inspector immediately started with the last one, which was the only one that really interested him.

As he was reading it, it became more and more clear that Mimì Augello’s behaviour had been utterly proper; he hadn’t ventured even once to make any sly comments or
insinuations on the likely culprit of the burglary, nor was there ever the slightest hint of irony in his words.

Then he came to Mimì’s question:

‘Do you have any idea how the burglar got inside, since there are no signs of forced entry at any of the outside entrances?’

Borsellino’s answer was not only arbitrary, but sudden, and screamed:

‘I want my lawyer!’

‘But, Mr Borsellino, nobody is accusing you of—’

‘I want my lawyer!’

‘Mr Borsellino, look—’

‘Then I want to speak to Inspector Montalbano!’

‘But the inspector—’

‘I want to talk to him!’

‘Go ahead and call him.’

This was followed by the two phone calls to the police station, after which Borsellino turned to Augello and concluded:

‘I’m warning you I won’t say another word until the inspector arrives.’

‘As you wish.’

Here Catarella wrote an ingenious caption:

‘In the silentness in the room evry so offen you can hear Isspector Augello whissling a toon I tink is by Cillintano but I’m not sure, and the manatcher paicing back and fort in the
room and mambling to hisself.’

Then he, Montalbano, comes in.

At the end, the last things recorded were Borsellino’s repressed sobs and the words, ‘
Best of luck
.’

He picked up the receiver.

‘Cat, come in here, would you?’

He hadn’t yet put the phone down when Catarella was standing at attention, stiff as a pole, in front of him.

‘At your command, Chief!’

‘Print me out a copy of Augello’s and my talk with the manager, and give me back the digital recorder. And don’t forget: don’t mention a word of any of this to
anyone.’

‘I’m silent as a grave, Chief,’ said Catarella, handing him the MP3 recorder he had in his pocket.

*

The inspector got in his car and headed off for Montelusa.

Pulling up in front of the Free Channel studios, he parked and got out. The secretary beamed a broad smile at him.

‘Haven’t seen you for a while, Inspector!’

‘Hello, gorgeous. Is my friend in?’

‘Yes he is, but he’s in a meeting. You can go and wait for him in his office, and I’ll let him know you’re here.’

Montalbano was one of the family at the Free Channel. And the editor in chief, Nicolò Zito, was a true friend. He waited for barely ten minutes before Zito came in. They embraced.

‘All well with the family?’ the inspector enquired.

‘Quite well, thanks. What have you got for me?’

‘We could do each other a favour.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Did you know that the Honourable Mongibello wants to institute a parliamentary investigation into Borsellino’s suicide?’

‘Of course. I also heard what that puppet Ragonese said. They want to saddle you with the moral responsibility for the suicide, because in their opinion you tortured him psychologically.
It’s clear what their purpose is: they want to screw you both – you and the commissioner.’

‘As usual, you’ve understood everything.’

‘What do the police intend to do?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea what the commissioner wants to do; I only know what I want to do.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Give you this.’

Montalbano took the digital recorder out of his pocket and handed it to him.

‘What’s on it?’

‘Everything that Mimì Augello said to Borsellino before I arrived, and everything we both said to him after I got there.’

Zito jumped out of his chair.

‘Really?!’

‘Give it a listen and judge for yourself. First there are four conversations between Borsellino and other people, then there’s ours.’

Zito stood there for a moment in silence, then spoke.

‘You realize that as soon as I broadcast it, the sky will fall. Surely the judge will confiscate the recorder and—’

‘Wait. I’m not interested in the recorder itself. For me, it’s enough that you make a copy of what’s on it and keep it in reserve for me.’

‘Sure, I can do that for you. But that’s not the point. I won’t ask you how you got your hands on that recording, but if the judge asks me how I got it, what am I going to tell
him?’

‘You’ll give him the classic answer: you received it in an anonymous parcel with no return address.’

‘I may still manage to broadcast it on today’s one o’clock report.’

*

As soon as he set foot in the station he went to see Augello in his office.

‘Did you summon Strangio and his lawyer?’

‘Yes, but the lawyer can’t come. He told me to carry on just the same. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?’

‘It certainly does. He wasn’t present when his client gave his deposition to Tommaseo, either.’

‘So, can you explain to me why it’s better for me not to handle this case?’

‘Because you’re already risking a great deal by continuing to handle the supermarket case.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mimì, do you remember that I said we were going to have to fight on four fronts?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, I was wrong. It’s five fronts.’

And he told him about his talk with the commissioner and the conclusion he’d reached.