The Patience of the Spider (19 page)

Around the overpassthe need for which remained unclear,
as well as how or why it had occurred to anyone to build
itthere were no bushes or walls to hide behind. Even in the
dead of night, the site provided no cover that might prevent
one from being seen in the headlights of a passing car. And so?

A dog barked. Spurred by the need to see another living
being, Montalbanos eyes scanned the surroundings, searching
for it. He found it. It was at the start of the overpass on the
right, and he could only see its head. Maybe theyd built it just
so dogs and cats could cross the road. Why not, since when it
came to public works in Italy, the impossible often became possible?
All at once the inspector realized that the kidnappers had
hidden in the very spot where the dog was now.

He trudged through the brush, crossed a dirt road, and
came to the point where the overpass began. It was hog-
backed; that is, sharply curved. Someone who placed himself

right at the start of the overpass could not be seen from the
road below. He looked carefully down at the ground as the
dog backed away, growling, but found nothing of interest, not
even a cigarette butt. Then again, why would you find a cigarette
butt lying about, now that everyones been scared to
death of smoking by those warnings on packs that say things
like Smoking makes you die of cancer? Even criminals have
been giving up the vice, depriving poor policemen of essential
clues. Maybe he should write a complaint to the minister of
health.

He searched the opposite side of the viaduct as well.
Nothing. He went back to the starting point and lay down on
his stomach. He looked down below, pressing his head against
the metal screen, and saw, almost vertically beneath him, a
stone slab covering the opening to a small well. Seeing Pe-
ruzzos car approach, the kidnappers must certainly have
climbed up the viaduct and done as he had donethat is, lain
down on the ground. And from there, in the glare of the
headlamps, they had watched Peruzzo lift the stone lid, place
the suitcase in the well, and leave. That must surely be how it
went. But he had not accomplished what he had set out to do
in coming all the way out here. The kidnappers had left no
trace.

He came down from the overpass and went underneath.
He studied the slab covering the well. It looked too small for
a suitcase to fit inside. He did some quick math: six billion lire
equaled three million one hundred euros, more or less. If each
wad contained one hundred bills of five hundred euros, that
would make a total of sixty-two wads. Therefore they didnt
need a large suitcase. On the contrary. The slab was easy to

lift, since it had a sort of iron ring attached to it. He stuck a
finger inside the ring and pulled. The slab came off. Montalbano
looked inside the well and gasped. There was a duffel
bag inside, and it did not look empty. Was Peruzzos money
still in it? Was it possible the kidnappers hadnt picked it up?
Then why had they freed the girl?

He knelt, reached down, and grabbed the bag, which was
heavy, pulled it out, and set it down on the ground. Taking a
deep breath, he opened it. It was filled with wads not of bills,
but of glossy old magazine clippings.

14

The shock sort of pushed him backwards, knocking him
down on his ass. Mouth open in astonishment, he began asking
himself some questions. What did this discovery mean? That
Engineer Peruzzo himself had filled the bag with scrap paper
instead of euros? Was Peruzzo, as far as he knew, a man capable
of taking the extreme sort of gamble that would endanger
the life of his niece? After thinking about this a moment, he
concluded that the engineer was indeed capable of this and
more. In that case, however, the kidnappers actions became
inexplicable. Because there were only two possibilities, there
was no getting around it: either the kidnappers had opened
the bag on the spot, realized theyd been hoodwinked, and decided
nevertheless to release the girl, or else they had fallen
into the trapthat is, theyd seen Peruzzo put the bag in the
well, had no chance to check it immediately and, trusting in
appearances, had given the order to free Susanna.

Or had Peruzzo somehow known that the kidnappers
wouldnt be able to open the bag at once and check its contents,
and had gambled against time? Wait. Wrong line of reasoning.
No one could have prevented the kidnappers from
opening the well whenever they saw fit. Since delivery of the
ransom did not necessarily mean the immediate release of the

girl, against what time could Peruzzo have gambled? None
whatsoever. No matter which way one looked at it, the engi-
neers trick seemed insane.

As he sat there, stunned, questions riddling his brain like
machine-gun fire, he heard a strange sort of ringing and
couldnt tell where it was coming from. He decided it must be
an approaching flock of sheep. But the sound didnt come any
closer, even though it was very close already. Then he realized
it must be his cell phone, which he never used and had only
put in his pocket on this occasion.

Chief, is that you? Fazio here.

What is it?

Chief, Inspector Minutolo wants me to inform you of
something that just happened about forty-five minutes ago. I
tried you at the station, at home, and finally Catarella remembered
that

Okay, fine, tell me what it is.

Well, Inspector Minutolo called Luna to find out if hed
heard from Peruzzo. The lawyer said Peruzzo paid the ransom
last night and had even explained to him where hed left the
money. And so Inspector Minutolo rushed to the place, which
is along the road to Brancato, to conduct a preliminary search.
Unfortunately, the newsmen followed right behind him.

In short, what did Minutolo want?

He says hed like you to meet him there. Ill tell you
whats the quickest way to get

But Montalbano had already hung up. Minutolo, his men,
and a swarm of journalists, photographers, and cameramen
might arrive at any moment. And if they saw him, how would
he explain what he was doing there?

Gee, what a surprise! I was just out tilling the fields...

He hastily lowered the duffel bag into the well, closed it
with the stone slab, ran to the car, started up the engine, began
turning the car around, then stopped. If he went back the
same way hed come, he would surely run into Minutolo and
the festive caravan of cars behind him. No, he had best continue
on to Lower Brancato.

It took him barely ten minutes to get there. A clean little
town, with a tiny piazza, church, town hall, cafbank, trattoria,
and shoe store. All around the piazza were granite benches,
with some ten men sitting on them, all aging, old, or decrepit.
They werent talking, werent moving at all. For a fraction of
a second, Montalbano thought they were statues, splendid examples
of hyperrealist art. But then one of them, apparently
belonging to the decrepit category, suddenly threw his head
backwards and laid it against the back of the bench. He was
either dead, as seemed quite likely, or had been overcome by a
sudden desire to sleep.

The country air had whetted the inspectors appetite. He
looked at his watch. Just short of one oclock. He headed towards
the trattoria, then stopped short. What if some journalist
got the brilliant idea to make his phone calls from Lower
Brancato? No question, of course, that there would be any
restaurants in Upper Brancato. But he didnt feel like letting
his stomach go empty for too long. The only solution was to
run the risk and enter the trattoria in front of him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone come out
from behind the counter and stop to stare at him. The man, fat
and forty, approached him with a big smile.

But ...arent you Inspector Montalbano?

Yes, but . . .

Iss a real plisure. Im Michele Zarco.

He declaimed his first and last names in the tone of someone
known to one and all. But since the inspector kept staring
at him without a word, he clarified:
Im Catarellas cussin.

Michele Zarco, land surveyor and vice mayor of Brancato, was
his salvation. First, he brought him to his house for an informal
mealthat is, to eat whatever was available. Nuttin spicial,
as he put it. Signora Angila Zarco, a woman of few words,
blonde to the point of looking washed out, served them cavatuna
in tomato sauce that were eminently respectable, followed
by coniglo allagrodolcesweet-and-sour rabbitfrom
the day before. Now, preparing coniglo allagrodolce is a complicated
matter, because everything depends on the right proportion
of vinegar to honey and on making the pieces of rabbit
blend properly with the caponata in which it must cook. Signora
Zarco clearly knew how to go about this, and for good
measure had thrown in a sprinkling of toasted ground almonds
over the whole thing. On top of this, it is well-known
that the coniglo allagrodolce you eat the day it is made is one
thing, but when eaten the next day it is something else entirely,
because it gains considerably in flavor and aroma. In
short, Montalbano had a feast.

Then Vice Mayor Zarco suggested they visit Upper Bran-
cato, just to aid digestion. Naturally they went in Zarcos car.
After taking a road that consisted of one sharp turn after another
and looked like the X-ray of an intestine, they stopped

in the middle of a cluster of houses that would have made an
Expressionist set-designers day. Not a single house stood up
straight. They all leaned to the left or the right at angles so extreme
that the Tower of Pisa would have looked perfectly perpendicular
by comparison. Three or four houses were actually
attached to the hillside and jutted out horizontally, as if they
had suction cups holding them in place, hidden in the foundations.
Two old men walked by talking to each other, but rather
loudly, because one was listing sharply to the right, the other
to the left. Perhaps theyd been conditioned by the inclinations
of the houses in which they lived.

Shall we go back home for coffee? The missus makes a
good cup, said Zarco, when he saw that Montalbano, under
the influence of the surroundings, had started walking askew
himself.

When Signora Angila opened the door for them, to Montalbano
she looked like a childs drawing: almost albino, her
hair braided, her cheeks red. She seemed agitated.

Whats wrong? her husband asked.

The TV just said the girl was released but the ransom
wasnt paid!

Really?! asked the land surveyor, looking over at Montalbano.

The inspector shrugged and threw his hands up, as if to
say he didnt know the first thing about the whole affair.

Oh, yes, the woman went on. They said the police
found Mr. Peruzzos duffel bag, right near here, in fact, and it
was filled with newspaper. The newsman wondered how and
why the girl was freed. Whats clear is that piece of slime uncle
of hers risked getting her killed!

No longer Antonio Peruzzo or the engineer, but that
piece of slime, that unnamable shit, that excrescence of
sewage. If Peruzzo had indeed wanted to gamble, hed lost.
Although the girl had been freed, he was now forever prisoner
of the utter, absolute contempt in which people held him.

The inspector decided not to return to the office but to go back
home and watch the press conference in peace. When nearing
the overpass, he drove very carefully, in case any stragglers had
stayed behind. At any rate, the signs that a horde of policemen,
journalists, photographers, and cameramen had passed through
were everywhere: empty cans of Coca-Cola, broken beer bottles,
crumpled packs of cigarettes. A garbage dump. Theyd
even broken the stone slab that covered the little well.

As he was opening the door to his house, he froze. He hadnt
called Livia all morning. Hed completely forgotten to tell her
he wouldnt make it home for lunch. A squabble was now inevitable,
and he had no excuses. The house, however, was
empty. Livia had gone out. Entering the bedroom, he saw her
open suitcase, half full. He immediately remembered that Livia
was supposed to return to Boccadasse the next morning. The
vacation time shed taken to stay beside him at the hospital and
during his convalescence was over. He felt a sudden pang in his
heart, and a wave of emotion swept over him, treacherous as
usual. It was a good thing she wasnt there. He could let himself
go without shame. And let himself go he did.

Then he went and washed his face, after which he sat

down in the chair in front of the telephone. He opened the
phone book. The lawyer had two numbers, one for his home,
the other for his office. Montalbano dialed the latter.

Legal offices of Francesco Luna, said a female voice.

This is Inspector Montalbano. Is Mr. Luna there?

Yes, but hes in a meeting. Let me see if he picks up.

Various noises, recorded music.

My dear friend, said Luna. I cant talk to you right
now. Are you in your office?

No, Im at home. You want the number?

Please.

Montalbano gave it to him.

Ill call you back in about ten minutes, said the lawyer.

The inspector noted that during their brief exchange, Luna
didnt once call him by his name or title. One could only imagine
what sort of clients he was meeting with; no doubt they
would have been troubled to hear the word inspector.

About half an hour passed, give or take a few minutes, before
the phone rang.

Inspector Montalbano? Please excuse the delay, but first I
was with some people and then I thought Id better call you
from a safe phone.

What are you saying, Mr. Luna? Have the phones to your
office been tapped?

Im not sure, but the way things are going . . . What did
you want to tell me?

Nothing you dont already know.

Are you referring to the bag full of clippings?

Exactly. You realize, of course, that this development is a
serious impediment to the resuscitation of Peruzzos reputation,
to which youd asked me to contribute.