He tried to say it three or four times, with increasing obstinacy, but he couldn’t do it, getting more and more marble-mouthed with each try.
“You have to be very adroit, very adroit,” said the inspector, thinking of Rizzo, and he wasn’t referring only to the lawyer’s adroitness in casually uttering tongue twisters.
As they ate, they spoke of eating, as always happens in Italy. Zito, after reminiscing about the heavenly shrimp he had enjoyed ten years earlier at Fiacca, criticized these for being a little overdone and regretted that they lacked a hint of parsley.
“So how is it that you’ve all turned British at the Free Channel?” Montalbano broke in without warning, as they were drinking an exquisite white wine his father had found near Randazzo. He had come by with six bottles the previous week, but it was merely an excuse for them to spend a little time together.
“In what sense, British?”
“In the sense that you’ve refrained from dragging Luparello through the mud, as you would certainly have done in the past. Jesus Christ, the man dies of a heart attack in a kind of open-air brothel among whores, pimps, and buggers, his trousers down around his ankles—it’s downright obscene—and you guys, instead of seizing the moment for all it’s worth, you all toe the line and cast a veil of mercy over how he died.”
“We’re not really in the habit of taking advantage of such things.”
Montalbano started laughing.
“Would you do me a favor, Nicolò? Would you and everyone else at the Free Channel please go fuck yourselves?”
Zito started laughing in turn.
“All right, here’s what happened. A few hours after the body was found, Counselor Rizzo dashed over to see Baron Filò di Baucina, the ‘red baron,’ a millionaire but a Communist, and begged him, with hands folded, not to let the Free Channel mention the circumstances of Luparello’s death. He appealed to the sense of chivalry that the baron’s ancestors seem, long ago, to have possessed. As you know, the baron owns eighty percent of the network. Simple as that.”
“Simple as that, my ass. And so you, Nicolò Zito, who have won the admiration of your adversaries for always saying what needed to be said, you just say ‘yes, sir’ to the baron and lie down?”
“What color is my hair?” asked Zito by way of reply.
“It’s red.”
“I’m red inside and out, Montalbano. I belong to the bad, rancorous Communists, an endangered species. I accepted the whole bit because I was convinced that those who were saying we shouldn’t sully the poor bastard’s memory by dwelling on the circumstances of his death actually wished him ill, not well, as they were trying to make us think.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, let me explain, my innocent friend. The quickest way to make people forget a scandal is to talk about it as much as possible, on television, in the papers, and so on. Over and over you flog the same dead horse, and pretty soon people start getting fed up. ‘They’re really dragging this out!’ they say. ‘Haven’t we had enough?’ After a couple of weeks the saturation effect is such that nobody wants to hear another word about that scandal. Now do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“If, on the other hand, you hush everything up, the silence itself starts to talk, rumors begin to multiply out of control until you can’t stop them anymore. You want an example? Do you know how many phone calls we’ve received at the studio precisely because of our silence? Hundreds. So is it true that Mr. Luparello used to do two women at a time in his car? Is it true that Mr. Luparello liked to do the sandwich, fucking a whore while a black man worked on him from behind? Then the latest, which came in tonight: is it true that Luparello used to give all his prostitutes fabulous jewels? Apparently somebody found one at the Pasture. Speaking of which, do you know anything about this story?”
“Me? No, that’s just bullshit,” the inspector calmly lied.
“See? I’m sure that in a few months some asshole will come to me and ask if it’s true that Luparello used to bugger little four-year-olds and then stuff them with chestnuts and eat them. The slandering of his name will become eternal, the stuff of legend. That, I hope, will help you understand why I agreed to sweep it all under the rug.”
“And what’s Cardamone’s position?”
“I don’t know. That was very strange, his election. In the provincial secretariat they were all Luparello’s men, you see, except for two, who were Cardamone’s, but they were there just for the sake of appearances, to show that they were democratic and all. Clearly the new secretary could have been and should have been a follower of Luparello. Instead, surprise: Rizzo stands up and proposes Cardamone. The other members of the clique were speechless but didn’t dare object. If Rizzo’s talking this way, it must mean there’s something lurking beneath all this which could turn dangerous; better follow the counselor down that path. And so they vote in favor. Cardamone gets the call, accepts the post, and himself proposes that Rizzo work alongside him, to the great dismay of his two representatives in the secretariat. But here I understand Cardamone: better to have Rizzo aboard—he must have thought—than at large like a loose cannon.”
Zito then proceeded to tell him about a novel he was planning to write, and they went on till four.
As he was checking the health of a succulent plant, a gift from Livia that he kept on the windowsill in his office, Montalbano saw a blue government car pull up, the kind equipped with telephone, chauffeur, and bodyguard, the latter of which got out first and opened the rear door for a short, bald man wearing a suit the same color as the car.
“There’s someone outside who needs to talk to me,” he said to the guard. “Send him right in.”
When Rizzo entered, the inspector noted that the upper part of his left sleeve was covered by a broad black band the width of a palm: the counselor was already in mourning for the funeral.
“What can I do to win your forgiveness?”
“For what?”
“For having disturbed you at home, at so late an hour.”
“But you said the matter was improcr—”
“Improcrastinable, yes.”
Such a clever man, Counselor Pietro Rizzo!
“I’ll come to the point. Late last Sunday night a young couple, highly respectable people, having had a bit to drink, decided to indulge an imprudent whim. The wife persuaded the husband to take her to the Pasture. She was curious about the place and what goes on there. A reprehensible curiosity, to be sure, but nothing more. When the pair arrived at the edge of the Pasture, the woman got out of the car. But almost immediately people began to harass her with obscene propositions, so she got back in the car and they left. Back at home she realized she’d lost a precious object she was wearing around her neck.”
“What a strange coincidence,” muttered Montalbano, as if to himself.
“Excuse me?”
“I was just noting that at around the same time, and in the same place, Silvio Luparello was dying.”
Rizzo didn’t lose his composure, but assumed a grave expression.
“I noticed the same thing, you know. Tricks of fate.”
“The object you mention, is it a solid-gold necklace with a heart studded with precious stones?”
“That’s the one. I’m here to ask you to return it to its rightful owners, with the same discretion, of course, as you showed when my poor Mr. Luparello was found dead.”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” said the inspector, “but I haven’t the slightest idea of how to proceed in a case like this. In any event, I think it would have been a different story if the owner herself had come forward.”
“But I have a proper letter of attorney!”
“Really? Let me see it.”
“No problem, Inspector. You must understand, before bandying my clients’ names about, I wanted to be quite sure that you had the same object they were looking for.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, extracted a sheet of paper, and handed it to Montalbano. The inspector read it carefully.
“Who’s this Giacomo Cardamone that signed the letter?”
“He’s the son of Dr. Cardamone, our new provincial secretary.”
Montalbano decided it was time to repeat the performance.
“But it’s so strange!” he mumbled again almost inaudibly, assuming an air of deep contemplation.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Montalbano did not answer at once, letting the other stew a moment in his own juices.
“I was just thinking that in this whole affair, fate, as you say, is playing too many tricks on us.”
“In what sense, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“In the sense that the son of the new party secretary happens to be in the same place at the same time as the old secretary at the moment of his death. Curious, don’t you think?”
“Now that you bring it to my attention, yes. But I am certain there is not the slightest connection between the two matters, absolutely certain.”
“So am I,” said Montalbano, adding, “I don’t understand this signature next to Giacomo Cardamone’s.”
“That’s his wife’s signature. She’s Swedish. A rather reckless woman, frankly, who seems unable to adapt to our ways.”
“How much is the piece worth, in your opinion?”
“I’m no expert, but the owners said about eighty million lire.”
“Then here’s what we’ll do: Later this morning I’m going to call my colleague Jacomuzzi—he’s got the necklace at the moment—and have it sent back to me. Tomorrow morning I’ll send it over to your office with one of my men.”
“I don’t know how to thank you—”
Montalbano cut him off.
“And you will give my man a proper receipt.”
“But of course!”
“As well as a check for ten million lire—I’ve taken the liberty of rounding off the value of the necklace—which would be the usual percentage due anyone who finds valuables or large sums of money.”
Rizzo absorbed the blow almost gracefully.
“That seems quite fair. To whom should I make it out?”
“To Baldassare Montaperto, one of the two street cleaners who found Luparello’s body.”
The lawyer carefully wrote down the name.
9
Rizzo had no sooner finished closing the door than Montalbano already began dialing Nicolò Zito’s home phone number. What the lawyer had just told him had set in motion a mechanism inside his brain that outwardly manifested itself in a frantic need to act. Zito’s wife answered.
“My husband just walked out. He’s on his way to Palermo.”
Then, suddenly suspicious:
“But didn’t he stay with you last night?”
“He certainly did, signora, but something of importance occurred to me just this morning.”
“Wait, maybe I can still get him. I’ll try calling him on the intercom.”
A few minutes later he heard his friend’s panting, then his voice:
“What do you want? Wasn’t last night enough for you?”
“I need some information.”
“If you can make it brief.”
“I want to know everything—but really everything, even the most bizarre rumors—about Giacomo Cardamone and his wife, who seems to be Swedish.”
“No ‘seems’ about it. She’s a statuesque six-footer with tits and legs like you wouldn’t believe. But if you really want to know everything, that would take time, which I haven’t got right now. Listen, let’s do this: I’m going to leave now. On the way I’ll give it some thought, and as soon as I arrive I’ll send you a fax.”
“Send a fax to police headquarters? Here we still use tom-toms and smoke signals!”
“I meant I’ll send a fax for you to my Montelusa office. You can even pass by later this morning, or around midday.”
He had to do something, so he went out of his office and into the sergeants’ room.
“How’s Tortorella doing?”
Fazio looked over at the desk of his absent colleague.
“I went to see him yesterday. They’ve apparently decided to release him from the hospital on Monday.”
“Do you know how to get inside the old factory?”
“When they built the enclosure wall after shutting it down, they put in a tiny little door, so small you have to bend down to pass through it, an iron door.”
“Who’s got the key?”
“I don’t know. I can find out.”
“Don’t just find out. I want it before noon.”
He went back into his office and phoned Jacomuzzi, who let him wait a bit before deciding to answer.
“What’s wrong, you got dysentery?”
“Cut it, Montalbano. What do you want?”
“What have you found on the necklace?”
“What do you think? Nothing. Actually, fingerprints, but there are so many of them and they’re such a mess they’re indecipherable. What should I do?”
“Send it back to me before the end of the day. Understood? Before the end of the day.”
He heard Fazio’s irritated voice shout from the next room:
“Jesus Christ! Is it possible nobody knows who this Sicilchim belonged to? It must have some sort of bankruptcy trustee, some official custodian!” And, as soon as he saw Montalbano enter, “It’d probably be easier to get the keys to St. Peter’s.”
The inspector told him he was going out and wouldn’t be gone more than two hours. When he returned, he wanted to find that key on his desk.
As soon as she saw him in the doorway, Montaperto’s wife turned pale and put her hand over her heart.
“Oh my God! What is it? What happened?”
“Nothing that you should worry about. Actually, I have good news for you, believe it or not. Is your husband home?”
“Yes, he got off early today.”
The young woman sat him in the kitchen and went to call Saro, who had lain down in the bedroom at the baby’s side, hoping to get him to close his eyes for just a little while.
“Sit down,” the inspector said to Saro when he appeared, “and listen to me carefully. Where were you thinking of taking your son with the money you would have got from pawning the necklace?”