A Voice in the Night (21 page)

‘You’re calling me at this hour to know my . . . ?! How dare you! Tell me who this is!’

‘I want to send you an anonymous letter.’

‘Oh, give me a . . . If this is some kind of joke, I’ll have you know that—’

‘An anonymous letter about a bathrobe stained with your blood and that of Mariangela Carlesimo.’

Strangio said nothing. The explosive revelation must have taken his breath away. Montalbano hung up. He took the clothes peg off his nose, grabbed the chunk of bread, stuck it in his mouth, and
redialled the number. This time he spoke in dialect.

‘Hello? Who is this?’

Strangio’s voice had changed dramatically. It was trembling now.

‘Hullo? Dis is a frenn’ o’ the guy ’at called yiz a few minniss ago. So, whatta we gonna do ’bout dis battrobe?’ And he hung up. He went to the counter, spat
out the bread, then put the handful of cotton over his mouth, holding it in place with the gauze, which he wrapped around his face.

Tutankhamen’s mummy. He redialled the number. Strangio picked up at once.

‘For pity’s sake, I beg you . . .’

‘How much are you willing to pay?’

‘Whatever you want, three million, four . . .’

‘I didn’t mean money, moron, I meant years in prison.’ He hung up again. He removed the cotton and gauze and put it all in his pocket.

Stepping out of the bar, he thanked the barman and then drove back home, where he got ready for bed. He was certain he would have an excellent sleep. Just as he was equally certain that Michele
Strangio would have a night of hell.

*

At just before nine o’clock the next morning, he was in the office, looking good and feeling fresh and well rested.

‘Cat, make me a copy of this, would you?’ he said, handing him the sheet of paper with the transcription of Borsellino’s telephone conversation with the unknown person.
‘But leave out the title you put there, the “talk with you-can’t-tell-who”. Then find me an envelope addressed to me, but without any inscription or return
address.’

Catarella sat there looking mystified.

‘I din’t unnastan’ a ting, Chief.’

It took him ten minutes to explain what he wanted, but then five minutes later he had what he wanted on his desk.

‘Get me Hizzoner the C’mishner on the phone.’

The envelope was open, inside it a letter from someone reporting that his wife was cheating on him. Montalbano took the letter out and in its place slipped in the sheet of paper, folded in four,
with the transcription of Borsellino’s phone conversation. Then he put the envelope in his jacket pocket. The telephone rang.

‘Montalbano here, Mr Commissioner. I need to confer with you on a rather urgent matter, good sir.’
Confer
was OK, but
good sir
was perhaps a bit over the top.

‘I too need to tell you something. Come at once.’

*

‘We won!’ the commissioner exclaimed as soon as the inspector walked in.

‘In what sense, may I ask?’

‘In the sense that just a little while ago the Honourable Mongibello paid me a visit. On his own initiative. And he immediately apologized. He claimed there’d been a misunderstanding
on his part. That he’d been misinformed and will make amends for everything he said about us. And that he will make a sort of public retraction through Pippo Ragonese’s news
broadcast.’

‘So he’s not calling for a parliamentary question any more?’

‘He assured me there’s no longer any need.’

Now came the best part. But he had to use kid gloves.

He made a dark face.

‘Unfortunately, a new front has opened up with Mongibello,’ he said, sounding worried.

The commissioner immediately got more worried than him.

‘Oh my God! Are we back to square one?’

‘Worse, I think. I’ve made a very big mistake, Mr Commissioner.’

‘Concerning the supermarket investigation?’

‘Yes. As you know, I’ve always thought that Borsellino was killed because he was an accomplice to the robbery. Well, I was wrong.’

‘But what evidence do you have to claim—’

‘An anonymous letter, sir. It’s not really a letter, but the transcription of a telephone exchange between Borsellino and an unknown, maybe somebody with the Cuffaros.’

He took the envelope out of his pocket, took out the sheet of paper, and handed it to the commissioner, who read it and gave it back.

‘As you can see, sir, we can clearly infer that Borsellino knew nothing about the burglary.’

‘Do you have any idea who might have sent this to you?’

‘The same person who sent the recording to the Free Channel.’

‘But how do we know that this is a transcription of an actual conversation?’

‘The burglars told us.’

‘What burglars?’

‘Perhaps you haven’t had a chance yet to read the report. On Saturday night, unknown persons broke into the Free Channel studios and stole the very same digital recorder that
contained the conversations that were aired. I’m convinced that this phone call, the one transcribed on this piece of paper, occurred shortly before Inspector Augello and I arrived at the
supermarket.’

‘I suppose you may be right, but without that recorder, we don’t have any real proof. But what does Mongibello have to do with any of this?’

It was the only thing that mattered to the commissioner, and Montalbano gave him satisfaction. ‘Mr Commissioner, the starting point in this whole affair is the supermarket burglary. The
burglar was able to enter by using the key kept by the board of directors of the company that owns the supermarket. Now it just so happens that the managing director and president of this company
– which is entirely a front for the Cuffaros – is the Honourable Mongibello. In my opinion, he’s involved up to his neck in this affair.’

Bonetti-Alderighi started swearing under his breath, then stood up, walked once around the room, sat back down, stood up again, walked halfway around the room, then sat back down.

‘Stay calm, Montalbano, stay calm,’ he said.

‘I’m perfectly calm,’ said the inspector.

‘We need to proceed very delicately with this.’

‘With kid gloves? Mine are already on.’

‘We must use caution, great caution.’

Montalbano, the phony good soldier, replied:

‘I totally agree with you, sir.’

The commissioner was sweating visibly. The telephone rang. Little by little, Bonetti-Alderighi, as he listened, looked more and more like a corpse.

What could they be telling him? Then the commissioner spoke.

‘I’m on my way.’

And he hung up. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

‘The president of the province, Michele Strangio, has shot and killed himself. His housekeeper found him this morning. He left a letter exonerating his son. It was him who killed that
young woman.’

Montalbano sat completely still, in a daze. At that moment, the commissioner, who was staring at him, asked him the most intelligent question of his life.

‘You . . . suspected the president, didn’t you?’

Montalbano managed to stand up and assume the pose of an offended man.

‘Whatever are you saying? If I’d had the slightest suspicion in his regard, I would have done my duty and informed you at once . . . The witness said she’d seen a
thirty-year-old . . .’

‘I have to go now,’ said the commissioner, leaving the room.

Montalbano sat down again. He was unable to walk; his legs had turned into ricotta cheese. He hadn’t guessed that his phone calls might lead to this. He’d been falsely accused of
driving a man to suicide, yet now that he had, in a way, done just that, no one could ever possibly accuse him of it. But maybe it was better for everyone this way.

*

He pulled up in front of the Free Channel studios, parked, and got out. The secretary did not smile at him this time. She looked worried.

‘Mr Zito’s not in,’ she said. ‘Two carabinieri came for him, and he left with them. He asked me to phone Mr Sciabica, his lawyer, and I did.’

‘But do you know what he’s accused of?’

‘Yes. The lawyer called about five minutes ago. The judge doesn’t believe that burglars broke in here. He says Mr Zito faked a burglary so he wouldn’t have to turn over the
recorder to him.’

‘Do you know who the judge is?’

‘Yes. Armando La Cava.’

Poor Zito! He couldn’t have happened upon a worse judge. La Cava was a Calabrian with a thick Calabrian head – that is, when he got his mind set on something, there was no changing
it, not even if Jesus Christ appeared before him in person.

‘Please ring me at the station as soon as you have any news.’

*

The news of Michele Strangio’s suicide made him not want to go to the office any more. He drove down towards Vigàta, but at a certain point he turned and took the
road to the temples. Moments later he found himself walking amidst a group of Japanese tourists photographing everything in sight, even blades of grass. The long stroll whetted his appetite, and
since it was the right time, he went to Enzo’s. He ate without stuffing himself, but took a stroll out to the lighthouse just the same. When he got back to the station, Augello and Fazio were
waiting for him.

‘Did you have anything to do with Strangio’s suicide?’ Mimì asked him right off the bat.

‘Me?! What are you thinking? How could I possibly have had anything to do with it?’

Fazio looked at him but said nothing. It was clear he hadn’t swallowed it.

‘What are we going to do with the bathrobe now?’ he asked.

‘For now, just keep it here. If Strangio doesn’t mention it in the letter he left behind, we’ll get rid of it. Shall we pick up where we left off yesterday?’

‘Chief, I haven’t even been back home to eat,’ said Fazio.

‘Why, what happened?’

‘What happened was that after asking a question I got a half-answer that was worse than a bomb.’

Montalbano and Augello both pricked up their ears. But Fazio was a master of the art of suspense. The inspector decided not to press him, and to let him relish his moment, to make up for the
fact that he hadn’t eaten.

‘And what was that?’ asked Augello, less sensitive than Montalbano.

‘Two people reluctantly told me something nobody’s talking about.’

He paused again and then fired.

‘Apparently Borsellino was kidnapped.’

Montalbano’s and Augello’s jaws dropped.

‘Kidnapped?!’ they said in chorus, stunned.

Fazio basked in the success he was enjoying.

‘Do you know for how long he was kidnapped?’ Montalbano asked.

‘Four days.’

‘A flash kidnapping,’ Augello commented.

‘Mimì, sometimes you make discoveries that even Einstein could never have come up with!’

‘I blush.’

‘Was a ransom paid?’

‘So they say.’

‘Who did they demand the money from?’

‘The Cuffaros.’

‘The Cuffaros?!’

‘Chief, who else were they going to ask? Borsellino had no family and I don’t think he had much money either.’

‘So what did the Cuffaros do?’

‘Apparently they paid a large sum without argument.’

‘Naturally, they took care not to report it to us or the carabinieri.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Does anyone have any theories as to who might have been behind this?’

‘At first everyone blamed the Sinagras, but they managed to convince everyone they had nothing to do with it.’

‘I wonder how they managed that,’ said Mimì.

‘Mafiosi always understand one another in a hurry,’ said Montalbano. ‘And so?’

‘And so nobody knows who it was.’

‘Maybe some desperadoes who tried to pull off a nasty coup and succeeded,’ Mimì ventured.

‘Listen, but what did he himself say about what happened?’

‘Chief, I’m just telling you the rumours that are going around. One evening he got a phone call summoning him to a board of directors’ meeting at nine
o’clock the same evening. A supplier was present who later told his friends what happened. He said that Borsellino started swearing because there hadn’t been any advance warning and he
didn’t have his papers in order. Borsellino later said that as he was about to head home late that night, since the meeting had gone on for ever, a car pulled up beside him. Two men got out,
grabbed him, and forced him to get into their car, which then sped off. Moments later they shoved a handful of cotton soaked with chloroform over his nose and he passed out.’

‘He didn’t get a look at their faces as they were grabbing him?’

‘He says they were in an area where the streetlamp was burnt out.’

‘And when he woke up?’

‘He didn’t see anything. He was blindfolded with a bandanna and his hands were tied behind his back. They’d even bound his feet. All he could hear was dogs and sheep. He must
have been in a house in the country. Then on the fourth day they shoved the cotton over his nose again and he woke up outside Vigàta.’

‘Do you believe this kidnapping story?’ Montalbano asked him.

‘Yes and no. As far as Borsellino is concerned, the only thing we can be really sure of is that he’s dead.’

‘The story doesn’t make sense to me,’ said Montalbano. ‘Even assuming he was kidnapped.’

‘I’ll try to find out more,’ Fazio promised.

‘Explain to me why it doesn’t make sense,’ said Mimì.

‘First of all, the manner of the kidnapping. How did the kidnappers know that Borsellino would be at the board of directors’ meeting that evening? And what interest could the
Cuffaros have possibly had in paying a large sum to free Borsellino? Was he a close relative of theirs? No. Until proven otherwise, he was just the manager of a supermarket. And yet they paid up
with no questions asked.’

‘And how do you explain it?’ asked Augello.

‘I’ve thought of something. We should find out who Borsellino’s wife was.’

‘Already taken care of,’ said Fazio.

‘Well, wouldn’t you know it!’ the inspector yelled.

Fazio looked at him in shock.

‘Never mind, I’m sorry, go on.’

‘Can I take a piece of paper out of my pocket?’

‘You have my authorization,’ the inspector said through clenched teeth.