Andrea Camilleri - The Age Of Doubt

“If you refuse, he’s going to call the commissioner.”

“And you think the commissioner will-”

“I don’t think he’ll be able to say no to this person.”

At this point Montalbano had an idea.

“We could make an agreement.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’ll lend him to you for tonight. And you’ll bring him back to me in the morning.”

“All right,” said Lieutenant Sferlazza.

Montalbano picked up the receiver and told Fazio to come to his office.

When Fazio entered, he greeted the lieutenant but showed no surprise at seeing him there.

Surely Catarella, seeing an enemy enter the camp of Agramante [10], had told everyone about it.

“Turn Shaikiri over to the lieutenant at once,” the inspector said.

Fazio turned pale.

“Yessir!” he said, military style.

Five minutes later, however, he came back to the inspector, looking rather agitated.

“Could you tell me why you-”

“No,” Montalbano snapped.

Fazio turned around and left.

“Catarella, is Augello back?” he said into the phone.

“He in’t onna premisses yet.”

“But did he come to the office this morning?”

“Yessir, Chief.”

“When?”

“When you was in conf’rince wit’ Signor Fiorentino.”

“Then what?”

“I put a call fer ’im true to ’im, and then, a li’l while later, ’e, meanin’ Isspector Augello, I mean, ’e went out.”

“Do you remember who it was that called?”

“I fergit the name, but it was a girl liutinnint from the Harbor’s Office.”

The inspector dropped the receiver.

Laura! She’d gotten in touch with Mimì Augello without telling him anything!

She’d stepped right over him as if he didn’t exist. As if he’d never existed! He felt enraged, embittered, displeased, pained. Why had she behaved so badly? Did she want nothing more to do with him? All at once the door seemed to explode, crashing against the wall and breaking off half the plaster.

“’Scuse me, Chief, iss so urgint my ’and slipped.”

“What do you want?” asked Montalbano, recovering his breath after the scare.

“Y’oughter know yer tiliphone’s off the hook an’ Isspector Augello called but I coun’t put ’im true seein’ as how as yer tiliphone in’t hung up an’ when I call I git a busy single ’cause iss off the hook an’-”

“Did he say he’d call back?”

“Yessir, in five minutes.”

Montalbano put the receiver back in place.

The phone rang.

“Salvo?”

The inspector didn’t answer right away. He had to finish counting to a thousand to dispel the irritation he felt and not lay into Augello and start yelling at him.

“Salvo?”

“What is it, Mimì?”

“This morning I got a call, supposedly on your behalf, from-”

“I know all about it.”

It wasn’t true. He didn’t know a goddamn thing. But he didn’t want Mimì to realize Laura had kept him out of it.

“Well, that girl, aside from being what she is-”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus, Salvo, haven’t you noticed what a wonder of nature she is?”

“You think so?”

A tone of indifference. With a touch of snobbery.

“Salvo, don’t tell me you don’t-”

“Oh, she’s very pretty, no doubt about that. But to say she’s a ‘wonder of nature’ is a bit of a stretch. At any rate, get to the point.”

“I’d certainly like to get to the point with her. In fact, I think…” And he giggled, the imbecile!

Montalbano couldn’t let him go on or he would start insulting him.

“Tell me what she’s cooked up,” he said.

“She said that since the Vanna refueled yesterday, I could show up on board with her and make a fuel check.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I would go as the representative of the fuel importer, saying we’ve found some irregularities in the fuel, some residues that could impede the proper functioning of the engines. That would be the excuse.”

“And what if they only let you talk to the engineer?”

“Laura rules that out. She’s sure that the moment the owner hears mention of the engines, she’ll want to handle it herself.”

“But what the hell do you know about boat fuel?”

“Before this morning, nothing. Then at lunch Laura explained a few things to me, and in the afternoon we went and talked to a guy who really knows a lot about it. Then, tonight, Laura’s coming over to my place and…”

Montalbano couldn’t stand it any longer, slammed the receiver down, stood up, and started circling his desk, cursing like a madman.

Laura, in Mimì’s house! With nobody else present! The two of them, alone!

And he’d even told Laura that Mimì had a way with women! This must surely have been enough to whet her curiosity and make her feel tempted to find out whether…

No. It was better not to think about the possible consequences, or he would go insane!

Damn the moment he ever thought of having Mimì meet La Giovannini!

But why was he despairing now? He had wished this on himself! He’d sought it himself, stupid shit that he was! He’d served Laura up to Mimì on a silver platter with his own two hands!

He got home after a ferocious run-in with a motorist who, when passing him, had come so close to his car that he very nearly ran him off the road. And so, with his head in a fog of rage, he’d followed the guy, caught up with him, passed him, and then screeched to skidding halt, blocking the road crosswise with his car.

He’d got out of the car with his hair standing on end and eyes bulging, and, yelling like a madman, he’d gone on the attack, charging at the enemy. Who, meanwhile, the moment he’d seen the inspector get out of his car, had thrown his own into reverse, then accelerated forward, shooting past Montalbano, who tried to stop the car with his bare hands, very nearly falling down.

True, he had behaved just like the typical Italian driver, but as soon as he began to feel ashamed of this, he justified himself, thinking that, if nothing else, the episode had allowed him to vent his anger and frustration.

As he was opening the front door, he heard the telephone ringing.

He went to pick up, certain-for no reason in particular-that it was someone from the station.

“Hello?”

“Forgive me for disturbing you at home,” said a priestlike voice, “but as I had no news…”

Who was it? He didn’t recognize the voice, though it sounded both familiar and unfamiliar…

“I’m sorry, but what sort of news do you want?”

“Of the little boy, of course!”

“Look, I think you’ve got the wrong number. This isn’t a kindergarten!”

“Am I not speaking with Inspector Montalbano?”

“Yes, you are.”

“I wanted to know how your little boy, your son, was doing… What did you say his name was?”

Shit! It was that goddamn pain in the ass Lattes! To whom he’d told that big lie about his young son being sick! And what had he said the kid’s name was? The only hope was to keep to generalities.

“There’s been a slight improvement, Doctor. Thanks for asking. And forgive me for not recognizing you at once, but, you know, I’ve been so worried these days, so upset…”

“I understand perfectly, Inspector. And please accept my heartfelt wishes for a speedy recovery. May the Blessed Virgin keep you in her heart… And keep me informed-I mean it.”

“It’s the least I can do, I promise.

“As for those files that need to be checked-”

He hung up. He really didn’t want to hear any talk about files at a time like this.