Andrea Camilleri - The Age Of Doubt

“I’ll give you one more day. That’s the most I can possibly grant you. But you have to tell me why you need the time.”

“Could I come by your office the day after tomorrow?”

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

He would have to make do with a single day. After hanging up, he told Fazio to go and get Shaikiri.

A single day. But if Mimì was clever enough, maybe he could detain Signora Giovannini for another week.

Ahmed Shaikiri was twenty-eight years old, and it was hard to tell that he was North African, because he looked exactly like a Sicilian sailor. He seemed sharp and had intelligent eyes and a natural elegance about him.

Montalbano immediately liked him.

“Stick around and take a seat,” the inspector said to Fazio, who was getting ready to leave.

“You, too, sit down, Shaikiri.”

“Thank you,” the Arab said politely.

Montalbano opened his mouth to begin speaking, but the man didn’t give him the time and began to speak first.

“Before anything else, I really would like to excuse myself to this gentleman here for having punched him. Please accept my apologies,” he said, turning to Fazio. “Unfortunately, whenever I drink wine…”

He spoke perfect Italian.

“Sicilian wine,” Montalbano interrupted.

Shaikiri gave him a confused look.

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean it must be Sicilian, or maybe Greek wine that has this effect on you.”

“No, look, I-”

“Listen, Shaikiri, you’re not going to tell me that the wine you drink in… I dunno, let’s say Alexanderbaai, South Africa, just to name the first city that comes to mind, gets you so easily drunk.”

Shaikiri looked dumbfounded.

“But I…”

“Let me put it more clearly. The wine you drink in Alexanderbaai doesn’t make you start punching the local police or carabinieri or whatever it is they have down there. Isn’t that right?”

Montalbano’s words had a double effect. First, on Fazio, who immediately pricked up his ears, realizing that the inspector wasn’t just blathering at random but had a specific purpose in mind. And second, on Shaikiri, who visibly gave a start at first and then seemed to pretend he didn’t understand.

“All right, you can go,” Montalbano cut things short.

Shaikiri seemed more bewildered than ever.

“You’re not going to charge me?”

“No.”

“But I provoked and started punching a-”

“We’ll let it slide this time. You’ve already been charged by the carabinieri, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you were interrogated yesterday at their base, right?”

“Yes.”

Montalbano now felt himself trembling inside. He’d reached the point where he had to say the decisive thing that would let him know whether he was right in his surmise or mistaken all down the line.

“If you see her again, and I’m sure you will see her or at least hear from her again, please give her my best.”

Shaikiri turned pale and squirmed in his chair.

“Who am I supposed to-”

“The young lady… I’m sorry, the person who, well, let’s say ‘interrogated’ you yesterday.”

A few beads of sweat appeared on Shaikiri’s forehead.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter. Good day.”

Then, turning to Fazio:

“Let him go.”

Naturally, as soon as Shaikiri had left, Fazio raced back to Montalbano’s office.

“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

“After talking to Lieutenant Sferlazza of the carabinieri, I became convinced that the person informing the so-called Vanna about what was happening aboard the yacht was Shaikiri. He had to be the one who told her that they had to change course because of the storm and head to Vigàta.”

“And how would he have done that?”

“I dunno. Maybe with a satellite phone. And so Vanna got moving so she could meet with him, but the dinghy with the corpse sent that rendezvous up in smoke. So Shaikiri got himself arrested by the carabinieri, revealed who he was, and they immediately put him in touch with Vanna. And yesterday she was finally able to talk to him.”

“And why did he punch me out, too?”

“Because he’s a smart young man. He wants his friends to think that the local wine always has the same effect on him. He gets in fights with all kinds of cops, whether carabinieri or not.”

“So then who’s this Vanna?”

“Sferlazza said something about the antiterrorism unit, but I think he was lying. There’s definitely something shady going on aboard that yacht. And Vanna is on their case. And you know something else?”

“What?”

“In my opinion the people on the Ace of Hearts are up to their necks in the business of the corpse in the dinghy.”

Fazio sat down.

“Tell me everything,” he said wearily.

“How should we proceed?” Fazio asked after he’d heard the whole story.

“Well, while we know plenty about the Vanna , we are totally in the dark as to the Ace of Hearts . So we need to start informing ourselves immediately.”

“I can look into that myself.”

“Fine, but you have to start somewhere. Tell you what. Go to the Harbor Office and talk to Lieutenant Belladonna, who is a woman. Have her fill you in on everything they know about the Ace of Hearts . Go there right now, in fact. The less time we waste, the better.”

He didn’t feel like going there personally in person. He couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Laura, especially after she’d surely spent the night with Mimì.

“And what if she asks me why I need all this information?”

“I think you can speak freely with her. Tell her we have strong suspicions the killing occurred aboard the cruiser.”

It was half past twelve when the outside line rang. It was Mimì Augello.

“She’s taken the bait.”

“In what sense?”

“In the way that we wanted. Laura took me aboard and then left immediately. I told the lie about the fuel and had them fill a jerry can with a sampling. La Giovannini didn’t leave me alone for a minute. Among other things, she convinced me she really knows her engines.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“From the wharf. I came off the boat to put the jerry can in my car. But I have to go aboard again because I’ve been kindly invited to stay for lunch. The lady has set her sights on me and won’t let up.”

“What do you think you’ll do next?”

“The captain will also be there at lunch, but I’m hoping to find a moment where I can ask her out to dinner, alone, tonight. I think she’ll accept. I get the impression the lady wants to eat me alive.”

“Bear in mind, Mimì, that La Giovannini has gone and protested to Tommaseo that the yacht is being detained illegally. Tommaseo wanted to give her permission to leave right away, but I got him to give me one more day. So time is running out. Got that?”

“Got it.”

It was a beautiful day. The sky looked as if it had received a new coat of paint during the night, and yet the moment he got in his car to go eat at Enzo’s, a sudden bout of melancholy descended on him with such force that everything-sky, buildings, people-turned grey all at once, as on the darkest of winter days.

Even his appetite, already skimpy, suddenly deserted him. No, there was no point in going to the trattoria; the only thing to do was to go home, unplug the telephone, undress, get in bed, and pull the sheets up over his head and blot out the whole world. But what if, for example, Fazio had something important to tell him?

He got back out of the car and went to see Catarella.