Andrea Camilleri - The Age Of Doubt

The man gave it to him, and the inspector dialed it.

“Signor Toscano? Montalbano here.”

“Good afternoon, Inspector.”

“There’s something I need to ask you, something very important.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Pay close attention. The night that Lannec arrived, did anything strange happen at the hotel?”

Toscano paused to think for a moment, then spoke.

“Well, actually, yes, now that you mention it… But it was something that… which I don’t…”

“Go on, tell me.”

“You see, the hotel is sort of isolated. One night, in high season, three months after we’d opened for business, some burglars broke in and took the safe in which we keep our customers’ money and valuables.”

“But wasn’t the night porter on duty?”

“Of course he was. But it was three in the morning, and it’s always very quiet at that time of the night and so Scimè had lain down on a little bed in the room just behind the front desk… They must have drugged him, because he woke up two hours later with a terrible headache…”

How come he’d never heard a thing about this?

“Did you report the burglary?”

“Of course. To the carabinieri.”

“And what was their conclusion?”

“Since there’d been no break-in, only the theft of the safe, the carabinieri concluded the burglars had an accomplice staying at the hotel as a customer, and that he must have drugged the porter with a gas canister and opened the door for his partners. But they didn’t take the investigation any further than that. It was a good thing we were insured!”

“And what happened the other night?”

“Well, after the robbery we hired a night guard who makes the rounds outside the building every half hour. On the night in question, he saw a car stopped with its lights off, outside the back door of the hotel. But the moment he approached, the car drove away in a hurry. That time, however, since nothing actually happened, we didn’t bother to report it… Do you think it might have a connection to the murder?”

Montalbano had no intention of telling him exactly just how close a connection it had.

“Absolutely not. But it’s all grist for the mill, you know.”

Damn! Pasquano was right! The older he got, the more he spoke in clichés!

Therefore, to return to the matter at hand, someone from the Ace of Hearts had tried to recover Lannec’s passport and hadn’t succeeded. As soon as they’d seen the night guard they’d sped off. It was too dangerous.

Because, once they were identified as being from the cruiser, the investigation of the murder would most certainly have led back to them. They couldn’t risk it.

But they’d had the right idea: the passport was the only thing that might make it possible to identify the dead man. Getting rid of it would have meant the corpse would probably remain forever nameless. And since they’d failed to get their hands on it, they had to content themselves with smashing in the dead man’s face.

Want to bet the false face was better known than the real one?

The inspector decided it was best to inform Geremicca of the surgically remade face. He was about to phone him when Fazio came in.

“I’ve spoken with the lieutenant,” said Fazio.

Montalbano immediately felt envious.

Fazio had had a chance to see Laura, to be close to her, to hear her breathing and talk to her…

“What did you find out?” His voice sounded choked.

“You stuffed up?” Fazio asked.

“No, it’s nothing, my throat’s just a little dry. Tell me.”

“First of all, I found out that this Ace of Hearts turns out to belong to an Italo-French company that-”

“That sort of thing happens all the time. It’s unlikely it would belong to an individual. They do it to pay less tax. And what’s this company’s business?”

“Import-export.”

“Of what?”

“A bit of everything.”

“And what do they need a monster motorboat like that for?”

“The lieutenant told me the company operates all over the Mediterranean, from Morocco and Algeria to Syria, and even Turkey and Greece…”

The same places stamped in the Frenchman’s passport.

“The lieutenant also said that it’s not the first time the cruiser has called at the port of Vigàta. Normally, though, it stays only for a day, two at the most. This time, however, they’ve stayed longer because they’re waiting for someone from outside to come and look at the engines, which have been misfiring.”

“But wouldn’t it have been better for them to get an airplane?”

“What do you want me to say, Chief? It’s their business.”

“The other day, I saw a sort of colossus on their deck, saying goodbye to the owner of the Vanna and the captain.”

“He’s the company’s chief exec. His name’s Matteo Zigami, and he’s six-three-and-a-half.”

“How many people are there on board?”

“Five. Zigami, his secretary François Petit, and a three-man crew. The company’s called MIEC.”

“What’s that stand for?”

“Mediterranean Import-Export Corporation. According to Lieutenant Garrufo-”

“Ah, so you didn’t speak with Lieutenant Belladonna?”

“No.”

“She wasn’t there?”

“No. The marshal at the entrance to the Harbor Office told me she’d been up all night…”

What? Was it possible? So even at the Harbor Office they knew that she and Mimì…? Jesus, how embarrassing!

“… due to the sudden landing of about a hundred illegal immigrants at the harbor, and she’d had to stay on duty till dawn.”

So she hadn’t spent the night at Mimì’s place! She’d never even had the chance to set foot there!

Somebody set a couple of bells ringing in his head. But it wasn’t just bells; there were also about a thousand violins. He could see Fazio’s mouth opening and closing but couldn’t hear what he was saying. Too much noise.

He shot to his feet.

“Well done, Fazio!”

Fazio, utterly flummoxed, let the inspector embrace him, wondering if his boss hadn’t suddenly lost his mind.

Then, when Montalbano finally let go of him, he ventured to ask in a thin little voice:

“So, how should we proceed?”

“We’ll deal with that later, we’ll deal with that later!”

As he was leaving, Fazio heard the inspector start singing. Then, still practically singing, Montalbano told Geremicca about the reconstructed face.

All at once he was in the grips of a gargantuan hunger.

He glanced at his watch. It was already eight-thirty. The violins had stopped playing, but the bells kept on ringing, though at a lower volume.

He got up, went out of the office, and walked by Catarella with his eyes closed, looking like a sleepwalker. Catarella got worried.

“You feel okay, Chief?”

“I feel great, Cat, great.”

So they were worried about his health? But at that moment he felt like a kid again! Twenty years old. No, better not exaggerate, Montalbà. Let’s say forty.

He got in the car and headed home to Marinella. As soon as he went inside he raced to see what was in the fridge. Nothing. Totally empty, except for a plate of olives and a little bowl of anchovies. He ran to the oven and opened it. Nothing there either. Only then did he notice a note on the kitchen table.

Sints I don feel so good coz I gotta headache I cant cook and gonna go home. My appalogies, Adelina.

No, there was no way he could get through this special night on an empty stomach. He would never be able to sleep. The only solution was to get back in the car and go to Enzo’s.

“Wha’? Adelina let you down tonight?” Enzo asked when he saw him come in.