A Voice in the Night (3 page)

‘Me, be understanding? Me, a certain age? You know what? I’m going to ask for the maximum sentence for your client! The maximum!’

The lawyer stood up, worried.

‘Are you feeling all right, Inspector?’

‘I feel great! You’ll see how great I feel!’

He opened the door and yelled into the hall.

‘Gallo!’

The officer came running.

‘Get the detainee and take him to Montelusa prison. At once!’

Then, turning to the lawyer.

‘I think your business is finished here.’

‘Good day,’ Nero Duello said drily, going out.

Montalbano left the door open to air the room out a little.

Then he sat down and started writing the report. He slipped in a good ten possible crimes. He signed it and sent it to the prosecutor’s office.

That should fix Giovanni Strangio.

*

Around noon a call came in.

‘Chief, ’at’d be a soitan Mr Porcellino ’oo wantsa talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.’

Montalbano didn’t trust him.

‘Cat, is this a repeat performance?’

‘When wazza foist one, Chief?’

‘The first one was when you called the lawyer Ne’er-Do-Well instead of Nero Duello.’

‘But ’ass azackly what I said! Ne’er-Do-Well!’

How could you reason with a person like that?

‘Are you sure this man’s name really is Porcellino?’

‘Assolutely, Chief. I swear on my mama’s head.’

‘Did he tell you what he wanted?’

‘Nah, ’e din’t say, but ’e sounded like ’e was rilly teed off. Like a lion inna jangle, Chief.’

The inspector really didn’t feel like taking the call, but then his sense of duty won out.

‘Montalbano here. What can I do for you, Mr Porcellino?’

‘Porcellino?! So now you’re going to start fucking me about as well?’ the man said furiously. ‘Borsellino’s the name! Guido Borsellino!’

OK, that would teach him never, not even for a second, to trust Catarella, who always mangled people’s names.

‘I’m terribly sorry, sir, really, but our receptionist must have heard wrong. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m being accused of the most incredible things! They’re treating me like a thief! I demand that you, who are their superior, apologize at once!’

Apologize? The inspector’s balls immediately took off into a spin, a sort of rocket blast-off.

‘Listen, Mr Por – er, Borsellino, I suggest you wash your face, calm down, and then call back.’

‘I’m not—’

Montalbano hung up.

*

Not five minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was Fazio.

‘Sorry, Chief, but . . .’

Apparently it wasn’t an easy call to make for Fazio. ‘What is it?’

‘Could you come here to the supermarket?’

‘Why?’

‘The manager’s making a stink because Inspector Augello asked him a couple of questions he didn’t appreciate. He says he won’t talk unless his lawyer is
present.’

‘Listen, is this manager’s name Borsellino?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He called just now to break my balls.’

‘What do you say, Chief, will you come?’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

*

As he was heading towards Piano Lanterna, he remembered that people about town had been whispering that that supermarket was owned by a company made up entirely of front men,
since the people who had actually put up the money for it all belonged to the Cuffaro family, which divided up all the business in town with its enemies, the Sinagra family. He was driving through
the part of Piano Lanterna where four horrendous dwarf high-rises – or rather, abortions of high-rises – had been built to house the population that had almost entirely deserted the
centre of town to move to the upland plain.

Once upon a time, to judge from photos and from what the headmaster Burgio, an elderly friend of his, had told him, the whole elevated part consisted of only two rows of small houses flanking
the road to the cemetery. And all around were large open spaces for bocce and football games, family outings, duels, and epic clashes between feuding families.

Now it was a sea of cement, a sort of casbah dominated by fake high-rises.

*

The supermarket was closed, but the policeman on duty took him to the manager’s office.

Passing through the shop, he saw Fazio questioning some cashiers.

In the manager’s office he found Mimì Augello sitting in a chair in front of a desk, behind which sat a very thin man of about fifty without a hair on his head, wearing very
thick-lensed glasses. He was quite upset.

As soon as he saw the inspector walk in he shot to his feet.

‘I want my lawyer!’

‘Have you accused Mr Borsellino of something?’ the inspector asked his deputy.

‘I haven’t accused him of anything,’ replied Mimì, cool as a cucumber. ‘I merely asked him two or three simple questions, and he—’

‘Simple questions, you call them!’ cried Borsellino.

‘ – he got upset. Anyway, it was him who called us to report the burglary.’

‘And so if somebody calls you to report a burglary, you feel obliged to accuse the victim of perpetrating the crime?’

‘I did nothing of the sort,’ replied Mimì. ‘You arrived at that conclusion all by yourself.’

‘What else could I conclude?’

‘Excuse me just a minute,’ said Montalbano. ‘Let me get this straight. Mr Borsellino, I want you to repeat to me what you said to Inspector Augello. How did you discover
you’d been robbed?’

Borsellino first took a deep breath to calm his nerves, then spoke.

‘Since there were quite a few items on sale yesterday, by the end of the day my receipts were considerable.’

‘How much?’

Borsellino looked at a sheet of paper on the desk.

‘Sixteenthousandsevenhundredandtwentyeight euros and thirty cents.’

‘All right. And what do you normally do with the day’s proceeds? Do you go and deposit them every evening in your bank’s night safe?’

‘Of course.’

‘And why not yesterday?’

‘
Madonna biniditta!
I explained that to this gentleman here! How many times do I have to say it?’

‘Mr Borsellino, I already told you on the phone to calm down. It’s in your own interest.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Emotion gives bad advice. In your agitation you might say something you don’t want to say.’

‘That’s why I want my lawyer!’

‘Mr Borsellino, nobody is accusing you of anything, so you don’t need any lawyer. Don’t be silly! You know something?’

But he didn’t tell him straight off. He started staring at the stamp on an envelope that lay on the desk.

‘Do I know what?’ asked the manager.

Montalbano took his eyes off the envelope and looked at him.

‘To me you don’t seem so upset about the burglary. You seem scared.’

‘Me?! Scared of what?’

‘I don’t know, it’s just my impression. Shall we go on? Or should we go down to headquarters and continue there?’

‘Let’s go on.’

‘I asked you why you didn’t deposit the money.’

‘Ah, yes. When I got to the night safe, there was a sign that said out of order. What choice did I have? I came back here, put the money into this drawer of the desk, locked it, and went
home. This morning, about an hour after I came in – or maybe longer, I don’t remember – I realized that someone had forced open the drawer and stolen the money. And I called your
police station, with the fine results we see here!’

Montalbano turned to Augello.

‘Did you phone the bank?’

‘Of course! And they told me the night safe worked just fine last night – they knew nothing about any sign saying out of order.’

‘I swear on my mother’s blessed soul that there was a sign!’ said Borsellino.

‘I’m not doubting you,’ said Montalbano.

The man was stumped.

‘You believe me?’

Montalbano didn’t answer, but went and looked at the lock that had been forced. Whoever did it must not have had much trouble opening it; a hairpin would have done the trick.

Inside the drawer, on top of a few invoices, was thirty euro cents in change.

‘So what did you ask Mr Borsellino to get him so upset?’ Montalbano asked Augello.

‘I simply asked him, given that nobody other than himself knew that the money was in that drawer, and given that there are no signs of any of the outside doors of the supermarket having
been forced – I simply asked him whether he could explain to me how and in what fashion the burglars, in his opinion, could have got inside, and how they knew that the money hadn’t been
deposited but was here instead.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all, not one word more, or less.’

‘And you got all worked up over a perfectly normal question?’ Montalbano asked Borsellino.

‘I got worked up not only over the words but the look!’ the manager reacted.

‘The look?’

‘Yes, sir, the look! As he was asking the question, he was looking at me as if to say: I know it was you who did it, so don’t think you can fool me.’

‘The furthest thing from my mind,’ said Augello. ‘He imagined that look himself.’

The inspector assumed an episcopal air, exactly like the Good Shepherd.

‘Look, Mr Borsellino, you’re too upset, which is perfectly understandable after being shaken up by a burglary, but you mustn’t let yourself get so carried away. You’re
all worked up and take every word, every gesture, even the most innocent, the wrong way. Try to calm down and answer my question: who has the keys to the supermarket?’

‘I do.’

‘Aren’t there any copies?’

‘Yes, one set. The company’s board of directors has them.’

‘I see. So how do you explain it?’

‘Explain what?’

‘That the doors show no sign of having been forced.’

‘No idea.’

‘Let me ask you the same question in a different way. Is it possible the thieves used copies of the keys?’

Before answering, the manager thought this over for a minute.

‘Well, yes.’

‘The ones belonging to the board of directors?’

Upon hearing the question, Borsellino literally leapt out of his chair. He’d turned pale as a corpse. His hands started trembling.

Noticing, he thrust them in his pockets.

‘Who told you that?’

‘What do you mean who told me that? You did!’

‘No, sir, I did not! I said nothing of the sort. Mr Augello is my witness!’

‘Keep me out of this,’ said Mimì. ‘Because I’m in total agreement with the inspector: you said it yourself just a minute ago.’

‘You two want me dead!’ yelled Borsellino, who was sweating as if in the August sun. ‘All I said was that maybe they came in with copies of the keys, but I certainly
wasn’t referring to the board of directors’ copies! I meant some other copies!’

‘Then you made a false declaration when you said that there was only one set of copies, when in fact there are at least two!’ said Montalbano.

Borsellino took his hands out of his pockets and put his palms against his forehead as if he had a terrible headache. ‘No, no, no! You two are trying to make me lose my mind! You want to
see me sentenced to death! I said, and I repeat, that the burglars could have used copies they made themselves for that purpose!’

‘Forgive me for insisting,’ said Montalbano. ‘But in order to make copies, you need originals. Doesn’t that make sense? So there’s no getting around it: either you
gave the burglar the original keys or somebody from the board of directors did. What do you think?’

‘I want my lawyer!’

Montalbano huffed in annoyance.

‘Well, Mimì, I guess we can go. There’s nothing left for us to do here.’

Augello got up without a word.

Borsellino, for his part, stood there for a moment looking at them, speechless, then began to protest.

‘What is this? Why?’

‘Mr Borsellino,’ Montalbano said after staring at him in turn for a moment, ‘I sincerely don’t understand you. First you want a lawyer and then you complain that
we’re too hasty? I can well understand that you feel reassured by our presence, but I’m sorry, we can’t stay any longer. Let’s go, Mimì.’

But Borsellino had no intention of giving up.

‘Excuse me, but would you please explain why I should feel reassured by your presence?’

Montalbano rolled his eyes up to heaven.

‘Mr Borsellino, with you one needs more patience than even the saints possess! You’ve just finished accusing us of wanting you sentenced to death. And you are very clearly scared out
of your wits. All I did was do the maths. Which tells me that as long as we remain here, nobody can do anything to you. Get the picture?’

‘And what would anyone want to do to me?’

Borsellino was going from fear to defiance.

‘Whatever the case,’ the inspector continued, ‘was a report drafted of your complaint?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Have you informed your company chairman that a theft took place?’

‘Not yet.’

Montalbano showed great surprise.

‘Ah ah ah! You never cease to amaze me!’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s the first thing you should have done! Even before calling us.’

‘I’ll do it as soon as—’

‘It may be too late, you know. There’s no point in putting off the moment of truth.’

The shop manager started turning visibly pale again.

‘But the first thing I did was call you!’

‘But we’re not them, don’t you see?’

Borsellino turned even paler and his hands started shaking more violently.

‘Th . . . them? Who’s them?’

‘Them,’ the inspector said evasively. ‘You know perfectly well who they are. And they’ll ask you questions that’ll make ours seem like a walk in the park by
comparison.’

Borsellino took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat glistening on his brow. His nose was starting to drip.

Montalbano threw down his ace.

‘And those guys, you can bet your life they won’t let you call your lawyer.’

He let out a laugh, sounding like a starving hyena in the desert, and continued:

‘At best they’ll call you a priest for the last rites. I don’t envy you. Have a good day.’