Game of Mirrors (11 page)

“Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”

“Think of what sooner?”

“Of sending Mimì Augello to buy himself a suit in Montelusa. Go and get him immediately.”

Fazio left and came back with Augello.

“Mimì, when was the last time you bought yourself a new suit?”

“About a year ago. Why?”

“I’ll explain later. Do you know a big store in Montelusa called All’ultima moda?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there with my wife.”

“Sorry to ask a personal question, but how long does it take you, normally, to win a woman’s confidence?”

“I can see you haven’t got much experience in these matters. The amount of time is rather variable. A lot depends on the woman.”

“Would one morning suffice?”

“Alone, one on one?”

“No, with others around.”

Mimì didn’t open his mouth.

“Well?”

“I’m not going to tell you unless you tell me first what you’re cooking up.”

Montalbano told him.

The light was on in the Lombardo home, but there was no sign of Liliana. He was putting the key in the lock when he heard the telephone ring. This time he got to it in time, managing to pick up the receiver right in the middle of a ring.

“Hello?”

There was definitely someone at the other end, but whoever it was, they remained silent.

“Hello?”

They hung up.

He went and opened the refrigerator. Adelina had made
sartù di riso alla calabrisa
and swordfish
involtini
. He prepared himself for a pleasant evening.

After he lit the oven to warm up the dishes, the telephone rang again.

“Hello?”

“It’s Liliana.”

He wasn’t all that surprised. The situation between them remained all too confused, not to mention that he’d left her in the lurch. Sooner or later she was going to demand an explanation.

Since Liliana hadn’t said anything else, the inspector spoke.

“Did you call just a few minutes ago?” he asked.

“Yes, I heard your car drive by, and I couldn’t . . .”

She fell silent again. Was she going to say “resist”? The intonation she’d given to her sentence seemed to suggest this.

“Why did you hang up?”

“I don’t know.”

If they’d been at the station, he would have continued: And why are you calling me now?

But he remained silent. As did Liliana. After a few
moments, she broke the ice, though she still seemed uncomfortable.

“Will you believe me if I say I can hardly remember anything that happened last night?”

Let her talk, Montalbà; don’t you dare open your mouth.

“I drank too much,” she continued, “and must have said some . . . well, inappropriate things, to make you run away like that. I want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not . . . taking advantage of me.”

She was good, no doubt about it. She’d turned the tables and passed the hot potato to him with nonchalance and elegance. Now it was his turn, and he had to be careful what he said.

“I ran away because I was needed at the office.”

“Duty always first, eh?”

Was she being ironic?

“Well, that sets my mind at rest. So it wasn’t that I made you feel uneasy,” she concluded.

There was another pause. The inspector now wanted her to lay down the first card.

“I want to talk to you,” said Liliana.

She clearly wanted to start the whole business all over again.

So the inspector decided to shake things up a little. It was a good way, and a good moment, to find out what sort
of relationship she really had with her husband, a man who appeared and disappeared at will, and about whom nobody knew anything.

“Speaking of which,” he said, “could you tell me where your husband is at the moment?”

“Adriano?!” asked Liliana, taken aback.

“Why, do you have another husband with a different name?”

She was too overwhelmed by the inspector’s first question to react to his quip.

“What is this? Why do you want to know?”

She seemed seriously concerned; her tone was apprehensive. Montalbano improvised:

“Somebody’s filed charges against him for a brawl he was apparently involved in a few days ago.”

“Are you sure they mean Adriano?”

“That’s precisely why I want to talk to him.”

Liliana hesitated before responding.

“Look, I honestly don’t know where he is at the moment. But if you want, I can call him right now and have him ring you at home.”

It was clear she didn’t want to give him her husband’s telephone number. This was in fact where Montalbano wanted to go with this. Why was Adriano Lombardo so guarded?

“It’s not really all that urgent. And actually, you could give me a hand yourself.”

“How?”

“I’ll repeat the basic facts of the accusation to you. Adriano Lombardo, son of Giovanni Lombardo and Nicoletta Valenza—”

“No!” Liliana interrupted him. “That’s wrong! Adriano’s father’s name was Stefano and he died seven years ago, and his mother’s maiden name was Maria Donati.”

“So much the better. A case of mistaken identity, apparently. I guess that settles that.”

“Well, I’m glad. And what’s the plan for us?”

He played dumb.

“In what sense?”

“When will we see each other again?”

Pushy, the lady.

“Look, tonight I can’t do anything. I’m waiting for some phone calls to do with work.”

“So when, then?”

“Are you going to work tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

“You haven’t got your car back yet, have you?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight, and we’ll decide on a time and place. Okay?”

“Well, if there’s no other way . . . then okay,” she said.

She was disappointed, and she’d let him know.

He hung up.

And so, thought the inspector, tomorrow I shall
do my part to have you meet my second in command, Inspector Mimì Augello, a man who could teach Don Juan a thing or two.

He set the table on the veranda and contentedly ate the sartù, the involtini, and a big dish of chicory so bitter it seemed poisonous. Then he sat down in an armchair to watch some TV.

Ragonese was careful not to talk about what had happened to him. This time he laid into the mayor and the garbage problem.

A little later Livia rang. She seemed to be in a good mood.

“I had some fun today.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Then you’ll make me suspect the worst.”

“Please, Inspector, don’t suspect.”

“Then tell me where you’ve been.”

“A friend of mine dragged me to a fortune-teller.”

Montalbano lit up like a match.

“What’s this nonsense? So now you’re going to fortune-tellers? Pretty soon it’ll be wizards and witches!”

“Come on, Salvo . . .”

“Come on, my eye! I certainly hope you didn’t believe what the lady told you!”

“So I shouldn’t believe it?”

“Absolutely not! You would be a fool to believe it!”

“Too bad.”

“Why too bad?”

“Because she assured me that you were very faithful to me.”

He’d fallen straight into the trap, which enraged him even more. A blowout was inevitable.

Liliana was waiting for him at the gate. She got in the car but didn’t kiss him. She merely said:

“Ciao, Salvo.”

She wasn’t as cheerful as all the other times, and all she did during the drive was stare at the road. It didn’t fit with the way she’d acted on the phone the previous evening. It was possible she’d received some news during the night, or early that morning, which had upset her.

They’d agreed that during their morning drive they would decide on where and when to meet next, but she didn’t mention it. And Montalbano didn’t bring it up, either.

Before getting out at the bus stop, she turned to Montalbano and said she would phone him in the evening.

“Ciao.”

And that was that. No kiss, no caresses. Her mind was clearly elsewhere.

The first part of the morning went smoothly. Then, just before noon, Catarella called him to tell him that Tommaseo, the public prosecutor, was on the line.

“Hello, sir; what can I do for you?”

“I received your report denouncing that journalist . . . what’s his name . . .”

“Ragonese.”

“Right. And I’ve had a . . . ch . . . chance to . . . l . . . look . . . at the . . . the v . . . vid . . . eo . . .”

The prosecutor stopped, unable to go any further. He was out of breath.

The stammering fit had been brought on by the sight of a half-naked Liliana on the bed.

Prosecutor Tommaseo, who was known not to have a woman in his life, was a proper sex maniac who never actually had sex and therefore drooled after every pretty woman he saw, dead or alive.

“What do you think?”

“Stu . . . pen . . . dous . . . !”

“I didn’t mean the lady, sir, but my report. Do you think you’ll act on it right away?”

“Do . . . re . . . re . . . mi . . . mind . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . fa . . . first . . . so l . . . so . . . little time . . .”

Would he manage to sing the whole scale?

“A la . . . la . . . lot . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . do . . .”

Yes!

“Do you plan to call her in for questioning?”

“One . . . one . . . too . . . too many . . . things to do. Th . . . three days . . .”

Good God, was he going to start counting now? Up to what? A hundred? A thousand? At this rate they’d be
there till nightfall. Montalbano hung up. If the guy called back, he’d tell him they got cut off. But Tommaseo never called back.

Instead a call came in from Mimì Augello.

“So you didn’t go to Montelusa?”

“Of course I did! I’m calling from right outside the store.”

“And so?

“Listen, Salvo, when I got here it must have been around nine thirty, and I combed all three floors of the store without ever seeing the lady you described to me.”

“Maybe you didn’t see her because she was back in a dressing room with a customer who was trying on some clothes.”

“Don’t you think I thought of that myself? And so I stood outside the line of dressing rooms and waited. Nothing, no sign of her. And so I went up to a salesgirl and struck up a conversation, saying I was the husband of a customer. At a certain point I asked her about Signora Lombardo, and she told me her boss had come in on time, but five minutes later she’d got a call on her cell phone that seemed to upset her, after which she said she was taking a day of sick leave and left. So I called to tell you this. But now I have to go because the store’s about to close for lunch.”

“What do you care if the store’s about to close?”

“Salvo, just think for a second. I couldn’t very well let
the whole morning go to waste. I’m taking the salesgirl out to lunch. Her name’s Lucia and I assure you she’s—”

Montalbano hung up.

What the hell was happening to Liliana? Was something amiss?

Leaving the office to go to Enzo’s, he asked Catarella if he had any news of Fazio, whom he hadn’t seen all morning.

“’E called at eight this mornin’, Chief, sayin’ as how ’e was gonna betoken hisself to Montelusa.”

“Did he say what he was going to do there?”

“Nah, Chief, ’e din’t.”

As soon as he got in his car, the inspector changed his mind and headed for Marinella. It was possible Liliana had gone home. Driving past her house, he slowed down. The gate and windows were closed. She wasn’t home, or at least was pretending she wasn’t. He turned around and went off to eat.

He’d already finished when Enzo came up to him and said he was wanted on the phone.

It was Mimì Augello.

“Sorry, Salvo, but since Lucia—”

“Who’s Lucia?”

“The salesgirl. I’m having lunch with her . . . By the way, I told my wife, Beba, that I have to go on a stakeout tonight, so please, don’t pull any of your usual stunts . . .”

“Fine, but what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“I don’t know if it’s of any importance . . . You told me this Liliana had something going with a young salesman, Arturo Tallarita, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, Lucia, who talks a lot, told me that Tallarita didn’t come into work this morning. And he didn’t call to say he wouldn’t be coming.”

“Thanks, Mimì.”

“But I mean it about Beba. If she happens to call, be sure to confirm that I have to stay out tonight for work.”

Want to bet the two lovers fled in secret on an amorous escapade? Just like Mimì was getting ready to do? Maybe even for only a day, to be spent in total freedom, without having to hide anything from anybody . . .

“What did you go to Montelusa for?”

“I spent the morning at the Chamber of Commerce.”

“Why?”

“I wanted some information on Adriano Lombardo. And I hoped to find out whether he had a warehouse in some other town in the province.”

“Discover anything interesting?”

“Nothing. Or, actually, I found out that he’d given first the warehouse on Via Pisacane as his business address, then the one on Via Palermo. And after that, he wrote that he’d abandoned the one on Via Palermo too, and his new business address was in Marinella.”

“So we’re back to the hypothesis that we already sort of formulated, which is that if he rented a third warehouse, it must be in some town outside the province.”

“Exactly. You want me to keep looking?”

“Yes, but in your spare time.”

“Any news of Inspector Augello?”

“Yes.”

“Good news?”

“For him, yes. For us, no.”

“What’s that mean?”

Montalbano explained.

In the end Fazio stared at him skeptically.

“You really think Liliana and Arturo ran away together?”

“Don’t you?”

“I have my doubts.”

“Explain.”

“Disappearing from their workplace for a whole day will have everyone thinking that there’s something going on between them, or at least some kind of arrangement. They’re actually doing the exact opposite of what they’d been doing so carefully up until the day before.”

The argument made sense.

“And so?”

“Maybe they were forced.”

“By whom?”

“You know what I say, Chief? Let’s just wait and see.
Oh, and I almost forgot. Give me the keys to the car you’re driving.”

“Why?”

“So I can take it back to the body shop and pick up yours, which is ready.”

He gave him the keys.

Then something occurred to him.

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Anytime, Chief.”

“Could you go right now and pay a call on Signora Tallarita?”

“Sure. What do you want to know?”

“If she has any news of her son.”

“All right.”

“But don’t let on about anything; I don’t want to alarm her. I’ll wait for you here.”

Fazio returned about an hour later.

“Chief, there wasn’t any need to take precautions. Signora Tallarita was already pretty upset on her own. So upset, in fact, that when I told her who I was, she almost fainted.”

“What was wrong?”

“She hasn’t heard from Arturo since last night. He went out after dinner, telling his mother he’d be back late. But he never returned. Then this morning she got a phone
call from someone at the clothing store wanting to know why her son hadn’t come in to work. And the call got her pretty upset.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“That if she wanted to report him missing, I was at her disposal. But she refused.”

Fazio paused, then continued.

“Chief, I have the impression she knows about her son’s affair with Signora Liliana.”

“Oh, really?”

“She started muttering to herself about some big slut—those were her exact words—and then, under her breath, said something about Marinella, or so it seemed to me . . .”