Game of Mirrors (6 page)

He decided to go on foot. He hadn’t had time yet to try out the borrowed car.

“Did you manage to catch them?” he asked the lieutenant.

“No, they got away.”

“Did anyone tell you I was there?”

“You were there?!”

Montalbano told him the whole story. And then he showed him the bullet. Vannutelli picked it up, examined it, and looked dumbfounded.

“Where on earth did this come from? People were shooting machine guns and automatic weapons, not rifles.”

“That’s why I’m here. The entry hole in my car door is perfectly round. The shot must have been fired from a point parallel to my car.”

Vannutelli kept looking at the bullet with puzzlement.

“The carabinieri stopped me just as I was beside the first car in the line going towards Montelusa. The shot could only have come from that car, or from the one right behind it.”

“What I think you’re trying to say is that the guys who drove through the roadblock had armed accomplices, is that right?”

“Precisely.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to the marshal who conducted the roadblock and get back to you.”

When he got to his office, he called Fazio.

“Have you got any friends in Forensics?”

Montalbano, for his part, had a profound dislike of the chief of Forensics. The mere sight of him gave him a stomachache. And his feelings were returned in kind.

“Sure.”

He handed him the bullet.

“Have him look at it in private.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Whatever there is to know.”

“You in a hurry?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll take it to Montelusa tomorrow.”

As he was about to leave to go home, Lieutenant Vannutelli rang.

“Listen, I had a long talk with Marshal Capua and De Giovanni, the carabiniere who stopped you and remembers you perfectly.”

“What did they say?”

“They said your theory doesn’t hold water.”

“And why not?”

“Because at the moment the speeding car reached the roadblock, Capua was checking the first car in the queue and he’s absolutely positive that nobody fired a shot from that car. De Giovanni, on the other hand, right after stopping you, was walking over to the second car and had to squeeze up against it to avoid the speeding car coming through. If anyone fired a shot from that car, it would have struck him.”

The argument was airtight.

Then how to explain the bullet hole?

He went into the parking lot, got in the car that Fazio had procured for him, and drove three times around the lot as a test. It felt fine.

So he headed off to Marinella.

The lights were on in the Lombardos’ house. Therefore Liliana was at home, even though he couldn’t see her. Would she be coming to eat the arancini as she’d promised? For no apparent reason, Montalbano had the suspicion that at the last minute she would find an excuse not to come. As he slipped the key into his front door, he heard the telephone ringing. This was something that happened often. It was as though the phone could hear his car approach from a distance and then started ringing at once, so that he wouldn’t have time to answer. He tried to move as fast as possible, but when he lifted the receiver he heard only a dial tone.

He went straight to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out the arancini, and put them in the oven, which he then lit and set at a low temperature. Then he went to the bathroom and washed up, came back out, turned on the television, sat down, and watched himself
being interviewed by Nicolò. After turning off the set, he started setting the table on the veranda.

When he’d done this, he sat down on the bench, lit a cigarette, and started thinking about what was eating away at him. Where could the shot that struck his car have come from?

The hole of entry spoke quite clearly: there was no splintering; it was clean and formed a perfect circle. The bullet was fired by someone positioned at a perfect right angle to the car and, therefore, if the carabinieri’s reconstruction was correct, the shot could only have come from a gunman on the other side of the queue of cars, in the open countryside along the road.

But this wasn’t possible, either, because in that case the bullet, before reaching his car, would have ended up hitting one of the cars stuck in traffic.

Unless the gunman happened to have fired the shot from the second floor of a building. But in this case the entry hole should have had an almost oval shape.

There was no explanation.

He looked at his watch. It was already nine fifteen. What was keeping Liliana? Or had she again lacked the nerve to come, as he’d already imagined?

The telephone rang. He hestitated for a moment, unsure whether to answer or not. It might be some hassle that would send his evening up in smoke, just as easily as it might be Liliana herself.

He picked up the receiver.

“Inspector Montalbano?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Liliana.”

“Are you coming?”

“I got as far as your front door, but then I saw a car there that wasn’t yours, and so I thought . . .”

“Don’t worry, it’s mine.”

“Why’d you change cars?”

“I had to. I’ll explain later.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Montalbano went and opened the door and waited there until he saw her approaching from the road. She was wearing slacks and a blouse, maybe because she had something serious to tell him.

But she certainly was beautiful.

By way of greeting, she shook his hand, a strained smile on her pale face. The inspector took her out to the veranda.

He didn’t like the fact that Liliana was so serious and apparently worried, as if preparing to be interrogated. It would be better if she loosened up a little; that would make it easier to talk.

“In the fridge I’ve got a bottle of that nice wine you liked.”

“Sure, why not?”

After she’d drunk half a glass, she sighed deeply, and a bit of color returned to her face.

“Why did you have to change cars?”

Montalbano told her about the shoot-out at the checkpoint, but didn’t tell her that the carabinieri had ruled out that the shot could have been fired at that moment.

Now she seemed more relaxed.

“Shall I go and get the arancini?”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Let’s bring our plates with us.”

As soon as he opened the oven, a heavenly scent wafted out and overwhelmed their senses.

“Let’s do this,” said Montalbano. “Since they should be eaten nice and hot, let’s just take one each right now, and then we’ll come back for reinforcements.”

“That sounds wise to me.”

They ate them in the twinkling of an eye, finishing the bottle in the process.

“Shall we go?” Liliana suggested.

“Let’s.”

Liliana opened the oven, put two arancini on the inspector’s plate and the only remaining one on hers.

“That way we won’t have to come back.”

Montalbano grabbed another bottle of wine.

This time they savored them ever so slowly, without talking, but only smiling at each other with their eyes.

Liliana was her usual self again, cordial and pleasant.
The arancini had performed a miracle, lightening the burden of what she had to tell him.

“If you’re still hungry, I’ve got some excellent cheese.”

“Are you kidding?”

Liliana helped him clear the table and bring a bottle of whisky, two glasses, and an ashtray outside.

Montalbano noticed when she poured herself a hefty dose.

“Could I have a cigarette?”

She smoked it.

“Could you please turn off the light?”

Maybe she was thinking that she would feel more at ease in the dark.

The inspector turned it off. But between the light from the dining room and the moonlight outside, they could still look each other in the eye.

Liliana began speaking softly.

“I want to explain why I didn’t file a report when my car was damaged.”

Montalbano held his breath. He knew from experience that any question at all from him, the mere sound of his voice, might at that moment have a negative effect.

“I know who did it,” she continued.

This time her pause was longer.

“And I wouldn’t want, for any reason in the world, to harm him. It was a childish act, a moment of anger. He won’t do anything like it again, I’m convinced of that.”

She poured herself more whisky.

“Now comes the hardest part for me.”

At that moment the inspector decided to speak.

“Listen, Liliana, as far as I’m concerned, you can stop here. You’re under no obligation to explain your actions to me. Especially if we’re talking about motivations that I presume are, well, strictly personal.”

“But I want to tell you anyway.”

She’d suddenly used the familiar form of address, which put Montalbano slightly ill at ease. It lessened considerably the distance he would rather have maintained.

“Why?”

“Because I want to see you as a friend. I would like to be able to ask you for advice, or help . . . You know, I don’t have anyone to talk to, to confide in . . . Sometimes the situation becomes unbearable for me . . . And you’re a man who conveys such a sense of solidity and self-assurance . . .”

Since they were sitting on the same bench, she slid closer to him, to the point where her body touched his, and continued talking as she lay her head on his shoulder.

Where was she intending to go with this?

“I want you to listen to me. I’m speaking with an open heart, without hiding anything. For two years now, Adriano and I have not had relations. We’ve become strangers to each other. How this came about I really don’t know, but the fact is that it happened. A month after we moved to Vigàta, I found a job in Montelusa, as chief of
sales personnel in a large clothing store for both women and men. It’s called All’ultima moda. Among the sales personnel there was a young man of about twenty, very good-looking, tall, athletic . . .”

In the inspector’s head there appeared a name in giant neon-lit letters: Arturo Tallarita.

But he didn’t open his mouth.

“To make a long story short, I resisted his advances. But then I couldn’t anymore. After a while I realized I was making a big mistake. He was too young, too impulsive, too possessive . . . And so I forbade him to come and see me anymore. The other evening a friend came and picked me up and brought me home quite late. And the following morning my car was . . . well, you saw it yourself. And so, when I went in to work, I called him aside and . . . he started crying. He confessed and begged me not to report him. And that’s the whole story.”

No, it was not the whole story. What about the man with the Volvo? But Liliana was no longer talking. She’d put her arm around his shoulders and held him tight.

“I feel so good with you!” she whispered to him, her lips almost touching his ear. All he had to do was turn his head slightly and . . .

The telephone rang.

“Excuse me,” he said, freeing himself from her embrace.

It was Livia.

“Are you alone?”

Why did she ask that? What, did she have a sixth sense or something? Did a little bird tell her?

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, aren’t we talkative tonight! Can you talk or can’t you?”

“I just said—”

“All right, all right, I won’t bother you any further.”

She hung up.

When he went back out on the veranda, Liliana had stood up and was leaning on the railing.

The magical moment had passed. It was unlikely to return, at least that evening. Montalbano went and stood beside her, firing up a cigarette.

The young woman waited for him to finish smoking it, then said:

“It’s late. I’m going home.”

“Look, if you want to stay a little longer, I’m not . . .”

Liliana looked at her watch and gave a start.

“I didn’t realize it was so late! Oh my God, thanks, but I can’t stay; I really have to run!”

Why was she suddenly in such a hurry?

“I’ll walk you home.”

“No.”

That “no” was so sharp that Montalbano said nothing. Liliana went into the house, followed by the inspector.
Standing inside the still-closed front door, she turned and held out her hand.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, for the arancini, and for being so patient with me.”

“Tomorrow morning at eight?”

“If it’s not too much trouble . . .”

Then all at once she threw her arms around him, kissed him on the lips, opened the door, went out, and closed it behind her.

Montalbano went back out to the veranda and sat down.

Dear, beautiful Liliana hadn’t told him the whole truth. She’d sung only half the Mass. Which, however, was enough for him to explain Arturo’s agitation when he’d shown up at the Tallarita home. Apparently the kid was thinking Liliana had changed her mind and decided to report him for damaging her car. The inspector had to tell Fazio to stop investigating Arturo. It was all clear now.

What remained in total darkness, however, was the way Liliana had behaved with him. She had performed—quite well, he had to admit—the opening moves of a textbook seduction. Tactically perfect. But perhaps it was still too early to try and figure out the reason. He had to wait for another little tête-à-tête before he could see clear on this. At any rate, it was obvious that Liliana wanted him on her side, as an ally.

But against whom?

What was the other half of the Mass?

He made a bet with himself. And having done so, he started laughing.

But before he found out whether he’d won or lost, perhaps it was best to wait a little longer.

And so he poured himself three fingers’ worth of whisky and sipped it slowly, taking his time.

Then he went into the house and opened the front door without bothering to turn out the light in the vestibule.

He started walking down the road. When he came within sight of the gate to the Lombardos’ house, he felt deeply disappointed. He’d been completely mistaken.

He turned around and headed back home. But after taking three steps, he changed his mind and resumed walking towards the Lombardos’ house.

When he got to the gate, he could see the green Volvo parked in the little yard.

Light was filtering through the bedroom shutters.

He’d won the bet.

He slept poorly. It was a mistake not to have taken a nice long walk after eating the arancini.

He woke up at six thirty but needed an entire mug of espresso before he felt in any condition to get as far as the bathroom.

As he was about to enter the shower, he heard the phone ring. It was Fazio.

“Sorry to bother you, Chief, but I wanted to let you know that another bomb went off this morning.”

He cursed the saints. Were these people acquiring a taste for it?

“In front of a shop or apartment building?”

“No, in front of a warehouse.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“A passerby was injured. He was taken to Montelusa Hospital.”

“Anything serious?”

“Nah.”

“Is Augello with you?”

“Yessir.”

“Then there’s no point in me coming. I’ll see you later at the station.”

Liliana was waiting at the gate. Fresh, well rested, and scented, beaming a big smile brighter than the sun. She wasn’t in slacks and blouse, but wearing one of her little home-wrecking dresses.

“Ciao.”

As soon as she got in the car, she turned towards Montalbano and kissed him on the cheek.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

“Not too badly; how about you?”

“I slept great. Like a log, despite the arancini.”

One could see that it did her good. At least this time she didn’t mention babies.

“Shall I leave you at the bus stop?”

“Yes, but first, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go for a minute to the Caffè Castiglione. I want to buy some cannoli for a salesgirl. It’s her birthday today.”

When they got there, she said:

“You come in, too. I’ll treat you to a coffee.”

One should never refuse a coffee. The café was packed with people eating breakfast, a few of whom greeted the inspector. Liliana ordered ten cannoli at the bar and, as they were drinking their coffee, came so close to him that her hip grazed his.

Then she went over to the cash register to pay while the inspector stayed behind, talking to someone he knew.

“Salvo, do you have two euros by any chance?” Liliana called out loudly to him.

Montalbano said good-bye to his acquaintance, went over to the cash register, gave Liliana two euros, and they got back in the car.

After he’d dropped her off at the bus stop and was heading for the office, all Montalbano could do was smile.