Game of Mirrors (7 page)

How skillful Liliana had been in showing everyone in the café that she and the inspector were close friends! And perhaps even more than friends.

He would have bet the family jewels that her purse
was full of coins, and she’d done what she did just so she could call him by name in front of everyone.

Little by little, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place.

“Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief!”

This was the special litany that Catarella intoned whenever there’d been a call from Mr. C’mishner.

“Did the commissioner call?”

“Yessir, ’e did, not ten minutes ago. ’E wannit a talk t’yiz or Isspector Augello, an’ seein’ as how ya wasn’t onna premisses yet, I put the call true to Isspector Augello, ’oo was hisself onna premisses, afore ’e left immidiotly after talkin’ to him, him bein’ him, meanin’ the same one, hizzoner the c’mishner.”

Entering his office, the inspector found Fazio already there.

“Do you know what the commissioner wanted?”

“No.”

“So, tell me about this bomb.”

“Well, Chief, it was exactly the same as the one in Via Pisacane. Stuck inside a cardboard box, which they put in front of the metal shutter of a warehouse in Via Palermo.”

“What kind of warehouse?”

“That’s just it. It was another empty warehouse.”

“Really?!”

“It’s been unlet for three months.”

“Who does it belong to?”

“It used to belong to a retiree by the name of Agostino Cicarello, a postal employee. He died last month. I talked to his wife. It was his only possession.”

“So we have to rule out the protection racket?”

“Of course. And I would add that there’s really no chance of a mistake in this case, because the warehouse is isolated. There are no other houses or apartment blocks nearby.”

“But what are they trying to prove?”

“No idea,” said Fazio, standing up.

“Where are you going?”

“To Montelusa to take the bullet to my friend in Forensics, like you said.”

“Ah yes, thanks. And listen, you needn’t bother with Arturo Tallarita anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because I found out why he was so nervous when I met him. He was the guy who busted up Signora Lombardo’s car.”

“And how did you find that out?”

“Signora Lombardo told me herself, last night.”

“Ah,” said Fazio.

And he didn’t budge.

“What is it?”

“When you first spoke to me about Arturo, I thought he might be nervous for another reason.”

“Namely?”

“That he knew about the rumor about his father wanting to collaborate with the authorities, and he was scared.”

“By the bomb?”

“No, not by the bomb, but by Carlo Nicotra, who lives in the same building.”

“What’s Nicotra got to do with it?”

“Tallarita senior was dealing for Nicotra.”

Montalbano thought about this for a minute.

“Then keep working on Arturo and the other tenants.”

Midmorning Catarella rang him. It took some effort to pick up the receiver, as his arm had gone stiff, worn out from signing too many papers.

“Chief, ’at’d be summon ’ass not onna line in so much as ’e’s onna premisses, a Signor McKennick, an’ ’e wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”

“Wha’d you say his name was, McKennick?”

Catarella didn’t answer.

“Have you lost your voice, Cat?”

“Nossir, I c’n talk, but ya gotta unnastan’, Chief, I dunno what ’is name is, bu’ if ya want, I c’n ask ’im.”

“So why’d you say McKennick?”

“’Cuz ’ass what ’e is, a mckennic.”

Now the inspector understood. It must be Todaro, the body shop mechanic working on his car.

“Show him in.”

Todaro was a tall, big man with red hair, and Montalbano liked him. Despite his bulk, he was rather shy.

The inspector shook his hand and sat him down.

“Tell me everything, Todà.”

“I’m sorry, Inspector, but isn’t Fazio around?”

“No, he just went out.”

Todaro twisted up his mouth.

“Too bad; it woulda been better if he was here.”

“Why?”

“So he could confirm what I think he said when he brought me the car.”

“And what did he say?”

“That the hole was made onna afternoon of the same day when you got stuck inna middle of a shoot-out wit’ the carabinieri and a getaway car.”

He decided not to tell him that he hadn’t the slightest idea what had really gone down.

“That’s correct.”

Todaro looked like he didn’t know what to do next.

“Well, then, if you confirm it yisself . . . ,” he said after a pause, by way of conclusion, and started to get up.

“Wait,” said Montalbano. “What did you want to tell me?”

“But now I dunno if iss really true or not.”

“Don’t worry. Is there something that doesn’t add up for you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t wanna stick my nose where it don’t
belong . . . When you or Fazio says somethin’, for me iss the Gospel truth.”

The inspector fell prey again to the same doubts that had assailed him after Vannutelli had ruled out the possibility that the rifle shots could have been fired from one of the cars stuck in traffic. Maybe the mechanic had discovered something that might help to explain the mystery.

“Forget about the Gospel and tell me straight.”

“Sorry if I ask a quession first . . . Can I?”

Shit, what a pain!

“Go ahead.”

“After the shoot-out, did you drive the car a long ways on some country road or unpaved track?”

“Not a chance! I went to Montelusa, parked in a paved lot, and then came back here.”

“Ah,” said Todaro.

“But what is it you’re not convinced about?”

“In my opinion the hole was made earlier.”

Montalbano pricked up his ears.

“Are you sure?”

Todaro squirmed in his chair.

“Well, it don’t really matter to me one way or another, and iss not like I’m just curious or somethin’, but I figgered it was my duty . . .”

“Okay, okay, but tell me please how you arrived at that conclusion.”

“The same evening Fazio brought me the car, I got down to work right away and noticed what I just said. I
din’t tell you sooner ’cause I thought it wasn’t none o’ my business, but then I made up my mind. An’ so I tried to call you last night at the station, but they said you went home, and so I tried you at home, but there was no answer.”

The inspector was starting to lose patience.

“All right, but what exactly did you notice?”

“Well, the hole where the bullet entered lifted up a little of the paint all around, but not enough to make it fall. It formed sort of a little pocket. You know what I mean?”

“Perfectly.”

“An’ so, inside this little pocket, I found a lotta dust, more than coulda accumulated in just half a day.”

He had a sharp eye, this mechanic.

“And there’s somethin’ else,” he continued.

“Tell me.”

“I’ve worked on a lotta police cars that got shot up by guns and machine guns an’ so on . . . Some bullets, when they pass through a sheet o’ metal, they produce a kind of rust on the inside of the hole. But you only start to notice this at least twenty-four hours later. It can’t happen in just half a day. And in fact, now you can see it on your car, but it wasn’t there when Fazio brought it in to me.”

The inspector gave him an admiring look.

“Why don’t you get yourself hired as a consultant for the Forensics lab? You’re better than a lot of them.”

“Thanks. But I think I’m even better workin’ in a body shop.”

After Todaro had left, Montalbano lingered another half hour in his office, racking his brain over the problem at hand.

It wasn’t remotely possible that he was inside the car when the shot was fired. He would necessarily have noticed it; there was no getting around this fact. Unless he had fainted. And he hadn’t fainted.

Therefore, according to logic, the shot was fired at his car when he wasn’t there.

But when was it fired, then? And where?

Certainly not when the car was parked outside the Free Channel studios. Nor when it was parked outside his house in Marinella. The shot would have woken him up, even in the middle of the night.

Over the past few days he had done nothing but drive back and forth between Vigàta and Marinella, with one excursion to Montelusa.

Where had he parked the car for an extended period of time? Ah yes, outside the front door to Adelina’s building.

Could they possibly have shot at the car then?

“May I?” Mimì Augello called from the doorway.

“Come in and sit down. What did the commissioner want?”

“Apparently the unions are organizing a demonstration.”

“You call that news?”

“I’m talking about our unions, the police unions. It’s going to be a national demonstration, outside of Parliament, to protest the cuts.”

“So what’s Mr. Commissioner got to do with any of it? Does it bother him? Does he want to prevent it?”

“He just wanted to know what the situation was in our department.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I said I didn’t know. Which is the truth.”

“You did the right thing. But please do me a favor and try to find out a little more about the situation.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want us to make a bad impression. I want us to be well represented at the demonstration. Got that?”

“Got it,” said Mimì.

Fazio came back late, when Montalbano was already thinking about going to eat.

He had an expression fit for a grand occasion.

“Find anything out?”

“I’ve got something big.”

“Talk.”

“My friend in Forensics says the bullet is from an unusual kind of shell used with high-precision rifles, the kind with a telescope.”

“Like the one used to kill Kennedy?”

“More or less. But he couldn’t tell me any more than that.”

“Now I’ve got something to tell you.”

And he told him what Todaro, the mechanic, had said.

“The only possible explanation,” said Fazio, “is that they shot at your car when you weren’t around.”

“I came to the same conclusion,” the inspector agreed.

“Nor can it be considered a threat or an attempt to intimidate you,” Fazio went on. “If I hadn’t told you myself, you might never even have noticed the hole. If they’d wanted to send you a clear warning, one that you would be sure to receive, they would have fired a burst from an automatic weapon all along the side of the car.”

“And in conclusion?”

“In my opinion, it was a stray shot. Somebody taking target practice. It had nothing to do with you.”

“What? So how did it happen? And when?”

Fazio threw up his hands.

“Let’s change the subject,” the inspector said abruptly. “Didn’t you say you had something big?”

“Ah, so I did. Since I was already in Montelusa, I dropped in at the clothing store. No harm in that, since nobody knows me there.”

“Not even Arturo Tallarita?”

“I don’t think the kid knows me. Anyway, even if he did recognize me, so much the better. That would make
him even more nervous. And when people are nervous they say and do stupid things.”

“Go on.”

“The store is really big. Takes up three floors. Well stocked, too. It has fancy clothes as well as cheap clothes. Very convenient. You should probably have a look there yourself.”

The inspector gave him a puzzled look.

“Are they paying you to advertise?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m doing it for free.”

What, did everyone want to waste his time that morning?

“When I got there,” Fazio continued, “I saw Tallarita serving a customer on the ground floor, and then I saw Signora Lombardo on the second floor. There are at least ten salespersons, male and female. Then I noticed a suit I liked. And a salesman showed me into one of the dressing rooms to try it on. It was the second to the last.”

Montalbano huffed.

“Just be patient for a minute. These dressing rooms are all in a row and have only sliding curtains of fabric between them. At the back they each have a large mirror. I’d just taken my trousers off when I heard two people come into the cubicle next to mine, which was the last in the row. I put on the new trousers and looked at myself in the mirror.”

“How’d they look?”

Fazio gave him a look as if wondering whether the
inspector was making fun of him, but he said nothing and continued his story.

“Apparently the dividing curtain between the cubicles hadn’t been closed all the way, because my mirror was reflecting the image from the mirror in the next cubicle, and—”

“Wait a second. If the mirrors in the cubicles are all one beside the other—that is, all facing the same direction—then your mirror couldn’t have reflected the image from—”

“No, it could, in fact, because the mirror in the last cubicle wasn’t situated at the back, facing the entrance, as in all the others, but was on the right side. Understand?”

“Perfectly. And what did you see?”

“I saw Arturo and Signora Lombardo kissing. They were completely out of control.”

The blow was brutal.

Another game of mirrors. This time not even metaphorical. But it had served to reveal a truth.

Montalbano reacted to this flustering news as only he could.

“So did you buy the suit in the end?” he asked.

He went to the trattoria and ate listlessly, no doubt because of what Fazio had told him. Enzo noticed.

“What’s wrong, Inspector?”

“Worries.”

Enzo repeated a saying he liked very much.

“The cock and the belly want no worries.”

The problem was that you had to carry your worries with you whether you liked it or not. They weren’t like an umbrella you could leave at the entrance.

During his walk along the jetty, and when he sat down on the flat rock, all he could think of was Liliana and Arturo kissing on the sly in the dressing room.

It was clear that the girl hadn’t sung even half the Mass to him, as he’d believed.

Maybe barely a quarter of the Mass.

And who knew whether, in this labyrinth of lies, it was even true that it was Arturo who had damaged her car?

Or had Fazio perhaps witnessed a sudden, violent rekindling of the flame, something which in general is rather dangerous?

In the current state of affairs, the inspector found himself faced with a series of occurrences without any apparent reason behind any of them.

To recapitulate:

When, how, and why did somebody shoot at his car?

Why were they putting bombs in front of empty warehouses?

Why had Liliana gone and told him a string of whoppers?

And why had she wanted people to think that she was a close friend of his or maybe more?

Dense fog.

Maybe ten years ago—he thought bitterly—he would at least have been able to outline the beginning of an answer to these questions.

Now, instead, he proceeded in slow motion on everything, one foot up, the other foot down. Like . . .

Like an old man, truth be told.

He could no longer make the sudden sidestep, the one that allows you to advance, that—

Let’s not start again with this pain-in-the-ass stuff about old age setting in!
Montalbano Two butted in.
You’re just fabricating a convenient excuse! And you’re also a hypocrite because you are well aware of this. So if you need your own shoulder to cry on, to let yourself go, then go right ahead, be my guest, but only for five minutes, because otherwise you’re just busting your own balls and everyone else’s!

At that very moment a possible answer to one of the many questions besieging him popped into the inspector’s head.

Thanks for your help, I really appreciate it
, said Montalbano One to Montalbano Two.

And he dashed off to the station.

In the parking lot, before getting out of the car, he grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down the license plate number of the green Volvo. If he simply told Catarella the number,
the guy was liable to make such a muddle of things that nobody would understand anything anymore.

“Cat, I want to know who this car belongs to. Call up
the ACI
, the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, God in heaven if you like, but I want an answer within fifteen minutes, max.”

Catarella was as punctual as a Swiss watch. He rang the inspector just as time was running out.

“Chief, the atomobile in quession is the propriety o’ Signor Addonato Miccichè, who’s from ’ere, meanin’ to say ’e lives an’ resides in Vigàta.”

“Did you get the address?”

“Yessir, Via Pissaviacane, nummer twenny-six.”

Montalbano leapt out of his chair. That place again?

“Are you sure about that?”

“Abou’ wha’?”

“About the address.”

“Sure as death, Chief.”

Montalbano remained undecided for a moment. Should he call this Miccichè up on the phone or go and meet him in person? He decided on the latter option. People not notified in advance have no time to invent a convenient story.