The Age of Doubt (11 page)

He didn’t feel like going there personally in person. He couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Laura, especially after she’d surely spent the night with Mimì.

“And what if she asks me why I need all this information?”

“I think you can speak freely with her. Tell her we have strong suspicions the killing occurred aboard the cruiser.”

It was half past twelve when the outside line rang. It was Mimì Augello.

“She’s taken the bait.”

“In what sense?”

“In the way that we wanted. Laura took me aboard and then left immediately. I told the lie about the fuel and had them fill a jerry can with a sampling. La Giovannini didn’t leave me alone for a minute. Among other things, she convinced me she really knows her engines.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“From the wharf. I came off the boat to put the jerry can in my car. But I have to go aboard again because I’ve been kindly invited to stay for lunch. The lady has set her sights on me and won’t let up.”

“What do you think you’ll do next?”

“The captain will also be there at lunch, but I’m hoping to find a moment where I can ask her out to dinner, alone, tonight. I think she’ll accept. I get the impression the lady wants to eat me alive.”

“Bear in mind, Mimì, that La Giovannini has gone and protested to Tommaseo that the yacht is being detained illegally. Tommaseo wanted to give her permission to leave right away, but I got him to give me one more day. So time is running out. Got that?”

“Got it.”

It was a beautiful day. The sky looked as if it had received a new coat of paint during the night, and yet the moment he got in his car to go eat at Enzo’s, a sudden bout of melancholy descended on him with such force that everything—sky, buildings, people—turned grey all at once, as on the darkest of winter days.

Even his appetite, already skimpy, suddenly deserted him. No, there was no point in going to the trattoria; the only thing to do was to go home, unplug the telephone, undress, get in bed, and pull the sheets up over his head and blot out the whole world. But what if, for example, Fazio had something important to tell him?

He got back out of the car and went to see Catarella.

“If anyone asks for me, I’m at home. I’ll be back at work around four.”

He got back in the car and drove off.

Naturally, though covered so thoroughly by the bedsheets he looked like a mummy, he couldn’t fall asleep.

There was no wonder as to the cause of this bout of melancholy. He knew it perfectly well. It even had a name: Laura. Perhaps the moment had come to consider the whole matter in the most dispassionate manner possible, provided, of course, that he could manage to be dispassionate.

He had liked Laura a great deal at first sight. He’d felt something emotional, something deep, almost moving, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since the days of his youth.

But this probably wasn’t something that happened only to him. No doubt it happened to a great many men well past the age of fifty. But what was it? Nothing more than a desperate, and useless, attempt to feel young again, as if the feeling alone could wipe out the years.

And this was precisely what was muddying the waters, because he could no longer tell whether this feeling was real and genuine or false and artificial, since it arose in fact from the illusion of being able to turn the clock back. Hadn’t the same thing happened to him with
the equestrienne? With Laura, however, he hadn’t had a chance to put his thoughts in order. He was letting himself be carried away by the current he himself had created when the unforeseeable had happened.

That is, when Laura had told him she felt the same attraction to him. And how had he reacted?

He’d felt simultaneously scared and happy.

Happy because the girl loved him? Or because he’d succeeded, despite his age, in making a young woman fall in love with him?

There was a pretty big difference between the two.

And didn’t fearing the consequences actually mean that the intensity of his feeling was weak enough to allow him still to consider it rationally?

In matters of love, reason either resigns or sits back and waits. If it’s still present and functioning, and forces you to consider the negative aspects of the relationship, it means it’s not true love.

Or maybe that wasn’t quite the way things were.

Maybe the fear had arisen in him from the very feeling he’d had when hearing Laura’s words. The sense, that is, that he wasn’t up to the task. That he no longer had the strength to bear the violence of a genuine emotion.

This last consideration—perhaps the most accurate so far—gave rise to a suspicion in him.

When he’d thought of using Laura to put Mimì in contact with the owner of the yacht, did he not, perhaps, have another, inadmissible, intention?

Feel like saying it out loud, Montalbà?

Didn’t you know that by introducing Laura to Mimì, the whole thing risked taking a different turn? Had you not factored this in? Or—and here, please try to be sincere—had you factored it in to perfection? Didn’t you have a secret wish that Laura would end up in Mimì’s bed? Didn’t you practically pass him off to her with your own two hands?

For this last question he had no answer.

He lay in bed for another half hour or so, then got up.

But he’d achieved a fine result. His melancholy, instead of dissipating, had increased and turned into a black mood. “Black mood at sunset,” as Vittorio Alfieri once put it.

11

“Ahh, Chief Chief! Dacter Pisquano phoned lookin’ f’yiz sayin’ as how as ’e’s lookin’ f’yiz a talk t’yiz poissonally in—”

“Did he say whether he’d call back?”

“—poisson. Nah, Chief. ’E said sumpin’ ellis.”

“What’d he say?”

“’E said as how y’oughter call ’im atta Isstitute a Lethal Midicine.”

“It’s
Legal
Medicine, Cat, not
lethal
medicine.”

“Iss whatever it is, Chief, ’slong as y’unnastand.”

“Call the Institute and when you’ve got the doctor on the line, put him through to me.”

About ten minutes later, the telephone rang.

“What’s going on, Doctor?” the inspector asked.

“Are you surprised?”

“Of course. A phone call from you is so rare an occurrence, we’re liable to get an earthquake tomorrow!”

“Well, aren’t you the wit! Listen, since the mountain didn’t come to Mohammed, Mohammed has gone to the mountain.”

“But in this specific case, the mountain had no reason to go to Mohammed.”

“That’s true. Which is why this time it was up to me to come and break
your
balls.”

“Go right ahead. It’ll make up for all the times I’ve done the same to you.”

“Not so fast, my friend! Don’t get smart with me! I’ve still got a lot of credit left! You can’t compare the incessant, humongous ball-bustings I’ve had to put up with, with this one—”

“Okay, okay. Don’t keep me on tenterhooks.”

“See what old age does? You used to hate clichés and now you’re using them! At any rate, I’m writing up the report on the unknown corpse found in the dinghy.”

“While we’re on the subject, I should tell you that he’s no longer unknown. I found his passport, which says his name is Émile Lannec, French, born at—”

“I couldn’t give a flying fuck.”

“About what?”

“About his name or the fact that he’s French . . . To me he’s just a corpse and nothing else. I wanted to tell you that I performed a second autopsy because there was something that had left me wondering.”

“Namely?”

“I’d noticed some scars, despite the fact that they’d smashed up his face . . . It looked like he’d had it remade.”

“What?”

“Is your question an expression of surprise or do you want to know
what
he’d had remade?”

“Doctor, I understood perfectly well that he’d had his face remade.”

“What a relief! You see, there
are
a few things you can still grasp.”

“Are you sure he’d had such an operation?”

“Absolutely certain. And it wasn’t just a snip here and a tuck there, mind you, but a major transformation.”

“But why then—”

“Listen, I’m not interested in your whys and wherefores. It’s not up to me to give you the answers. You have to find them yourself. Or, at your advanced age, are your brain cells so deteriorated that—”

“You know what I say to you, Doctor?”

“No need to tell me. I can intuit exactly what you want to say to me, and I return the compliment with all my heart.”

When he carefully considered the information Pasquano had just given him, it wasn’t as if it changed the general picture much.

What difference did it really make whether the Frenchman’s face was the one Mother Nature had given him or a fake, remade face?

Whoever killed him wanted to make it so that the dead man’s face, whatever it was at that time, couldn’t be recognized. Why?

He’d already dealt with this question, but maybe it was best to come back to it for a minute.

Especially because, searching Lannec after he was dead, the killers realized he didn’t have his passport on him. And so they rightly concluded he’d left it at the hotel. Therefore, if the victim’s face appeared on television or in the newspapers, it would be easy for the hotel people to . . .

Wait a second, Montalbà!

He grabbed the phone book, looked up the number of the Bellavista Hotel, and dialed it.

An unknown voice picked up. In must have been the day-shift porter.

“Inspector Montalbano here.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Is Signor Toscano there?’

“He called to say he wouldn’t be in today. You can reach him at the furniture factory.”

“Could you please give me the number?”

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.