The Scent of the Night (8 page)

Montalbano realized that during the half hour in which Fazio had disappeared he was engrossed in Augello's papers. The man was a real cop and by now knew everything about the case.

‘
Why did they line up like that? Did he pay in cash?'

‘
No, Chief. He paid by cheque, wire, credit transfer, and so on. The ones who lined up to wait for him were the old retirees, who got a kick out of receiving their cheques personally from him.'

'Today's the fifth of October. That means he hasn't been heard from for thirty-five days.'

'No, Chief. The secretary in Bologna said the last time she'd seen him was on the twenty-eighth of August. On that occasion Gargano told her that the following day — that is, the twenty-ninth — he'd be leaving to come down here. Since there are thirty-one days in August,
ragioniere
Gargano hasn't been seen for thirty-eight days
’

The inspector looked at his watch, picked up the phone, and dialled a number.

'Hello?'

From her deserted office, Mariastella Cosentino had answered on the first ring, her voice filled with hope. Surely she was dreaming that one day the telephone would ring, and at the other end would be the warm, seductive voice of her beloved boss.

‘M
ontalbano here
’

'Oh
’

The old girl's disappointment took material form, entered the phone line, travelled the distance between them, and crept into the inspector's ear in the form of an annoying itch.

'I need some information, signorina. What means of transport did Mr Gargano normally use when he came to Vigata?'

'He would come by car. His own.'

'Let me rephrase that. Would he drive all the way from Bologna to here?'

'Certainly not. I always bought his return tickets. He would load the car onto the Palermo-Naples ferry, and I would reserve a single cabin for him.'

He thanked her, hung up, and looked at Fazio.

‘
Here's what I want you to do
’

SEVEN

As soon as he opened the door to his home, he realized Adelina had found a moment to come and tidy up. Everything was in order, the books dusted, the floor sparkling clean. But the housekeeper wasn't there. On the kitchen table he found a note:

Mr Inspector,
I’
m
sending my neece Concetta to help out She's a smart an hard workin girl an she gonna make you soman to eat too. I come beck day afta tomorra.

Concetta had emptied the washing machine and spread everything out on the clothes rack. Montalbano's heart sank when he saw the sweater Livia had given him hanging there, reduced to the right size for a ten-year-old kid. It had shrunk. The girl hadn't realized that it was an article that should be washed at a different temperature from the rest A feeling of panic came over him. He had to make it disappear, quick. Destroy all trace of it The only hope was to bu
rn
it, reduce it to ashes. He grabbed it. No, it was still too damp. What to do? Yes, that was it: dig a deep pit in the sand and bury the corpus delicti He could get to work straightaway, under cover of darkness, just like a murderer. He was about to open the French windows that led out onto the veranda when the phone rang. 'Hello?'

'Hi, darling, how are you?
’

It was Livia. Feeling absurdly as if he'd been caught in the act, he gave a little cry, dropping the accursed sweater to the floor and trying to hide it under the table with his foot

'What's happening?' asked Livia.

'Nothing. I burned myself with my cigarette. Did you have a good holiday?'

'Fantastic Just what I needed. And what about you? Any news?'

'The usual stuff.'

For whatever reason, there was always an awkwardness between them, a kind of prudishness, whenever they tried to begin a conversation.

'As agreed,
‘I’ll
be there day after tomorrow.'

There? Where was 'there'? Was Livia coming to Vigata? Why? The idea pleased him, no doubt about that but when had this been 'agreed'? But there was no need to ask any questions; Livia knew by now what he was like.

'Naturally you've forgotten that we agreed on the date a couple of weeks ago. We said: better two days earlier.'

'Come on, Livia, don t get upset, try to be patient.'

‘
You would try the patience of a saint.'

Oh, God, not another cliche! Sow your wild oats, count your chickens before they hatch, or eat like a horse, when you're not putting the cart first!

'Livia, I beg you, please don't talk that way.'

'Sorry, darling, but I talk the way all normal people talk.'

'So, am I abnormal, in your opinion?'

'Let's drop it, Salvo. We'd agreed I would come two days before
Min
i's wedding. Or did you forget
about
Mimì
's wedding too?'

'Actually, yes, I must confess I had forgotten about that, too. Fazio had to remind me that
Mimì
'd already gone on leave to get married. It's very strange.'

'I don't find it strange at all,' said Livia in a tone in which one could hear a polar ice pack forming.

‘
You don't? And why not?'

'Because you don't forget things, you repress them. It's completely different.'

He realized he couldn't put up with this conversation much longer. Aside from cliches and stock phrases, he couldn't stand the sallies of cheap psychoanalysis that Livia all too often liked to indulge in — the kind of stuff you get in American movies where, say, some guy kills fifty-two people and then we find out that it's because one day, when he was a little kid, his father wouldn't let him eat strawberry jam.

'What is it I'm repressing, in the learned opinion of you and your colleagues Freud and Jung?

He heard a sardonic giggle at the other end.

"The very idea of marriage
’
Livia explained.

Polar bears were now wandering across the ice floes in her voice. What to do? React harshly and bring the conversation to a bad end? Or pretend submission, compliance, and equanimity? He opted tactically for the latter course.

'Maybe you're right,' he said in a repentant tone.

It turned out to be a winning move, right on target.

'Let's drop the subject,' Livia said
m
agnanimously.

'Oh, no you don't! I think we should talk about it
’
Montalbano countered, realizing he was now on solid ground.

‘
Now? Over the phone? We'll talk about it calmly when
I’
m
there
’

'OK. Don't forget we still have to buy a wedding present.'

‘
You've got to be kidding!' Livia said, laughing. 'Don't you want to get him one?' asked Montalbano, confused.

I've already bought the present and sent it off! Do you really think I would wait till the last day? I got a nice little thing I'm sure
Mimì
will like. I know his tastes
’

There it was, right on schedule, the usual prick of jealousy. Utterly irrational, but always ready to answer the call

‘I’m
sure you know
Mimì
's tastes quite well.' He couldn't help it; the thrust had come out by itself. A moment's pause from Livia, then the parry: 'Moron.' Another jab:

'And naturally you thought of
Mimì
's tastes and not Beatrice's.'

'No, I checked with Beba by phone and asked her advice.'

Montalbano no longer knew onto what ground he should move the skirmish. Lately their phone conversations had mainly become pretexts for squabbling. The best of it was that this animosity remained independent of the unshakable intensity of their relationship. But then why, when talking on the phone, did they quarrel, on average, at least once every four sentences? Maybe, thought the inspector, it was an effect of the distance between them becoming less and less tolerable with each passing day, since as we grow old — for every now and then one must, yes, look reality in the eye and call things by their proper names — we feel ever more keenly the need to have the person we love beside us. As he was reasoning along these lines (and he liked this line of reasoning, as it was reassuring and banal, like the sayings one finds on the little slip of paper inside Baci Perugina chocolates), he grabbed the sweater from under the table, put it in a plastic bag, opened the armoire, choked on the mothball stink, staggered backwards while kicking the armoire closed, then flung the bag on top .

of it It could stay there for the time being. He would bury it before Livia arrived.

He opened the refrigerator and found nothing special there: a tin of olives, another of anchovies, and a piece of cheese. He cheered up, however, when he opened the oven. Concetta had prepared a platter of
patati cunsati,
an extremely simple dish that could be nothing or everything depending on the hand distributing the seasoning and orchestrating the interaction between the onions and capers, the olives and the vinegar and sugar, the salt and the pepper. At first bite, he became convinced that Concetta was a virtuoso in the kitchen and a worthy understudy to her auntie Adelina. After finishing the hefty platter of
patati cunsati,
he started eating bread and
tumazzo,
not because he was still hungry, but out of sheer gluttony. He remembered he'd always been a glutton and gourmand, ever since childhood. In fact his father used to call him
Uccu cannarutu,
which meant just that glutton and gourmand. The reminiscence was dragging him towards a twinge of emotion, but he boldly resisted with a splash of straight whisky. Then he got ready for bed. First however, he wanted to find a book to read. He couldn't decide between the latest book by Tabucchi and a novel by Simenon, an old one he had never read. As he was reaching out for the Tabucchi, the phone rang. To pick up or not to pick up, that was the question. The idiocy of the sentence that had popped into his mind so mortified him that he decided to answer, however great the hassle that might ensue.

'Am I disturbing you, Salvo? It's
Mimì
.'

‘
Not at all.'

‘
Were you about to go to bed?' 'Well, yes.' 'Are you alone?'

‘
Who else would you expect to be here?' 'Could you give me five minutes?' 'Sure, go ahead.'
‘
Not over the phone.' 'OK, come on over.'

Mimì
certainly didn't want to talk to him about work. About what, then? What could be the problem? Maybe he'd had a spat with Beatrice? A wicked thought entered the inspector's mind. If it turned out
Mimì
'd been
quarel
ling with his fiancee, he would tell him to call Livia. After all, didn't he and Livia understand each other perfectly?

The doorbell rang. Who could that be, at this hour?
Mimì
was out of the question, since it took at least ten minutes to drive from Vigata to Marinella.

‘
Who is it?'

It's me,
Mimì
.'

How did he do that? Then Montalbano understood.
Mimì
must have been in the neighbourhood and called him on his mobile. He opened the door and his assistant came inside, looking pale, downcast, and long-suffering.

'Are you unwell?' Montalbano asked, concerned.

‘
Yes and no
’

‘
What the hell does that mean. "Yes and no"?'

‘I’ll
explain in a minute. Could I have two shots of whisky, neat?' asked
Mimì
, sitting down in a chair next to the table..

The inspector, while pouring the whisky, suddenly froze. Hadn't they already acted out this exact same scene? Hadn't they said almost the exact same words?

Augello emptied his glass in a single gulp, stood up, went and poured himself another glass, and sat back down.

'Healthwise, I think I'm fine,' he said That's not the problem.'

For some time now,
thought Montalbano,
whether in politics, economics, in the public or private spheres, 'that
’
is never the problem,
Somebody will say: "There's too much unemployment,' and the politician will answer 'Actually, that's not the problem.' A husband will ask his wife: Is it true you're cheating on me?' and she will answer: That's not the problem.' But since by now he remembered the script
perfectl
y, he said to
Mimì
:

‘
You no longer want to get married.'
Mimì
looked at him, flabbergasted 'Who told you?'

‘
Nobody. I can see it in your eyes, your face, your whole appearance.'

That's not exactly right. It's a complicated business.'

Since 'that' was not the problem, it was only natural that this would be 'a complicated business'. What would come next? That we were getting ahead of ourselves' or that it was time to 'move on ?

'The fact is
’
Mimì
continued, 'that I absolutely adore Beba. I like to make love to her, I like the way she thinks, the way she speaks, the way she dresses, the way she cooks—'

'But?' asked Montalbano, purposely mterrupting him.
Mimì
had set out on a long and tortuous path: the list of the qualities of the woman one loves could be infinite, like the names of the Lord.

'But I don't feel like marrying her.'

Montalbano didn't breathe a word. Surely there was more to come.

'Or, rather, I do feel like marrying her, but

There was still more.

'Some nights I lie awake counting the hours left till I get married.'

A tortured pause.

'On other nights I wish I could hop on the first flight out to Burkina Faso.'

'Are there a lot of flights from here to Burkina Faso?' Montalbano asked with a cherubic expression.

Mimì
abruptl
y stood up, red in the face.

‘I’m
leaving. I didn't come here to be made fun of.'

Montalbano persuaded him to stay and talk. And
Mimì
embarked on a long monologue. The fact was, he explained that one night he wanted one thing, the next night he wanted the opposite. He felt
torn
in two
. One
minute he felt afraid to take on obligations he couldn't meet, the next minute he was imagining himself a proud father of four. He couldn't make up his mind and was afraid he might cut and run at the moment of saying
‘I
do
’
leaving everybody high and dry. And how could poor Beba ever sustain such a blow?

Like the previous time, they polished off all the whisky there was in the house. The first to collapse was
Mimì
, already worn out from the previous nights and exhausted from his three-hour monologue. He got up and left the room. Montalbano thought he'd gone to the bathroom. He was wrong.
Mimì
had thrown himself diagonally across his bed and was snoring. The inspector cursed the saints, cursed Augello, lay down on the sofa, and little by little fell asleep.

He woke up with a headache, hearing somebody singing in the shower. Who could it be? Suddenly he remembered. He got up, aching all over from his uncomfortable sleep, and ran to the bathroom.
Mimì
was flooding the place as he showered. But he paid no mind and seemed happy. What to do? Knock him out with a blow to the base of the skull? Montalbano went out on the veranda. It was a passable day. He went back into the kitchen, made some coffee, poured himself a cup.
Mimì
made his entry, cleanshaven, fresh, and smiling.

Is there any of that for me?'

Montalbano didn't answer. He didn't know what might come out of his mouth if he opened it.
Mimì
filled his cup halfway with sugar. The inspector felt like throwing up. The guy didn't drink coffee; he turned it into jam and ate it.

After drinking his coffee, or whatever it was, Mirni looked at him
earnestl
y.

'Please forget everything I said to you last night. I've more than made up my mind to marry Beba. It was all bullshit, the kind of passing doubts that get into my head sometimes
’

'May you bear only sons
’
Montalbano sullenly muttered. And as Augello was about to leave, he added, this time in a clear voice: 'And my compliments, by the way
’

Mimì
turned around slowly, as if on his guard. The inspector s tone had been overtly insinuating.

'Your compliments for what?'

‘F
or your work on the Gargano case. It's full of holes.'

'Did you look at my files?' asked Augello, irritated.

'Don't worry, I prefer reading more informative things.'

'Listen, Salvo
’
said
Mimì
, retracing his steps and sitting back down. 'How do I have to explain to you that I only assisted in the investigation, and minimally at that? Everything's in Guarnotta's hands. Bologna's in on it too. So don't get upset with me. I only did what they told me to do.'

‘
Don t they have any idea where the money went?'

'They didn't for as long as I worked on the case. You know how these people operate: they move the money around from one country to another, one bank to another,
setting up companies like Chinese boxes, offshore firms and that kind of stuff, so that you end up wondering if the money ever existed in the first place.'

'So the only person who knows where the loot is would be Gargano?'

In theory, he would be the only one.'

'Explain.'

‘
Well, I guess we can't exclude the possibility he might have had an accomplice. Or that he confided in someone. But I, for one, don't think he would have.'

‘
Why not?
’

'He wasn't the type. He didn't trust his colleagues, kept everything under tight control. The only person with even a little autonomy at the office — and I mean very little — was Giacomo Pellegrino. I think that was his name, or at least that's what the other two employees said, those two women. I wasn't able to question him because he's in Germany and hasn't come back yet'

‘
Who told you he went away?'

'His landlady did.'

'Are you sure Gargano didn't disappear, or wasn't made to disappear, somewhere around here?
’

'Look, Salvo, nobody's come up with any kind of train, boat, or airline ticket proving he went anywhere in the days before his disappearance. Maybe he came here by car, we told ourselves. He did have a digital highway pass, but there's no record of his having used it Paradoxically, Gargano may never have budged from Bologna. Nobody's seen his car around here, and it'd be pretty hard to miss.'

He looked at his watch.

Is there anything else? I wouldn't want Beba to start worrying about me not being at home.'

' This time Montalbano, feeling in a better mood, stood up and accompanied him to the door. Not because Augello had made things seem any easier by what he'd said. But for the exact opposite reason. The difficulty of the case actually made him feel strangely happy and cheerful inside, rather the way the genuine hunter feels when faced with a shrewd, skilled prey.

In the doorway,
Mimì
asked him:

‘
Would you please tell me why you're getting so worked up over the Gargano case?
’

‘
No. I probably don't even know myself. But while we're on the subject, any idea how Francois is doing?'

‘I
talked to my sister yesterday and she said they're all doing fine. You'll see them at the wedding. But why did you say "while we're on the subject"? What has Francois got to do with Gargano?'

It would take too long and too much effort to explain the fright he'd had when it occurred to him the kid's money might have disappeared with the swindling
ragionicre.
That fright, in fact, had been one of the reasons he'd thrown himself headlong into the investigation.

Is that what I said? Bah. I dunno,' he replied with a perfect poker face.

'Fazio, forget what I said to you yesterday.
Mimì
told me they've been doing a lot of serious investigation. No sense in you wasting any more of your time. In any case, they can't even find a dog who's seen Gargano around here.'

'Whatever you say, Chief,' said Fazio.

But he didn't move from where he was standing in front of the inspector's desk.

'Did you want to tell me something?'

‘I
dunno. I found something in Inspector Augello's file. It's a deposition by someone who says he saw Gargano's Alfa
166
on a country road on the night of August the thirty-first.'

Montalbano leapt out of his chair.

'Yeah, and?'

Inspector Augello wrote next to
it
"Not to be taken seriously." So they let it drop
’

‘
Why, for the love of God?
’

"Cause the man's name is Antonino Tommasino.'

'What the fuck do I care what his name is! What matters is—'

‘
You should care, Chief. A couple of years ago this Tommasino went to the carabinieri and reported seeing a sea monster with three heads in the waters off Puntasecca. Then last year he came to our station at the crack of dawn
screaming that he'd seen a flying saucer land You should have seen it, Chief. He told his story to Catarella, who got so spooked he started screaming too. It was total pandemonium, Chief
’

EIGHT

He'd been over an hour signing some papers Fazio had plopped down on his desk with an air of authority — 'Chief, you absolutely have to take care of these, and you're not to move from here until you've finished]' — when the door opened and Augello came in without even knocking. He looked very upset.

'The wedding's been postponed.''

Oh God, his waffling must have taken a turn for the worse.

‘
You changed your mind like a good cuckold?'

‘
No, this morning Beba got a call from her home town of Aidone. Her father's had a heart attack.
Apparentl
y it's not too serious, but she doesn't want to get married without her father. They're very close. She's already left and I'm going to join her later today. If all goes well, well have the wedding in about a month. What am I going to do?'

"What do you mean?' asked Montalbano, puzzled by the question.
‘

‘I
can't hold out for a whole month, lying awake one night counting the days till the wedding, and the next night figuring out ways to run away. By the time I'm walking down the aisle I'll be either in a straitjacket or having a nervous breakdown.'

‘I’ll
keep you from having a nervous breakdown. Tell you what. You go to Aidone, see how things stand, then come back here and you can get back to work.'

He reached for the telephone.

‘I’m
going to tell Livia.'

'No need, I already called her,' said
Mimì
, on his way out.

Montalbano felt a jealous rage well up inside. What? Your future father-in-law has a heart attack, your fiancee's crying and desperate, your wedding's down the drain, and the first thing you do is call Livia? He took a big swipe at the stack of papers, scattering them all over the floor, got up, left, drove to the port, and went on a long walk to dispel his fury.

He didn't know why, but on his way back to the station he decided to go a different way and passed in front of the King Midas office
’
. It was open. He pushed on the glass door and went inside.

A sense of desolate bleakness immediately grabbed him by the throat. Only one lamp in the office was turned on, shedding a funereal light, as at a wake. Mariastella
Cosentino sat behind her cashier's window, immobile, eyes staring fixedly ahead