“Too bad.”
He knew he would never succeed in making her change her mind. He had to resign himself. He cursed under his breath.
As if in response, the telephone rang. It was Fazio.
“Didn’t I tell you to go home and rest?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to leave it all hanging, Chief.”
“What do you want?”
“They just phoned. Inspector Minutolo wanted to know if you could drop by.”
o o o
He arrived in a flash in front of the locked gate. On the way there, it occurred to him he hadn’t told Livia he was going out. Despite their quarrel, he should have. Even if only to avoid another spat. Livia was liable to think he’d gone to spend the night at a hotel out of spite. Too bad.
But now, how was he going to get somebody to open the gate for him? By the light of the headlamps, he could see there was no bell, no intercom, nothing. The only solution was the car horn. He hoped he didn’t have to keep honking until he woke up the whole town. He started with a timid, quick toot, and immediately a man came out of the house.
Fiddling with the keys, the man opened the gate and Montalbano drove through, pulled up, and got of the car. The man who’d come out introduced himself.
“I’m Carlo Mistretta.”
The doctor-brother was a well-dressed man of about fifty-five, rather short, with fine eyeglasses, a ruddy face, little facial hair, and a hint of a potbelly. He looked like a bishop in civvies. He continued: “When your colleague informed me that the kidnappers had called, I came running, because Salvatore felt ill.”
“How is he now?”
“I gave him something I hope will let him sleep.”
“How about his wife?”
The doctor threw his hands up by way of reply.
“Has she still not been informed of the—”
“No,” the doctor said, “that’s the last thing she needs. Salvatore told her Susanna’s in Palermo for exams. But my poor sister-in-law is not exactly lucid; she often goes blank for whole hours at a time.” In the living room there was only Fazio, who’d fallen asleep in the usual armchair, and Fifì Minutolo, sitting in the other armchair, smoking a cigar. The French doors were wide open, letting in cool, penetrating air.
“Were you able to find out where the phone call was made from?” was the first thing Montalbano asked.
“No. It was too brief,” replied Minutolo. “Now listen up; we can discuss things later.”
“Okay.”
As soon as he sensed Montalbano’s presence, Fazio, with a kind of animal reflex, opened his eyes and leapt to his feet.
“So you’re here, Chief? You want to listen? Sit down here in my place.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on the tape recorder.
“Hello? Who is this? This is the Mistretta residence. Who is this?”
. . .
“Who is this?”
“Listen to me and don’t interrupt.The girl is here with us, and she’s doing all right for now. Recognize her voice?”
. . .
“Papa . . . Papa . . . please . . . help . . .”
. . .
“Did you hear? Get a lot of money ready. I’ll call again day after tomorrow.”
. . .
“Hello? Hello? Hello?”
. . .
“Play it over again,” said the inspector.
The last thing he wanted to do was to listen again to the fathomless despair in that girl’s voice, but he had to do it. As a precaution, he covered his eyes with one hand, in case his emotions got the better of him.
After the second listening, Dr. Mistretta, face buried in his hands, shoulders heaving with sobs, rushed out, almost running into the garden.
“He’s very fond of his niece,” Minutolo commented.
Then, looking at Montalbano: “So?”
“That was a recorded message. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“The man’s voice is disguised.”
“Clearly.”
“And there are at least two of them. Susanna’s voice is in the background, a bit far from the recorder. When the man making the recording says, ‘Recognize her voice?’ a few seconds pass before Susanna speaks, the time it takes for his accomplice to lower her gag. Then he gags her again almost immediately, cutting her off in the middle of her plea, which was surely supposed to be ‘Help me.’ What do you think?” “I think there may only be one of them. First he says, ‘Recognize her voice?’ then he goes over and removes the gag.”
“That’s not possible, because in that case the pause between the kidnapper’s question and Susanna’s voice would have been longer.”
“Okay. You know something?”
“No. You’re the expert.”
“They’re not following the usual procedure.”
“Explain.”
“Well, what is the usual procedure for a kidnapping?
There are the manual laborers—let’s call them Group B—
who are given the task of physically carrying out the kidnapping. After which Group B hands the kidnapped person over to Group C, that is, those in charge of hiding her and taking care of her—more grunt work. At this point Group A comes on the scene. These are the ringleaders, the organizers who will demand the ransom. All these transitions take time, and therefore the ransom request is usually not made until a few days after the kidnapping. Whereas, in our case, it took only a few hours.” “And what does this mean?”
“In my opinion, it means the group that kidnapped Susanna is the same one that is holding her prisoner and demand-ing the ransom. It might be a family outfit on a low budget.
And if they’re not professional, that complicates matters and makes it more dangerous for the girl. Follow me?”
“Perfectly.”
“It may also mean they’re holding her somewhere not very far away.” He paused, looking pensive. “On the other hand, it doesn’t look like some fly-by-night kidnapping either.
In those cases the ransom demand is usually made with the first contact. They have no time to waste.”
“This business of letting us hear Susanna’s voice,” said Montalbano, “is it normal? I don’t think—”
“You’re right,” said Minutolo. “It never happens. You only see it in movies. What usually occurs is that if you don’t want to pay up, they wait a bit and then have the victim write a couple of lines to persuade you. Or they might send you a piece of his ear. That’s usually the only kind of contact they allow between victim and family.” “Did you notice how they spoke?”
“How did they speak?”
“In perfect Italian, with no regional inflection.”
“You’re right.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“What do you want me to do? I’m going to call the com missioner and tell him the news.”
“That phone call has got me confused,” said Montalbano in conclusion.
“Me, too,” Minutolo agreed.
“Tell me something. Why did you let Mistretta talk to a newsman?”
“To jump-start things, speed up the tempo. I don’t like the idea of a girl so pretty being at the mercy of people like that for very long.”
“Are you going to tell the media about this phone call?”
“Not even in my dreams.”
That was all, for the moment. The inspector went up to Fazio, who had fallen back asleep, and shook his shoulder.
“Wake up, I’ll take you home.”
Fazio put up a feeble resistance.
“Come on. At any rate, they’re not going to call back until day after tomorrow. They told you themselves, didn’t they?”
o o o
After dropping Fazio off, he headed home. Entering without a sound, he went into the bathroom and then got ready to lie down on the sofa. He was too tired even to curse the saints. As he was taking off his shirt, he noticed, in the dark, that the bedroom door was ajar. Apparently Livia was sorry for having ban-ished him. He went back in the bathroom, finished undressing, tiptoed into the bedroom, and lay down. A short spell later, he stretched out close to Livia, who was in a deep sleep. The minute he closed his eyes he was in dreamland. Then suddenly, clack. Time’s spring jammed. Without looking at the clock, he knew it was three-twenty-seven and forty seconds. How long had he slept? Luckily he fell back asleep almost at once.