“No, Salvo. He swore up and down that he found it exactly the way you see it there.”
“Post a guard next to it. And don’t let anybody touch it, or forensics will go ballistic. Have you found anything?”
“Not a thing. And to think the girl had a small knapsack with her books and things, a cell phone, a wallet she always kept in the back pocket of her jeans, the housekeys . . . But nothing. It’s as if she ran into somebody she knew and propped the motorbike against the wall so she could talk to him.” Montalbano seemed not to be listening, and Mimì noticed.
“What is it, Salvo?”
“I don’t know, but something doesn’t look right to me,” Montalbano muttered.
And he started taking a few steps backward, as one does to get a better look at something, to take it all in from the right angle. Augello also stepped back, but only mechanically, because the inspector had done so.
“It’s backwards,” Montalbano concluded a moment later.
“What is?”
“The motorbike. Look at it, Mimì. The way we see it right now, at a standstill, we should think it was going to Vigàta.”
Mimì looked, then shook his head.
“That’s true. But on that side of the road, it would be going the wrong way. If it was going in the direction of Vigàta, it should be on the other side, leaning against the wall opposite.” “As if a moped cared if it was going the wrong way! Hell, you find those things on the landing outside your apartment!
They’ll drive right through your legs if they can! Forget about it. But if the girl was coming from Vigàta, the front wheel of the motorbike should be pointed in the opposite direction. So my question is: Why is the bike positioned the way it is?” “Jesus, Salvo, there could be a lot of reasons for that.
Maybe she turned the bike around to prop it up a little better against the wall . . . Or maybe she herself turned around after she saw someone she recognized . . .”
“Anything is possible,” Montalbano cut him off. “I’m going over to the house. Come and join me after you’ve finished searching here. And don’t forget to post a guard.”
o o o
The villa was a two-storey building and must have once been rather beautiful. Now, however, it showed signs of neglect.
And when one loses interest in a house, it can tell, and it seems to plunge into a kind of premature old age. The sturdy wrought-iron gate was ajar.
The inspector entered a large living room furnished with dark, massive nineteenth-century antiques, but at first glance it looked like a museum, as it was full of small Pre-Columbian statues and African masks. Travel souvenirs of the geologist, Salvatore Mistretta. In one corner of the room there were two armchairs, a small table with a telephone on top, and a television. Fazio and a man who must have been Mistretta were sitting in the armchairs, eyes glued to the television screen. When Montalbano entered, the man gave Fazio a questioning look.
“This is Inspector Montalbano. And this is Signor Mistretta.”
The man came forward with his hand extended. Montalbano shook it without speaking. The geologist was a thin man of about sixty, with a face as baked as one of those South American statuettes, stooped shoulders, a mop of white hair, and a pair of blue eyes that wandered around the room like a drug addict’s. Apparently the tension was eating away at him.
“No news?” asked Montalbano.
The geologist threw his hands up disconsolately.
“I’d like to have a word with you,” the inspector went on.
“Could we go outside?”
For no apparent reason he felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was stuffy in the living room, and not a ray of light filtered in, despite two big French doors. Mistretta hesitated, then turned to Fazio.
“If somebody rings the bell upstairs, could you please let me know?”
“Of course,” said Fazio.
They went out. The garden surrounding the villa was in a state of utter abandon, now little more than a field of wild, yellowing plants.
“This way,” said the geologist.
He led the inspector to a hemicycle of wooden benches at the center of a kind of orderly, well-tended oasis of green.
“This is where Susanna comes to stu—”
Unable to continue, he collapsed onto a bench. The inspector sat down beside him and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“Do you smoke?”
What had Dr. Strazzera advised him to do? “Try to stop smoking, if possible.”
At the moment, it was not possible.
“I’d stopped, but in these circumstances . . .”said Mistretta.
You see, dear distinguished Dr. Strazzera? Sometimes one simply cannot do without it.
The inspector held out a cigarette for him and then lit it.
They smoked awhile in silence, then Montalbano asked:
“Is your wife sick?”
“She’s dying.”
“Does she know what’s happened?”
“No. She’s on tranquilizers and sedatives. My brother Carlo, who’s a doctor, spent last night with her. He just left, in fact. But . . .”
“But?”
“But my wife, even in this induced state of sleep, keeps calling for Susanna, as if she mysteriously understands that something . . .”
The inspector felt himself sweating. How was he ever going to talk to the man about his daughter’s kidnapping when his wife was dying? The only way, perhaps, was to adopt an official, bureaucratic tone, the kind of tone that precludes, by its very nature, any form of humanity.
“Mr. Mistretta, I have to inform those in charge about the kidnapping. The judge, the commissioner, my colleagues in Montelusa . . . And you can rest assured that the news will also reach the ears of some newsman who will race here with the inevitable camera crew . . . The reason I’m stalling is that I want to be absolutely certain.” “Certain of what?”
“That it’s really a kidnapping we’re dealing with.”
03
The geologist gave him a puzzled look.
“What else could it be?”
“Let me first say that I have no choice but to make conjectures, however unpleasant.”
“I understand.”
“One question. Does your wife need a lot of care?”
“Nonstop, day and night.”
“Who looks after her?”
“Susanna and I take turns.”
“How long has she been in this condition?”
“Things got worse about six months ago.”
“Is it possible that after being frayed for so long, Susanna’s nerves finally gave out?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Isn’t it possible that, seeing her mother always in that state, your daughter got so worn out from all the sleepless nights and study that she ran away of her own free will from what had become an unbearable situation?” The reply didn’t come immediately.
“That’s out of the question. Susanna is strong and generous. She would never do that to me. Never. And anyway, where would she hide?”
“Did she have any money on her?”
“I dunno, maybe thirty euros, at the most.”
“Doesn’t she have any relatives or friends she’s particularly fond of?”
“There’s only my brother, whom she would go visit at his house, but not very often. And she would meet with that boy who helped me in my search. They’d often go to the movies together or out for pizza. But there’s nobody else she was close to.” “What about the girl she was studying with?”
“She’s just a study companion, I think.”
Now they came to the difficult part, and the inspector had to be careful not to further offend this wounded man with his questions. He took a deep breath. The morning air was, in spite of everything, sweet and fragrant.
“Listen, your daughter’s boyfriend . . . what’s his name?”
“Francesco. Francesco Lipari.”
“Did Susan get along well with Francesco?”