He ran into the kitchen, put a pot under the faucet to collect the meager trickle that came out, and did the same in the bathroom sink. With the bit of water thus collected, he somehow managed to rinse the soap off his body, but the whole procedure certainly didn’t help his mood.
While driving to Vigàta, yelling obscenities at all the mo-torists to cross his path—whose only use for the Highway Code, in his opinion, was to wipe their asses with it, one way or another—he remembered Catarella’s phone call and the explanation he’d come up with for it, which didn’t make sense. If Valente had needed him for some homicide that took place in Mazàra, he would have called him at home, not at headquarters. He had concocted that explanation for convenience’s sake, to unburden his conscience and sleep for another two hours in peace.
o o o
“There’s absolutely nobody here!” Catarella told him as soon as he saw him, respectfully rising from his chair at the switchboard. Montalbano had decided, with Sergeant Fazio’s agreement, that this was the best place for him. Even with his habit of passing on the wildest, most unlikely phone calls, he would surely do less damage there than anywhere else.
“What is it, a holiday?”
“No, Chief, it’s not a holiday. They’re all down at the port because of that dead guy in Mazàra I called you about, if you remember, sometime early this morning or thereabouts.” “But if the dead guy’s in Mazàra, what are they all doing at the port?”
“No, Chief, the dead guy’s here.”
“But, Jesus Christ, if the dead guy’s here, why the hell are you telling me he’s in Mazàra?”
“Because he was from Mazàra. That’s where he worked.”
“Cat,think for a minute,so to speak . . . or whatever it is that you do: if a tourist from Bergamo was killed here inVigàta, what would you tell me? That somebody was killed in Bergamo?” “Chief, the point is, this dead guy was just passing through. I mean, they shot him when he was on a fishing boat from Mazàra.”
“Who shot him?”
“The Tunisians did, Chief.”
Montalbano gave up, demoralized.
“Did Augello also go down to the port?”
“Yessir.”
His second-in-command, Mimì Augello, would be de lighted if he didn’t show up at the port.
“Listen, Cat I have to write a report. I’m not in for anyone.”
o o o
“Hello, Chief ? I got Signorina Livia on the line here from Genoa. What do I do, Chief ? Should I put her on or not?”
“Put her on.”
“Since you said, not ten minutes ago, that you wasn’t in for nobody—”
“I said put her on, Cat . . . Hello, Livia? Hi.”
“Hi, my eye. I’ve been trying to call you all morning.
The phone at your house just rings and rings.”
“Really? I guess I forgot to plug it back in. You want to hear something funny? At five o’clock this morning, I got a phone call about—”
“I don’t want to hear anything funny. I tried calling at seven-thirty, at eight-fifteen, I tried again at—”
“Livia, I already told you I forgot—”
“You forgot me, that’s what you forgot. I told you yesterday I was going to call you at seven-thirty this morning to decide whether—”
“Livia, I’m warning you. It’s windy outside and about to rain.”
“So what?”
“You know what. This kind of weather puts me in a bad mood. I wouldn’t want my words to be—”
“I get the picture. I just won’t call you anymore. You call me, if you feel like it.”
o o o
“Montalbano! How are you? Officer Augello told me everything. This is a very big deal, one that will certainly have international repercussions. Don’t you think?” He felt at sea. He had no idea what the commissioner was talking about. He decided to be generically affirmative.
“Oh, yes, yes.”
International repercussions?
“Anyway, I’ve arranged for Augello to confer with the prefect. The matter is, how shall I say, beyond my competence.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Are you feeling all right, Montalbano?”
“Yes, fine. Why?”
“Nothing, it just seemed . . .”
“Just a slight headache, that’s all.”
“What day is today?”
“Thursday, sir.”
“Listen, why don’t you come to dinner at our house on Saturday? My wife’ll make you her black spaghetti in squid ink. It’s delicious.”
Pasta with squid ink. His mood was black enough to dress a hundred pounds of spaghetti. International repercussions?
o o o
Fazio came in and Montalbano immediately laid into him.
“Would somebody please be so kind as to tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“C’mon, Chief, don’t take it out on me just because it’s windy outside. For my part, early this morning, before contacting Inspector Augello, I had somebody call you.”
“You mean Catarella? If you have Catarella calling me about something important, then you really must be a shit-head, since you know damn well that nobody can ever understand a fucking thing the guy says. What happened, anyway?” “A motor trawler from Mazàra, which according to the ship’s captain was fishing in international waters, was attacked by a Tunisian patrol boat. Sprayed with machine-gun fire. The fishing boat signaled its position to one of our patrols, the Fulmine, then managed to escape.” “Good going,” said Montalbano.
“On whose part?” asked Fazio.
“On the part of the captain of the fishing boat, who instead of surrendering had the courage to run away. What else?”
“The shots killed one of the crew.”
“Somebody from Mazàra?”
“Sort of.”
“Would you please explain?”
“He was Tunisian. They say his working papers were in order. Down around Mazàra all the crews are mixed. First of all because they’re good workers, and secondly because, if they’re ever stopped, they can talk to the patrols from the other side.” “Do you believe the trawler was fishing in international waters?”
“Me? Do I look like a moron or something?”
o o o
“Hello, Inspector Montalbano? This is Major Marniti of the Harbor Office.”
“What can I do for you, Major?”
“I’m calling about that unfortunate incident on the Mazarese fishing boat, where the Tunisian was killed. I’m questioning the captain, trying to determine exactly where they were at the moment they were attacked, and to establish the sequence of events. Afterwards, he’s going to drop by your office.” “Why? Hasn’t my assistant already questioned him?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s really no need for him to come here.
Thanks for calling.”
They were trying to drag him into this mess by the ear.
o o o
The door flew open with such force that the inspector jumped out of his chair. Catarella appeared, looking very agitated.
“Sorry ’bout that, Chief. Door slipped outa my hand.”
“If you ever come in like that again, I’ll shoot you. What is it?”
“Somebody just now phoned that somebody’s inside an elevator.”
The inkwell, made of finely wrought bronze, missed Catarella’s forehead but made such a noise when it struck the wooden door that it could have been a cannon shot.
Catarella cringed, covering his head with his arms. Montalbano started kicking his desk. In rushed Fazio, hand on his open holster.
“What was that? What happened?”
“Get this asshole to explain to you this business about somebody stuck in an elevator. Let ’em call the goddamn fire department! But get him out of here, I don’t want to hear his voice.” Fazio returned in a flash.
“Somebody got killed in an elevator,” he said, brief and to the point, to preempt any further flying inkwells.
o o o
“Giuseppe Cosentino, security guard,” said the man standing near the open elevator door, introducing himself. “I was the one who found Mr. Lapècora.”