“Gimme a minute to get ready and I’ll come with you.”
“No, signora, you stay here. We’ll bring the key back to you.”
o o o
A rusty iron bed, a wobbly table, an armoire with a piece of plywood in place of the mirror, three wicker chairs. A small bathroom with toilet and sink, and a dirty towel; and on a shelf, a razor, a can of shaving cream, and a comb.
They went back into the single room. There was a blue canvas suitcase on a chair. They opened it: empty.
Inside the armoire, a new pair of trousers, a dark, very clean jacket, four pairs of socks, four pairs of briefs, six handkerchiefs, two undershirts: all brand new, not yet worn.
In one corner of the armoire was a pair of sandals in good condition; in the opposite corner, a small plastic bag of dirty laundry. They emptied it onto the floor: nothing unusual.
They stayed about an hour, searching everywhere. When they’d lost all hope,Valente got lucky. Not hidden, but clearly dropped and left wedged between the iron headboard and the bed, was a Rome-Palermo plane ticket, issued ten days earlier and made out to Mr. Dhahab. So Ahmed had arrived in Palermo at ten o’clock in the morning, and two hours later, at the most, he was in Mazàra. To whom had he turned to find a place to rent?
“Did Montelusa send you the personal effects along with the body?”
“Of course,” replied Valente. “Ten thousand lire.”
“Passport?”
“No.”
“What about all that money he had?”
“If he left it here, I’m sure the signora took care of it. The one who leads a squeaky-clean life.”
“He didn’t even have his house keys in his pocket?”
“Not even. How do I have to say it? Should I sing it? He had ten thousand lire and nothing else.”
o o o
Summoned by Valente, Master Rahman, an elementary-school teacher who looked like a pure Sicilian and served as an unofficial liaison between his people and the Mazarese authorities, arrived in ten minutes.
Montalbano had met him the year before, when involved in the case later dubbed “the terra-cotta dog.”
“Were you in the middle of a lesson?” asked Valente.
In an uncommon show of good sense, a school principal in Mazàra, without involving the superintendency, had allowed some classrooms to be used to create a school for the local Tunisian children.
“Yes, but I called in a substitute. Is there a problem?”
“Perhaps you could help clarify something for us.”
“About what?”
“About whom, rather. Ben Dhahab.”
They had decided,Valente and Montalbano, to sing only half the Mass to the schoolteacher. Afterwards, depending on his reactions, they would determine whether or not to tell him the whole story.
Upon hearing that name, Rahman made no effort to hide his uneasiness.
“What would you like to know?”
It was up to Valente to make the first move; Montalbano was only a guest.
“Did you know him?”
“He came and introduced himself to me about ten days ago. He knew who I was and what I represent. You see, last January or thereabouts, a Tunis newspaper published an arti-cle on our school.” “And what did he say to you?”
“He said he was a journalist.”
Valente and Montalbano exchanged a very quick glance.
“He wanted to do a feature on the lives of our country-men in Mazàra. But he intended to present himself to everyone as somebody looking for a job. He also wanted to sign on with a fishing boat. I introduced him to my colleague El Madani. And he put him in touch with Signora Pipìa about renting a room.” “Did you ever see him again?”
“Of course. We ran into each other a few times by chance. We also were both at the same festival. He had become, well, perfectly integrated.”
“Was it you who set him up with the fishing boat?”
“No. It wasn’t El Madani, either.”
“Who paid for his funeral?”
“We did. We have a small emergency fund that we set up for such things.”
“And who gave the TV reporters the photos and information on Ben Dhahab?”
“I did. You see, at that festival I mentioned, there was a photographer. Ben Dhahab objected; he said he didn’t want anyone taking his picture. But the man had already taken one. And so, when the TV reporter showed up, I got hold of that photo and gave it to him, along with the bit of information Ben Dhahab had told me about himself.” Rahman wiped away his sweat. His uneasiness had increased. And Valente, who was a good cop, let him stew in his juices.
“But there’s something strange in all this,” Rahman decided.
Montalbano and Valente seemed not even to have heard him, looking as if their minds were elsewhere. But in fact they were paying very close attention, like cats that, keeping their eyes closed as if asleep, are actually counting the stars.
“Yesterday I called the newspaper in Tunis to tell them about the incident and to make arrangements for the body.
As soon as I told the editor that Ben Dhahab was dead, he started laughing and said my joke wasn’t very funny: Ben Dhahab was in the room right next to his at that very moment, on the telephone. And then he hung up.” “Couldn’t it simply be a case of two men with the same name?” Valente asked provocatively.
“Absolutely not! He was very clear with me! He specifically said he’d been sent by that newspaper. He therefore lied to me.”
“Do you know if he had any relatives in Sicily?” Montalbano stepped in for the first time.
“I don’t know, we never talked about that. If he’d had any in Mazàra, he certainly wouldn’t have turned to me for help.”
Valente and Montalbano again consulted each other with a glance, and Montalbano, without speaking, gave his friend the go-ahead to fire the shot.
“Does the name Ahmed Moussa mean anything to you?” It was not a shot, but an out-and-out cannon blast. Rahman jumped out of his chair, fell back down in it, then wilted.
“What . . . what . . . has . . . Ahmed Moussa got to do with this?” the schoolmaster stammered, breathless.
“Pardon my ignorance,” Valente continued implacably,
“but who is this man you find so frightening?”
“He’s a terrorist. Somebody who . . . a murderer. A blood-thirsty killer. But what has he got to do with any of this?”
“We have reason to believe that Ben Dhahab was really Ahmed Moussa.”
“I feel ill,” Schoolmaster Rahman said in a feeble voice.
o o o
From the earth-shaken words of the devastated Rahman, they learned that Ahmed Moussa, whose real name was more often whispered than stated aloud and whose face was practically unknown, had formed a paramilitary cell of desperadoes some time before. He had introduced himself to the world three years earlier with an unequivocal calling card, blowing up a small cinema that was showing French cartoons for children. The luckiest among the audience were the ones who died; dozens of others were left blinded, maimed, or disabled for life. The cell espoused, in its communiqués at least, a nationalism so absolute as to be almost abstract. Moussa and his people were viewed with suspicion by even the most intran-sigent of fundamentalists. They had access to almost unlimited amounts of money, the source of which remained unknown. A large bounty had been placed on Ahmed Moussa’s head by the Tunisian government. This was all that Master Rahman knew. The idea that he had somehow helped the terrorist so troubled him that he trembled and teetered as if suffering a violent attack of malaria.
“But you were deceived,” said Montalbano, trying to console him.