“She’s not. She’s out of town.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“In the dining room there’s a glass cupboard with dishes, cups, trays, and whatnot. Take something from it, anything you like, but make sure it’s something she can’t deny is hers.
The ideal would be a cup from a complete set. Then bring it here. And don’t forget to put the keys back in their drawer at the office.”
“And what if the widow notices a cup is missing when she comes back?”
“We don’t give a fuck. Then you must do one more thing. Phone Jacomuzzi and tell him that by the end of the day, I want the knife that was used to kill Lapècora. If he doesn’t have anyone who can bring it to me, go get it yourself.”
o o o
“Montalbano? This is Valente. Could you be here in Mazàra by four o’clock this afternoon?”
“If I leave immediately. Why?”
“The captain of the fishing boat is coming, and I’d like you to be there.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. Has your man managed to find anything out?”
“Yes, and it didn’t take much. He said the fishermen are quite willing to talk.”
“What did they say?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“No, tell me now, so I can give it some thought on the way.”
“Okay. We’re convinced the crew knew little or nothing about the whole business. They all claim the vessel was just outside our territorial waters, that it was a very dark night, and that they clearly saw a vessel approaching them on the radar screen.” “So why did they keep going?”
“Because it didn’t occur to any of the crew that it might be a Tunisian patrol boat or whatever it was. I repeat, they were in international waters.”
“And then?”
“Then, without warning, came the signal to halt. Our fishing boat—or its crew at least, I can’t speak for the captain—thought it was our Customs Police making a routine check. So they stopped, and they heard people speaking Arabic. At this point the Tunisian on the Italian boat went astern and lit a cigarette. And got shot. Only then did the fishing boat turn and flee.” “And then?”
“And then what, Montalbà? How long is this phone call going to last?”
1 8 6
0p>
14
Unlike most men of the sea, Angelo Prestìa, crew chief and owner of the Santopadre motor trawler, was a fat, sweaty man.
But he was sweating because it was natural for him, not because of the questionsValente was asking him. Actually, in this regard, he seemed not only calm, but even slightly put out.
“I don’t understand why you suddenly wanna drag this story out again. It’s water under the bridge.”
“We’d merely like to clear up a few small details, then you’ll be free to go,” Valente said to reassure him.
“Well, out with it then, for God’s sake!”
“You’ve always maintained that the Tunisian patrol boat was acting illegally, since your vessel was in international waters. Is that correct?”
“Of course it’s correct. But I don’t see why you’re interested in questions that are the concern of the Harbor Office.”
“You’ll see later.”
“But I don’t need to see anything, if you don’t mind!
Did the Tunisian government issue a statement or didn’t they? And in this statement, did they say they killed the Tunisian themselves or didn’t they? So why do you want to hash it all out again?” “There’s already a discrepancy,” Valente observed.
“Where?”
“You, for example, say the attack occurred in international waters, whereas they say you’d already crossed their border. Is that a discrepancy or isn’t it, as you might say?” “No, sir, it is not a discrepancy. It’s a mistake.”
“On whose part?”
“Theirs. They obviously took their bearings wrong.” Montalbano and Valente exchanged a lightning-quick glance, which was the signal to begin the second phase of their prearranged interrogation.
“Mr. Prestìa, do you have a criminal record?”
“No, sir.”
“But you have been arrested.”
“You guys really have a thing for old stories, don’t you!
Yes, sir, I was arrested, because some faggot, some sonofabitch had a grudge against me and reported me. But then the judge realized the bastard was a liar, and so he let me go.” “What were you accused of ?”
“Smuggling.”
“Cigarettes or drugs?”
“The second.”
“And your whole crew also ended up in the slammer, didn’t they?”
“Yessir, but they all got out ’cause they were innocent like me.”
“Who was the judge that threw the case out of court?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it Antonio Bellofiore?”
“Yeah, I think it was him.”
“Did you know he was thrown in jail himself a year later for rigging trials?”
“No, I didn’t know. I spend more time at sea than on land.”
Another lightning-quick glance, and the ball was passed to Montalbano.
“Let’s forget these old stories,” the inspector began. “Do you belong to a cooperative?”
“Yes, the Mafico.”
“What does it stand for?”
“Mazarese Fishermen’s Cooperative.”
“When you sign up a Tunisian fisherman, do you choose him yourself or is he referred to you by the cooperative?”
“The co-op tells us which ones to take,” Prestìa replied, starting to sweat more than usual.
“We happen to know that the cooperative furnished you with a certain name, but you chose Ben Dhahab instead.”
“Listen, I didn’t know this Ben Dhahab, never seen ’im before in my life. When he showed up on board five minutes before we put out, I thought he was the one sent by the co-op.” “You mean Hassan Tarif ?”
“I think that was ’is name.”
“Okay. Why didn’t the cooperative ask you for an explanation?”
Captain Prestìa smiled, but his face was drawn and by now he was bathed in sweat.
“But this kind of stuff happens every day! They trade places all the time! The important thing is to avoid com-plaints.”
“So why didn’t Hassan Tarif complain? After all, he lost a day’s wages.”
“You’re asking me? Go ask him.”
“I did,” Montalbano said calmly.
Valente looked at him in astonishment. This part had not been prearranged.
“And what did he tell you?” Prestìa asked almost defi-antly.
“He said Ben Dhahab came to him the day before and asked if he was signed on with the Santopadre, and when he said yes, Dhahab told him not to show up for three days and gave him a whole week’s pay.” “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Let me finish. Given this fact, Dhahab certainly didn’t sign on because he needed work. He already had money.
Therefore he must have come on your boat for another reason.”
Valente paid very close attention to the trap Montalbano was setting. The bit about this mysterious Tarif taking money from Dhahab had clearly been invented by the inspector, and Valente needed to know what he was driving at.
“Do you know who Ben Dhahab was?”
“A Tunisian looking for work.”
“No, my friend, he was one of the biggest names in nar-cotics traffic.”
While Prestìa was turning pale,Valente understood that it was now his turn. He secretly smiled to himself. He and Montalbano made a formidable duo, like Totò and Peppino.
“Looks like you’re in a fix, Mr. Prestìa,” Valente began in a compassionate, almost fatherly tone.
“But why?!”
“Come on, can’t you see? A drug trafficker the caliber of Ben Dhahab signs on with your fishing boat, sparing no expense. And you have the past record you do. I, therefore, have two questions. First: what is one plus one? And second: what went wrong that night?” “You’re trying to mess me up! You want to ruin me!”