...
As soon as he saw Montalbano come into the office, Mim Augello, looking possessed by the devil, put him through the meat grinder:
"Where the hell have you been?! Where've you been hiding? What happened to everybody else? What the fuck is going on here, anyway?"
He must have been really angry to speak so frankly. In the three years they had been working together, the inspector had never heard his assistant use obscenities. Actually, no: the time some asshole shot Tortorella in the stomach, Augello had reacted the same way.
"Mim, what's got into you?"
"What's got into me? I got scared, that's what!"
"Scared? Of what?"
"At least six people have phoned here. Their stories all differed as to the details, but they were all in agreement as to the substance: a gunfight with dead and wounded. One of them even called it a bloodbath. You weren't at home. Fazio and the others had gone out with the car without saying a word to anyone . . . So I just put two and two together. Was I wrong?"
"No, you weren't wrong. But you shouldn't blame me, you should blame the telephone. It's the telephones fault."
"What's the telephone got to do with it?"
"It's got everything to do with it! Nowadays you've got telephones even in the most godforsaken country haylofts. So what do people do, when there's a phone within reach? They phone. And they say things. True things, imagined things, possible things, impossible things, dreamed-up things like in that Eduardo de Filippo comedy, what's it called, oh yes, The Voices Inside. They inflate things and deflate things but never give you their name and surname. They dial emergency numbers where anyone can say the craziest bullshit in the world without ever assuming any responsibility for it! And meanwhile the Mafia experts get all excited because they think omerts on the decline in Sicily! No more complicity! No more fear! Hah! I'll tell you what's on the decline: my ass is on the decline, and meanwhile the phone bill is on the rise."
"Montalbano! Stop confusing me with your chatter! Were there any dead and wounded or not?"
"Of course not. There was no gunfight. We just fired a few shots into the air, Galluzzo smashed his nose all by himself, and the guy surrendered."
"What guy?"
"A fugitive."
"Yeah, but who?"
Catarella arrived breathless and spared him the embarrassment of answering.
"Chief, that would be his honor the commissioner on the phone."
"I'll tell you later," said Montalbano, fleeing into his office.
"My dear friend, I want to give you my most heartfelt congratulations."
"Thank you."
"You really hit the bulls-eye this time."
"We got lucky."
Apparently the man in question is even more important than he himself let on.
"Where is he now?"
"On his way to Palermo. The Anti-Mafia Commission insisted; they wouldn't take no for an answer. Your men weren't even allowed to stop in Montelusa; they had to drive on. I sent along an escort car with four of my men to keep them company."
"So you didn't speak with Fazio?"
"I didn't have the time or the chance. I know almost nothing about this case. So, actually, I'd appreciate it if you could pass by my office this afternoon and fill me in on the details."
Ay, there's the hitch, thought Montalbano, remembering a nineteenth-century translation of Hamlets monologue. But he merely asked:
"At what time?"
"Let's say around five. Ah, also, Palermo wants absolute secrecy about the operation, at least for now."
"If it was only up to me..."
"I wasn't referring to you, since I know you well and can say that compared to you, even fish are a talkative species. Listen, by the way..."
There was a pause. The commissioner had broken off and Montalbano didn't feel like saying anything: a troubling alarm bell had gone off in his head at the sound of that laudatory I know you well.
"Listen, Montalbano," the commissioner hesitantly started over, and with that hesitation the alarm began to ring more loudly.
"Yes, Commissioner."
"I'm afraid that this time there's no way I can prevent your promotion to assistant commissioner."
"Madunnuzza biniditta! Why not?"
"Don't be silly, Montalbano."
"Well, I'm sorry, but why should I be promoted?"
"What a question! Because of what you did this morning."
Montalbano felt simultaneously hot and cold: he had sweat on his forehead and chills down his spine. The prospect terrorized him.
"I didn't do anything different from what my colleagues do every day, Commissioner."
"I don't doubt it. But this particular arrest, when it comes to be known, will cause quite a stir."
"So theres no hope? Come on, don't be childish."
The inspector felt like a tuna caught in the net, the chamber of death. He began to feel short of breath, mouth opening and closing on emptiness. Then he tried a desperate suggestion:
"Couldn't we blame Fazio?"
"Blame?"
"I'm sorry, I meant couldn't we give him the credit?"
"See you later, Montalbano."
Augello, who was lurking behind the door, made a questioning face.
"What'd the commissioner say?"
"We spoke about the situation."
"Oh, right! You should see the look on your face!"
"What look?"
"Like youv'e been to a funeral."
"I had trouble digesting what I ate last night."
"Anything interesting?"
"Three pounds of mostaccioli."
Augello looked at him in dismay. Montalbano, sensing that he was about to ask him the name of the arrested fugitive, used the opportunity to change the subject and put him on another track.
"Did you guys ever find the night watchman?"
"The one in the supermarket? Yeah, I found him myself. The thieves bashed him in the head, then bound and gagged him and threw him in a great big freezer."
"Is he dead?"
"No, but I don't think hes feeling very alive either. When we pulled him out, he looked like a giant frozen stockfish."
"Any idea which way they went?"
"I've got half an idea myself and the carabinieri lieutenant has another. But one thing is certain: to haul all that stuff, they had to use a heavy truck. And there must have been a team of at least six people to load it, under the command of some professional."
"Listen, Mim, I have to run home and change my clothes. I'll be right back."
...
Near Marinella he noticed that the reserve light for the gas tank was flashing. He stopped at the same filling station where there'd been a drive-by shooting a while back, when he'd had to bring in the attendant to get him to talk. Upon seeing the inspector, the attendant, who bore him no grudge, greeted him in his usual high-pitched voice, which made Montalbano shudder. After filling the tank, the attendant counted the money and eyed the inspector.
"What's wrong? Didn't I give you enough?"
"No sir. There's enough money here, all right. I just wanted to tell you something."
"Let's have it," Montalbano said impatiently. If the guy went on talking, even a little, his nerves would give out.
"Look at that truck over there."
And he pointed at a large tractor-trailer parked in the lot behind the filling station, tarps pulled down tight to hide the cargo.
"It was already here early this morning," he continued, "when I opened up. Now it's been four hours and still nobody's come to get it."
"Did you look to see if anyone's sleeping in the cab?"
"Yessir, I looked, there's nobody. And another weird thing: the keys are still in the ignition. The first soul to come along could start it up and drive it away."
"Show me," said Montalbano, suddenly interested.