“I just don’t get it, Chief. What’s he thinking? Japichinu’s gonna get life, not even God can save him from that!”
“Maybe God can‘t, but someone else might.”
“How?”
“By killing him, Fazio. In prison he’s got a good chance to save his skin. The punks in the new Mafia are really sticking it to all these guys, the Sinagras as well as the Cuffaros. So, maximum-security prison means security not just for people on the outside, but for those on the inside, too.”
Fazio thought it over a little, and finally seemed convinced.
“Do I have to sleep in Montereale, too?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think the priest goes out at night.”
“How’s Father Crucillà gonna let me know when he’s leading me to Japichinu’s hideout?”
“Don’t worry, he’ll find a way. But when he shows you the place, I’m warning you, don’t get any bright ideas, don’t make any move at all.You’re to contact me immediately.”
“Okay.”
Fazio stood up and headed slowly towards the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned around to look at Montalbano.
“What is it?”
“Chief, I’ve known you too long not to see that you’re not telling me the whole story.”
“For instance?”
“Don Balduccio must’ve told you something else.”
“You’re right.”
“Can I know what it is?”
“Certainly. He said it wasn’t them. And he assured me that it wasn’t the Cuffaros, either. So the culprits must be the new guys.”
“The culprits for what crime?”
“I don’t know. At the moment, I don’t know what the hell he was referring to. But I’m beginning to get an idea.”
“Can you tell me what that is?”
“It’s too early.”
Fazio barely had time to turn the key in the lock when he was pushed violently against the wall by the door, which Catarella had thrown open.
“You almost broke my nose!” said Fazio, holding his hand over his face.
“Chief, Chief!” gasped Catarella. “Sorry to bust in here like dis, but it’s hizzoner the commissioner in poisson!”
“Where is he?”
“Onna phone, Chief.”
“Put him through.”
Catarella dashed out like a hare, and Fazio waited for him to pass before going out himself.
Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi sounded like he was talking inside a freezer, so cold was his voice.
“Montalbano? A preliminary question, if you don’t mind. Do you drive a Fiat Tipo with license plate AG 334 JB?”
“Yes.”
Now Bonetti-Alderighi’s voice was coming directly from a polar ice floe. In the background one could hear bears howling (but do bears howl?).
“Come to my office immediately.”
“I’ll be there in about an hour, so I can—”
“Don’t you understand Italian? I said immediately.”
“Come in and leave the door open,” the commissioner ordered, as soon as he saw Montalbano in the doorway. It must have been a very serious matter, since a minute earlier, in the hallway, Lattes had pretended not to see him. As Montalbano approached the desk, Bonetti-Alderighi stood up and went to open the window.
I must have turned into a virus, thought Montalbano. The man’s afraid I’ll infect the air.
The commissioner sat back down without signaling to Montalbano to do the same. It was like when he was in high school, when the principal would call him into his office for a solemn tongue-lashing.
“Great,” said Bonetti-Alderighi, looking him up and down. “Just great. Fantastic.”
Montalbano didn’t breathe. Before deciding how to act, he needed to learn the reason behind his superior’s anger.
“This morning,” the commissioner continued, “I had barely set foot in this office when I discovered a bit of news I won’t hesitate to call unpleasant. Extremely unpleasant, in fact. It was a report that threw me into a rage. And this report was about you.”
Mouth shut! the inspector commanded himself severely.
“This report says that a Fiat Tipo, license number ...” He paused, leaning forward to read the sheet of paper on his desk.
“ ... AG 334 JB?” Montalbano timidly suggested.
“Be quiet. I’ll do the talking. A Fiat Tipo, license number AG 334 JB, drove past our checkpoint yesterday evening, on its way to the home of notorious Mafia boss Balduccio Sinagra. After the required search was done, they ascertained that the car belongs to you, and felt duty-bound to inform me. Now, tell me: are you stupid enough to imagine that that villa would not be under constant surveillance?”
“No! Of course not! How can you say that?” said Montalbano, playacting at great astonishment. And over his head, no doubt, appeared one of those bright rings that saints customarily wear. He let his face assume a worried expression and muttered through clenched teeth: “Damn! Bad move!”
“You have every reason to be worried, Montalbano! I demand an explanation. And a satisfactory one. Otherwise your controversial career ends right here.Your methods border on illegality all too often, and I’ve been tolerating them far too long!”
The inspector hung his head, letting it fall into a pose of contrition. Seeing him this way, the commissioner grew bolder and let fly.
“You see, Montalbano, with someone like you, it’s not that far-fetched to imagine some kind of collusion! Unfortunately there are plenty of notorious precedents which I won’t cite for you, since you’re already well aware of them! And anyway, I’m sick and tired of you and the whole Vigàta police force! It’s not clear whether you’re policemen or mafiosi!”
Apparently he liked the line of argument he’d used with Mimi Augello.
“I’m going to clean the place out!”
As if following a script, Montalbano first wrung his hands, then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. He spoke haltingly.
“I’ve got a heart like a lion and another like a donkey, Mr. Commissioner.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m in an awkward position. Because, the fact is that, after talking to me, Balduccio Sinagra had me give my word that . . .”
“That?”
“That I wouldn’t mention a word of our meeting to anyone.”
The commissioner slammed his hand down on the desk with such force that he surely must have broken some bones.
“But do you realize what you’re saying to me? Nobody was supposed to know! And in your opinion, am I, the commissioner, nobody? It is your duty, I repeat, your duty—”
Montalbano raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Then he ran his handkerchief rapidly over his eyes.
“I know, I know, Mr. Commissioner,” he said, “but if you only knew how torn I feel between my duty on the one hand and my word of honor on the other ...”
He secretly congratulated himself. What a fine language Italian was! “Torn” was exactly the word required in this case.
“You’re raving, Montalbano! You don’t realize what you’re saying! You’re putting your duty on the same level as a promise made to a criminal!”
The inspector repeatedly nodded his head.
“You’re right! You’re right! Your words are the gospel truth!”
“So now, without beating around the bush, tell me why you met with Sinagra! I demand a full explanation!”
Now came the climax of the whole performance he’d been improvising. If the commissioner swallowed the bait, the whole business would end right then and there.
“I think he might want to turn himself in,” he murmured, in a low voice.
“What’s that?” said the commissioner, who’d understood not a word.
“I think Balduccio Sinagra has half a mind to turn himself in.”
As if propelled in the air by an explosion in the very spot in which he was seated, Bonetti-Alderighi shot out of his chair, ran anxiously over to the window and door, and shut them both, giving the latter a turn of the key for good measure.