“Let’s sit over here,” he said, pushing the inspector towards a small sofa. “So we won’t have to raise our voices.”
Montalbano sat down and fired up a cigarette, knowing full well that the commissioner went ape-shit, had out-and-out attacks of hysteria, whenever he saw the slightest shred of tobacco. But this time Bonetti-Alderighi didn’t even notice. With a faraway smile and dreamy eyes, he was imagining himself surrounded by squabbling, impatient journalists, in the glare of the floodlights, a cluster of microphones extended towards his mouth, while he explained in brilliant turns of phrase how he’d managed to persuade one of the most blood-thirsty bosses in the Mafia to cooperate with justice.
“Tell me everything, Montalbano,” he entreated him, his tone conspiratorial.
“What can I say, Mr. Commissioner? Yesterday Sinagra called me up personally to tell me he wanted to see me at once.”
“You could at least have let me know!” the commissioner reproached him, wagging his index finger in the air as if to say, “Naughty, naughty.”
“I didn’t have the time, believe me. Actually, no, wait . . .”
“Yes?”
“Now I remember: I did call you, but was told you were busy, I don’t know, in a meeting or something . . .”
“That’s possible, very possible,” the other admitted. “But let’s come to the point: what did Sinagra tell you?”
“Surely, Mr. Commissioner, you must know from the report that it was a very brief conversation.”
Bonetti-Alderighi got up, glanced at the sheet of paper on his desk, then came and sat back down.
“Forty-five minutes is not brief.”
“Granted, but in those forty-five minutes you’ve got to include the drive up there and back.”
“You’re right.”
“Anyway, Sinagra didn’t really tell me anything outright. Rather, he gave me to understand his intentions. Better yet, he left it all up to my intuition.”
“Sicilian-style, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you try to be a little more specific?”
“He said he was beginning to feel tired.”
“I can imagine. He’s ninety years old!”
“Exactly. He said his son’s arrest and his grandson’s life on the run were hard blows to take.”
It sounded like a line from a B movie, and it had come out well. The commissioner, however, looked a tad disappointed.
“Is that all?”
“It’s already a lot, Mr. Commissioner! Think about it. Why did he want to tell me about his situation? You know these guys: they usually take things really slow. We need to remain calm, patient, and tenacious.”
“Of course, of course.”
“He said he’d call me back soon.”
Bonetti-Alderighi’s momentary discouragement turned into enthusiasm again.
“He said that?”
“Yes he did, sir. But we need to be very cautious; one false step could send it all up in smoke. The stakes are extremely high.”
He felt disgusted by the words coming out of his mouth. A grab bag of clichés. But that was just the sort of language that worked at that moment. He wondered how much longer he could keep up the charade.
“Yes, of course, I understand.”
“Just think, Mr. Commissioner, I didn’t tell any of my men about this.You never know where there might be a mole.”
“I promise to do the same!” the commissioner vowed, holding up his hand.
It was as if they were at Pontida.The inspector stood up.
“If you have no further orders . . .”
“Fine, fine, Montalbano, you can go. And thanks.”
They shook hands energetically, looking one another in the eye.
“However . . . ,” said the commissioner, drooping.
“What is it?”
“There’s still that damned report. I can’t ignore it, you realize. I have to respond in one way or another.”
“Mr. Commissioner, if somebody begins to suspect that there’s any contact, however minimal, between us and Sinagra, the rumor will spread and the whole deal will fall through. I’m sure of it.”
“Right, right.”
“And that’s why, a few minutes ago, when you told me my car had been spotted, I felt a twinge of disappointment.”
How good he was at talking this way! Had he perhaps found his true mode of expression?
“Did they photograph the car?” he asked after an appropriately long pause.
“No. They just took down the license-plate number.”
“Then there might be a solution. But I don’t dare tell you what it is, since it would offend your unshakable honesty as a man and civil servant.”
Bonetti-Alderighi heaved a long sigh, as if on death’s doorstep.
“Tell me anyway.”
“Just tell them they copied the number wrong.”
“But how would I know they got it wrong?”
“Because during that very same half-hour they claim I was at Sinagra’s place, you were having a long conversation with me on the phone. No one would dare contradict you. What do you say?”
“Bah!” said the commissioner, not very convinced. “We’ll see.”
Montalbano left, feeling certain that Bonetti-Alderighi, though troubled by scruples, would do as he had suggested.
Before setting out from Montelusa, he called headquarters.
“Hallo? Hallo? Whozzat onna line?”
“Montalbano here, Cat. Pass me Inspector Augello.”
“I can’t pass ‘im t’ya ‘cause ’e ain’t here. But he was here before. He waited for you and seeing as how you din’t show up, he left.”
“Do you know the reason he left?”
“Yessir, because of the reason that there was a fire.”
“A fire?”
“Yessir. And an arsenal fire, too, like the firemen said. And ‘Spector Augello went there wit’ officers Gallo and Galluzzo, seeing as how Fazio wasn’t around.”
“What did the firemen want from us?”
“They said they was puttin’ out this arsenal fire. Then ‘Spector Augello grabbed the phone and talked to ’em hisself.”
“Do you know where this fire broke out?”
“It broke out inna Pisello districk.”
Montalbano had never heard of such a district. Since the fire station was nearby, he raced down there and introduced himself. They told him the fire, a definite case of arson, had broken out in the Fava district.
“Why did you call us?”
“Because they discovered two corpses in a crumbling old farmhouse. Old folks, apparently, a man and a woman.”
“Did they die in the fire?”
“No, Inspector. The flames had already surrounded the ruined house, but our men got there in time.”
“So how did they die?”
“It looks like they were murdered, Inspector.”
9
Leaving behind the national route, he had to take a narrow, uphill dirt road that was all rocks and holes. The car groaned from the effort like a living being. At a certain point he could proceed no further, as the way was blocked by fire trucks and other vehicles that had parked all around.
“Hey, you! Where do you think you’re going?” a fire corporal asked him rudely, seeing him get out of the car and proceed on foot.
“I’m Inspector Montalbano. I was told that—”
“Okay, okay,” the fireman said brusquely. “You can go ahead, your men are already here.”
It was hot.The inspector took off the tie and jacket he’d put on to go see the commissioner. Still, despite this alleviation, after a few steps he was already sweating like a pig. But where was the fire?
He got his answer just round a bend. The landscape was suddenly transformed. There was no tree, shrub, or plant of any kind to be seen, not a single blade of grass, only a formless expanse, uniformly dark-brown in color, completely charred. The air was heavy, as on days when the sirocco is particularly fierce, but it stank of burning, and here and there a wisp of smoke rose up from the ground. The rustic house stood another hundred meters away, blackened by fire. It was halfway up the side of a small hill, at the top of which flames were still visible, and silhouettes of men rushing about.