“Why didn’t they kill the doctor too?”
“Because he can still be useful to them. His name is a guarantee for the customers. Like in advertising. So they decide to wait and see how things work out. If they work out well, they’ll let him start practicing again. If not, they’ll kill him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What can I do? Nothing, for now. Go on home, Mimi. And thanks. Is Fazio still in Santoli?”
“Yes. He’s waiting for my phone call.”
“Call him, then. Tell him he can go home to bed. Tomorrow morning we’ll decide how to continue our surveillance.”
Augello spoke with Fazio. Then he said:
“He’s going home. There are no new developments. The doctor is alone. He’s watching television.”
At three in the morning, after putting on a heavy jacket because it was cool outside, the inspector got in his car and drove off. Pretending it was simply for curiosity’s sake, he’d had Augello describe the exact location of Ingrò’s villa to him. On the way there, he thought again of Mimi’s expression after hearing his account of the transplant story. He himself had reacted the way he did, nearly suffering a stroke. Whereas Mimi had turned pale, yes, but didn’t really seem too upset. Self-control? Lack of sensitivity? No, the reason was clearly much simpler: the difference in age. He was fifty and Mimi was thirty. Augello was already prepared for the year 2000, whereas he would never be. Nothing more. Augello naturally knew that he was entering an era of pitiless crimes committed by anonymous people, who had Internet addresses or sites or whatever they’re called, but never a face, a pair of eyes, an expression. No, he was too old by now.
He stopped about twenty yards from the villa and, turning off the headlights, stayed there without moving. He carefully studied the place through binoculars. Not a single ray of light could be seen in the windows. Dr. Ingrò must have gone to bed. He got out of the car and, treading lightly, approached the gate. He stayed there some ten minutes without moving. Nobody came forward, nobody called from the darkness to ask what he wanted. With a tiny pocket lamp, he examined the lock on the gate. There was no alarm. Was it possible? Then he realized that Dr. Ingrò didn’t need any security systems. With the friends he had, only a fool would be crazy enough to rob his villa. It took him a moment to open it. There was a broad lane, lined with trees. The garden must have been kept in perfect order. There were no dogs, since at this hour they would have already attacked him. With the picklock he opened the front door as well. A large foyer led into an entirely glass-walled salon and to other rooms as well. The bedrooms were upstairs. He climbed a luxurious staircase covered with thick, soft carpeting. In the first room there wasn’t anybody. In the second room, however, there was. Someone was breathing heavily. With his left hand, the inspector felt around for the light switch; in his right, he held a pistol. He wasn’t fast enough. The lamp on one of the nightstands came on.
Dr. Ingrò was lying on the bed, fully dressed, shoes included. He showed not the least bit of surprise at seeing an unknown man, with a gun, no less, in his room. He’d clearly been expecting as much. The room smelled stuffy, sweaty, rancid. Dr. Ingrò was no longer the man the inspector remembered seeing two or three times on television. He was unshaven, his eyes red, his hair sticking straight up.
“Have you decided to kill me?” he asked in a soft voice.
Montalbano didn’t answer. He was still standing in the doorway, motionless, the hand clutching the pistol at his side, but with the weapon in full view.
“You’re making a mistake,” said Ingrò.
He reached out towards the nightstand—Montalbano recognized it from the tape of the naked Vanya—picked up the glass that was there, and took a long drink of water, spilling some of it on himself. His hands were trembling. He set the glass down and spoke again.
“I could still be of use to you.”
He put his feet on the ground.
“Where are you going to find someone as skilled as me?”
As skilled, maybe not, but more honest, yes, thought the inspector. But he said nothing. He let the man stew in his juices. But maybe it was better to give him a little push. The doctor was now standing up, and Montalbano ever so slowly raised the gun and pointed it at his head.
Then it happened. As if someone had cut the invisible rope holding him up, the man fell to his knees. He folded his hands in prayer.
“Have pity! Have pity!”
Pity? The kind of pity he’d shown for those who were slaughtered, literally slaughtered, for his sake?
The doctor was crying. Tears and spittle made the beard on his chin sparkle. Was this the Conradian character he’d imagined?
“I can pay you, if you let me go,” he whispered.
He thrust a hand in his pocket, extracted a set of keys, and held them out to Montalbano, who didn’t move.
“These keys ... you can help yourself to all my paintings ... a vast fortune ... you’ll be rich ...”
Montalbano could no longer restrain himself. He took two steps forward, raised his foot, and shot it straight at the doctor’s face. The man fell backwards, managing to scream this time.
“No! No! Not that!”
He held his face in his hands, the blood from his broken nose running between his fingers. Montalbano raised his foot again.
“That’s enough!” said a voice behind him.
He turned around abruptly. In the doorway stood Augello and Fazio, both with guns drawn. They all looked one another in the eye and understood. And the performance began.
“Police,” said Mimì.
“We saw you break in, punk!” said Fazio.
“You were going to kill him, weren’t you?” Mimì recited.
“Drop the gun,” ordered Fazio.
“No!” the inspector shouted and, grabbing Ingrò by the hair, he yanked him to his feet and pointed the gun at his head.
“If you don’t get out of here, I’ll kill him!”
Okay, they’d all seen that scene a thousand times in any number of American movies, but, all things considered, they had to be pleased with the way they were improvising it. Now, as if on cue, it was Ingrò’s turn to speak.
“Don’t go!” he begged. “I’ll tell you everything! I’ll confess ! Save me!”
Fazio leapt forward and seized Montalbano while Augello held down Ingrò. Fazio and the inspector pretended to struggle, then the former gained the upper hand. Augello took control of the situation.
“Handcuff him!” he ordered.
But the inspector still needed to give some instructions. It was absolutely imperative that they all act in concert and follow the same script. He grabbed Fazio’s wrist and, as if caught by surprise, Fazio let him take the gun away. Montalbano fired a shot that deafened them all and ran out. Augello freed himself from the doctor, who had been clutching his shoulders, weeping, and raced off in pursuit. At the bottom of the stairs, Montalbano tripped on the last step and fell facedown, firing another shot. Mimi, still shouting “Stop or I’ll shoot,” helped him up. They went out of the house.