“Cat, tell Inspector Augello your theory about Errera, the same way you told it to me.”
Catarella puffed himself up.
“I tole the Chief Inspector as how maybe, just maybe, it was possible the dead guy came back to life and then went back to death in the water.”
“Thanks, Cat. You can go now.”
Mimì was looking at him dumbfounded.
“Well?” the inspector prodded him.
“Listen, Salvo. Until a minute ago, I thought your resignation would be a tragedy for all of us. But now, seeing your mental condition, I’m thinking the sooner you go, the better. What is this? So now you’re starting to take the nonsense that passes between Catarella’s ears seriously? Back to death in the water?”
Without saying a word, Montalbano handed him the newspaper clipping.
Mimì read it through twice. Then he set it down on the desk.
“What do you think it means?” he asked.
“That someone wanted to let me know that there’s a chance—a remote one, admittedly—that the body buried in Cosenza is not Ernesto Errera’s,” said Montalbano.
“The piece you had me read,” said Mimì, “was written by a reporter two or three days after the body’s remains were found. And it doesn’t say whether our Cosenza colleagues did any further, more serious investigation that could have led to a more definite identification. Dental checks, fingerprints, that kind of thing. Which they surely must have done. And if you start digging and trying to find out more about the case, you risk falling into the trap they’ve set for you.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“Do you have any idea who sent you the clipping?”
“Maybe somebody from Cosenza Police who overheard Vattiato ragging me and wanted to give me a chance—”
“Salvo, do you know Vattiato?”
“Not very well. He’s a surly—”
“I worked with him before coming here. He’s a son of a bitch.”
“But why would he send me the article?”
“To arouse your curiosity and make you start asking questions about Errera. So he can have the whole police department of Cosenza laughing at you.”
Montalbano stood up halfway out of his chair, searched through the papers scattered helter-skelter over his desk, and found Errera’s dossier and photos.
“Have another look at these, Mimì.”
Holding the dossier with Errera’s photo in his left hand, Mimì picked up, one by one, the computerized reconstructions of the dead man’s face with his right, comparing each of them closely with the mug shot. Then he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Salvo. My opinion hasn’t changed. Those are two different people, even though they do look rather alike. Have anything else to tell me?”
“No,” the inspector said brusquely.
Augello became irritated.
“Salvo, I’ve got enough problems of my own to put me on edge. I don’t need you creating more.”
“Explain.”
“You want an explanation? You’re pissed off because I keep insisting that your corpse is not Errera. You’re really something, you know. Am I supposed to say, yes, they’re the same person, just to make you happy?”
He went out, slamming the door behind him.
Not five minutes later, the same door flew open, crashed against the wall, and, on the rebound, closed again.
“Sorry, Chief,” said Catarella’s voice from behind the door.
The door then began to open very slowly, just enough to allow Catarella to slide through.
“Chief, I brought you the ting Torrisi gave me which he said you was poissonally intristed in.”
It was a greatly enlarged image of a detail of the rocks below the villa in Spigonella.
“It can’t come out no better than ’at, Chief.”
“Thanks, Cat, you did an excellent job.”
A glance sufficed to convince him he’d been right.
Between the two tall rocks forming the narrow entrance of the tiny natural harbor, there was a straight, dark line, barely an inch above the water, against which the surf broke. It must have been an iron barrier that could be operated from inside the villa to prevent outsiders from entering the little harbor with any sort of craft. This might not indicate anything suspicious, of course; it might only mean that unannounced visitors were unwelcome. Studying the rocks more closely, he noticed something else that piqued his curiosity, about three feet above the water. He looked and looked until the image began to blur before his eyes.
“Catarella!”
“Yessir, Chief!”
“Get Torretta to lend you a magnifying glass.”
“Right away, Chief.”
He’d guessed right. Catarella returned with a big magnifying glass and handed it to the inspector.
“Thanks, you can go now. And close the door behind you.”
He wouldn’t want to be caught by Mimì or Fazio in a pose typical of Sherlock Holmes.
With the help of the glass, he managed to figure out what he was looking at. There were two small signal lights which, when illuminated at night or in conditions of poor visibility, would precisely mark the boundaries of the entrance, allowing anyone maneuvering a craft to enter without risk of crashing into the rocks. They must certainly have been installed by the villa’s original owner, the American smuggler, and the whole setup must have been very useful to him. Still, subsequent tenants had kept it in working order. He pondered this a long time. Slowly, he began to think he ought perhaps to go and take another, closer look—from the sea, if possible. And, most importantly, on the sly, without telling anyone.
He glanced at his watch. Ingrid would be there at any moment. He took his wallet out of his pocket to see if he had enough money for dinner. Catarella stuck his head inside the door and said, panting:
“Ahh Chief! Miss Ingrid’s ousside, waiting for you!”
Ingrid wanted the inspector to get in her car.
“With yours we’ll never get there, and it’s pretty far.”
“Where on earth are you taking me?”
“You’ll see. You can break the monotony of your fish dishes once in a while, can’t you?”
Between Ingrid’s chatter and the speed she maintained, it didn’t seem like they’d been driving long when the car pulled up in front of a farmhouse in the open country. Was it really a restaurant, or had Ingrid made a mistake? When he saw a dozen or so parked cars, he felt reassured. Once inside, Ingrid greeted all present and they all greeted her. She was one of the family. The manager came rushing over.
“Salvo, will you have what I’m going to have?” Ingrid asked.
The inspector thus enjoyed a dish of ditalini in a sauce of fresh and properly salted ricotta, with pecorino and black pepper on top. The dish cried out for wine, a demand that was amply fulfilled. For the second course they stuffed themselves with costi ’mbriachi, that is, “drunken” pork ribs drowning in wine and tomato concentrate. When it came time to pay the bill, the inspector blanched: he’d forgotten his wallet on his office desk. Ingrid took care of it. On the drive back, the car did a few waltzlike turns. As they approached the police station, Montalbano asked Ingrid to stop so he could get his wallet.
“I’ll come in with you,” she said. “I’ve never seen where you work.”
They went into his office. The inspector walked over to his desk, Ingrid following behind. As he grabbed the wallet, Ingrid noticed the photos on the table and picked one up.
“Why do you have pictures of Ninì on your desk?”
12
For an instant everything stopped; for an instant, even the confused background noise of the world vanished. Even a fly that was decidedly aiming for the inspector’s nose froze, suspended in air, wings spread. Getting no answer to her question, Ingrid looked up. Montalbano looked like a statue, wallet half-inserted in his jacket pocket, mouth hanging open, eyes staring at Ingrid.
“Why do you have all those pictures of Ninì?” she asked again, picking up the other photos on the desk.