Rounding the Mark (12 page)

Stop. Wait a second. Let’s think about this for a minute. No, in fact he didn’t see anyone call an ambulance. Are you sure, Montalbano? Let’s review the scene again. No, he’s sure. Put it this way: Somebody must have called the ambulance. Two medics then get out of the car and one of them, the skinny guy with the mustache, touches one of the woman’s legs and says it’s probably broken. The woman and three children are put in the ambulance and it drives off in the direction of Montelusa.

Let’s go back again, just to be sure. Glasses. Wharf. Disembarkation. Pregnant woman. Little kid darts out between the legs of four refugees. Kid runs away. He follows. Kid surrenders. They go back to the wharf. Mother sees them and starts running towards them. Kid looks at him. Mother stumbles, falls, can’t get back up. Ambulance arrives. Medic with mustache says broken leg. Mother and kids get into ambulance. Ambulance leaves. End part one.

Conclusion: Almost certainly, nobody called the ambulance. It arrived on its own. Why? Because the medical workers had themselves witnessed the scene of the mother falling to the ground? Maybe. Then the medic diagnoses the broken leg. And his words authorize the ambulance to take her away. If the medic had said nothing, some policeman would have called over the doctor who, as always, was there with them. Why wasn’t the doctor consulted? He wasn’t consulted because there wasn’t time. The ambulance’s sudden arrival and the medic’s diagnosis had steered events in the direction desired by the director. Yes, director. That whole scene had been prearranged and staged with great intelligence.

Despite the hour, he grabbed the phone.

“Fazio? Montalbano here.”

“There’s no news, Chief, otherwise I’d have—”

“Save your breath. I want to ask you something. Were you planning to continue your search tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to take care of something for me first.”

“Yessir.”

“At San Gregorio Hospital, there’s an ambulance worker with a mustache, a very thin man of about fifty. I want to know everything about him, the known and the unknown. Get my drift?”

“Yessir, absolutely.”

He hung up and called the San Gregorio.

“Is nurse Agata Militello there?”

“Just a minute. Yes, she’s here.”

“I’d like to speak to her.”

“She’s on duty. We have orders not—”

“Listen, this is Inspector Montalbano. It’s a serious matter.”

“Please wait while I look for her.”

When he was beginning to lose hope, he heard the nurse’s voice.

“Is that you, Inspector?”

“Yes. I’m sorry if I—”

“Not at all. What can I do for you?”

“I need to see you and talk to you. As soon as possible.”

“Listen, Inspector. I’m on the night shift and would like to sleep in a bit tomorrow morning. Could we meet around eleven?”

“Certainly. Where?”

“We could meet in front of the hospital.”

He was about to say yes, but thought better of it. What if the ambulance worker were to see them together?

“I’d rather we met in front of your house.”

“All right. I’m at Via della Regione, number 28. See you tomorrow.”

 
 
He slept like an innocent cherub with no problems or thoughts, as he always did when he started an investigation on what seemed to be the right foot. The next morning he arrived at the office fresh and smiling. On his desk was a hand-delivered envelope addressed to him. There was no indication of the sender.

“Catarella!”

“Your orders, Chief!”

“Who brought this letter?”

“Pontius Pilate, Chief. Brought it here last night.”

He put it in his pocket. He would read it later. Or maybe never. Mimì Augello came in a few minutes later.

“How’d it go with the commissioner?” Montalbano asked.

“He seemed down, less self-assured than usual. Obviously all he brought back from Rome was a lot of hot air. He said it’s clear now that the flow of illegal immigrants has shifted from the Adriatic to the Mediterranean and that it’ll be harder than ever to stop. Apparently the people at the top are a little slow to acknowledge this fact. But then again, they’re also slow to acknowledge that petty theft is up, not to mention armed robbery . . . They just sing in chorus
‘Tutto va ben, mia nobile marchesa,’
while we’re supposed to keep plodding along with the little we have.”

“Did you apologize for my absence?”

“Yes.”

“And what’d he say?”

“What did you want him to do, Salvo? Start crying? He merely said: Fine. Period. Now tell me what was the matter with you yesterday.”

“I had a problem.”

“Salvo, who do you think you’re fooling? First you tell me you want to see the commissioner to tender your resignation, then fifteen minutes later you change your mind and tell me I have to go to the commissioner’s instead. What kind of problem?”

“If you really want to know . . .”

He told him the whole story of the little boy. When he’d finished, Mimì was silent and pensive.

“Something not add up for you?” Montalbano asked.

“No, it all adds up, but only up to a point.”

“And what would that be?”

“You directly connect the boy’s murder with his attempt to run away on the wharf. I’m not so sure about that.”

“Come on, Mimì! Why else would he have done it, then?”

“Let me tell you something. Last month a friend of mine went to New York and stayed with an American friend of his. One day they went out to eat. My friend ordered an enormous steak with potatoes on the side. He couldn’t eat it all and left some of it on his plate. After clearing the table, the waiter came back with a little bag containing what my friend hadn’t eaten. My friend takes the bag and, outside the restaurant, sees a group of bums and starts walking towards them to give them the bag with his leftovers. But his American friend stops him, telling him the bums won’t accept it. If he feels like being charitable, he should give them fifty cents, he says. ‘Why won’t they accept the bag with half a steak in it?’ my friend asks. ‘Because there are people here who give them poisoned food, the way they do with stray dogs,’ he says. See my point?”

“No.”

“It’s possible that the little boy, caught by surprise at the side of the road, was deliberately run over just for fun, or in a fit of racism, by some goddamned son of a bitch, some nameless bastard who had nothing to do with the kid’s arrival here.”

Montalbano let out a deep sigh.

“I wish! If that were really what happened, I would feel less guilty. Unfortunately, I’m pretty convinced the whole affair has a precise logic of its own.”

 
 
Agata Militello was a well-groomed woman of about forty, good-looking but tending dangerously towards plumpness. She was a garrulous sort and in fact did almost all the talking during the hour she spent with the inspector. She said she was in a bad mood that morning because her son, a university student (“You know, Inspector, I had the bad luck to fall in love at age seventeen with a rascal who left me as soon as he learned I was expecting”), wanted to get married (“But I say, can’t you wait? What’s the hurry? Meanwhile you can do whatever you want, and then we’ll see”). She also said that the hospital management were cynical bastards who took advantage of her, knowing she would come running every time they asked her to work off-hours because she had a heart of gold.

“It happened here,” she said suddenly, coming to a halt.

They were on a short street with no residences or shops, practically only the backs of two large buildings.

“But there’s not a single house here,” said Montalbano.

“You’re right. We’re behind the hospital, which is this building here on the right. I always take this route, because that way I can enter through the emergency room, which is the first door on the right once you turn this corner.”

“So the woman with the three children must have exited emergency, turned left, taken this street, and then was greeted by that car.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you notice whether the car was coming from the direction of the emergency ward or from the opposite direction?”

“No, I couldn’t tell.”

“When the car stopped, could you see how many people were inside?”

“Before the woman and her children got in?”

“Yes.”

“There was only the driver.”

“Did you notice anything in particular about the man driving?”

“How could I, Inspector? He stayed in the car the whole time! But he wasn’t black, if that’s what you mean.”

“He wasn’t? He was one of us?”

“Yes, but can you tell the difference between a Sicilian and a Tunisian? You know, one time, I—”

“How many ambulances does the hospital have?” the inspector interrupted.

“Four, but they’re not enough. And there’s no money to buy even one more.”

“How many men are there in an ambulance when it’s on duty?”

“Two. We have a shortage of personnel. One medic and a driver, who helps out.”

“Do you know them all?”

“Of course.”

He wanted to ask her about the gaunt medic with the mustache but didn’t. The woman talked too much. She was liable to run to the man afterwards and tell him the inspector had asked about him.

“Shall we go have a coffee?”

“Yes, thank you, Inspector. Even though I’m not supposed to. You know, one time I had four coffees in a row, and . . .”

 
 
Fazio was waiting for him at headquarters, impatient to resume his search for information on the dead man he’d found in the sea. Fazio was like a dog that, once he picked up a scent, didn’t relent until he’d flushed out his quarry.

“Chief, the ambulance worker’s name is Gaetano Marzilla.”

He stopped.

“Yeah? Is that all?” asked Montalbano, surprised.

“Chief, can we make a deal?”

“A deal?”

“Let me indulge a little in my records office complex, as you call it, and afterwards I’ll tell you what I found out about him.”

“It’s a deal,” the inspector said, resigned.

Fazio’s eyes sparkled with contentment. He pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket and began reading.

“Gaetano Marzilla, born in Montelusa on October 6, 1960, son of the late Stefano Marzilla and Antonia née Diblasi, resident of Montelusa, Via Francesco Crispi 18. Married Elisabetta Cappuccino, born at Ribera on February 14, 1963, daughter of Emanuele Cappuccino and Eugenia née Ricottilli, who—”

“Stop right there or I’ll shoot,” said Montalbano.

“Okay, okay. I’m satisfied,” said Fazio, putting the piece of paper back in his pocket.

“So, do we want to talk about serious matters now?”

“Sure. This Marzilla’s been working at the hospital ever since getting his nursing degree. His wife came with a modest gift shop in her dowry, but the shop burned down three years ago.”

“Arson?”

“Yes, but the place wasn’t insured. Rumor has it that it was burned down because Marzilla got tired of paying the protection money. And you know what Marzilla did?”

“Fazio, those kinds of questions only piss me off. I don’t know a goddamned thing! You’re the one who’s supposed to be filling me in!”

“Marzilla learned his lesson and started coughing up the protection money. Feeling safe, he bought a warehouse adjacent to the shop and expanded and renovated everything. To make a long story short, he got covered in debt, and since business is bad, the loan sharks have him by the throat now, according to the gossip. Lately the poor guy’s so desperate he’s looking left and right for any spare change he can get his hands on.”

“I absolutely must speak with this man,” said Montalbano, after remaining silent a few moments. “And as soon as possible.”

“What are we going to do? We certainly can’t arrest the guy,” said Fazio.

“No. Who ever said anything about arresting him? On the other hand . . .”

“On the other hand?”

“If he got wind . . .”

“Of what?”

“Nothing, I just thought of something. You know the address of his shop?”

“Of course, Chief. Via Palermo 34.”

“Thanks. Now go pound the pavement some more.”

9

After Fazio left, he sat and pondered his course of action until he had it all clear in his mind. He called in Galluzzo.

“Listen, I want you to go to the Bulone printworks and have them make a bunch of calling cards for you.”

“With my name?” asked Galluzzo, perplexed.

“Come on, Gallù, are you acting like Catarella now? With my name.”

“And what should I tell them to write?”

“The essential. Salvo Montalbano and, underneath, Chief Inspector, Vigàta Police. On the bottom left, have them put our telephone number. Ten or so will be enough.”

“While we’re at it, Chief—”

“You want me to order a thousand? So I can wallpaper my bathroom with ’em? Ten’ll be more than enough. And I want them on my desk by four o’clock this afternoon. No excuses. Now hurry, before they close for lunch.”

It was time to eat. Since most people were at home, he might as well try. He picked up the phone.

“Hallo? Who tokin?” said the voice of a woman who must have come from at least as far away as Burkhina Faso.

“This is Inspector Montalbano. Is Signora Ingrid there?”

“You wait.”

By now it was tradition. Whenever he called up Ingrid, a housekeeper from a country nowhere to be found on the map always answered.

“Hi, Salvo? What’s up?”

“I’m going to need a little help from you. Are you free this afternoon?”

“Yes. I have an engagement around six.”

“That should be more than enough time. Can we meet in Montelusa, in front of the Vittoria Café at four-thirty?”

“Sure. See you later.”

 
 
At home he found a casserole of tender, mischievous
pasta ’ncasciata
(he suffered from improper use of adjectives and couldn’t define it any better than this) in the oven and feasted on it. Then he changed, putting on a grey double-breasted suit, a pale blue shirt, and a red tie. He wanted to look like a cross between white-collar and shady. Afterwards, he sat out on the veranda and sipped a coffee while smoking a cigarette.