Treasure Hunt (15 page)

He was about to leave to go home when Mimì Augello appeared.

“Can we talk in private for a minute?” Mimì asked.

“Certainly. Have a seat.”

“Can I lock the door?”

“You can do whatever you like.”

He locked the door and sat down. He seemed to be in a strange mood, between embarrassed and determined.

Montalbano helped him out.

“What’s wrong, Mimì?”

“I have something confidential to tell you. I could just as easily not tell you, now that I’ve cleared things up, but since I think it might be useful to you, I’ll tell you. Even though it costs me a great deal.”

“Useful to me for what, Mimì?”

“For the investigation into the missing girl.”

But he still couldn’t make up his mind to tell him whatever it was that would be useful in the investigation. Montalbano realized that it was best not to force him. Then Mimì summoned his courage and spoke.

“About two months ago I went to a house of assignation.”

“I don’t think we’ve ever done a . . .” The inspector’s eyes met Mimì’s and suddenly he understood.

“You mean as a client?!” he asked.

“Yes.”

Then Mimì started talking very fast.

“It’s a little, secluded house between here and Montelusa and it takes barely fifteen minutes to get there, and so . . .”

Augello trailed off, as Montalbano was glaring at him.

“Asshole,” said the inspector.

“I expected you would react that way. And that’s why I was reluctant to tell you. But don’t get the wrong idea . . . You see, I’m in love with Beba, I really am, but sometimes I just get this craving for—”

“It’s not because of Beba.”

“Well, why, then?”

“If you can’t figure it out for yourself, then you’re an even bigger asshole than I thought. What if the Montelusa police had decided to burst in that day and found you in there? Your career would have been toast.”

“It didn’t occur to me. Can we just forget for a second that I’m an asshole? Can I continue?”

“Go ahead.”

“Among the photos that the madam was showing me of the girls available, there was one of an eighteen-year-old girl who looked exactly like Ninetta.”

Montalbano felt a cold shudder. He would never have expected it. That had never figured among his hypotheses. Pretty little goody-two-shoes, all school and home, whereas . . .

But he said nothing.

“So I chose her, but the madam told me she wasn’t available at that moment.”

“And why did you make off with the photograph today?”

“I’ll get to that. Then, about a month ago, Montelusa police raided the—”

“Wha’d I say?”

“Fine, but we also agreed to drop that line of argument.”

“Sorry.”

“They arrested the madam, identified all the girls and clients, and seized the photo album. The whole operation was under the command of our friend Zurlo. So I went to see Zurlo, fudged some sort of excuse, and compared Ninetta’s photo with the one in the album. It’s not her.”

“Are you sure?”

“They look almost like twins, but it’s not her. I’m absolutely sure. And that’s what I had to say.”

Well, if that was all, Augello could have spared himself the confession. But at least he was honest.

“What makes you think it would be useful to the investigation?”

“Well, I asked myself, what if the kidnapper mistook Ninetta for the other girl? What if he wanted to kidnap the girl in the album and grabbed Ninetta instead?”

“But wasn’t the girl in the album identified?”

“She was.”

“So how were you able to establish with absolute certainty that she wasn’t Ninetta?”

“Because the girl in the album has a little scar under her left ear. From up close it must be clearly visible.”

He pulled the photo of Ninetta out of his pocket and set it down on the desk.

“Have a look for yourself. As you can see, there’s no scar on Ninetta’s face. And the photo hasn’t been tampered with. But from a distance you can’t see the scar, which is why it could very well be a case of mistaken identity.”

Great. That was all they needed, another complication. A case of mistaken identity.

“Listen, Mimì, did you manage to get the name and address of this other girl, the one in the album?”

“Yes. She lives in Vincinzella.”

An old district between Vigàta and Montelusa.

“Go and pay her a visit. Talk to her.”

“What do you want to know?”

“If there’s any chance anyone would want to kidnap her.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Go there and say, ‘Er, excuse me, signorina, do you know of anyone who might want to kidnap you?’”

“Mimì, I leave it up to you to decide. You seem to have no problem whatsoever winning a woman’s trust.”

“I don’t know, I may have lost my touch.”

“Cut the crap, Mimì. There’s mostly one thing I’m interested in. I want to know if there was anyone among her clients who fell in love with her, who went to see her more often than the others, or who wanted to make her leave the life she was living . . .”

“I’ll give it a try.”

Just as he was opening the door to his car, he heard someone call his name. It was Fazio, who’d just got back at that moment and was getting out of his car.

“You won’t believe the luck, Chief!”

“Tell me.”

“After informing Vilardo, I phoned the bus company and they told me that the driver of the circle line, the same one as last night, had just finished his shift and was still there in the offices. So they put him on and I asked him to wait for me. And then I went and we talked. Now wait just a sec, and I’ll tell you everything.”

He stuck a hand in his pocket, pulled out a small half-sheet of paper, and prepared to read it.

“If you’re about to tell me the driver’s name, whose son he is, and when he was born, I will make you eat that piece of paper.”

Mildly mortified, Fazio—who suffered from what Montalbano called a “records-office complex”—put the paper back in his pocket, making a face that was half embarrassment, half disappointment.

“And so?”

“The driver knows Ninetta quite well. And remembers that yesterday evening around ten after eight, she got on at the stop near the Splendor. In fact, she was the only female aboard. The other three passengers were men.”

“So she wasn’t kidnapped there, at least.”

“No. But Gibilaro—”

“Who’s that?”

“The driver. Gibilaro told me that at a certain point, as he was driving down Corso De Gasperi, an SUV overtook him and, once past the bus, suddenly stopped, forcing Gibilaro to slam on the brakes, which got the passengers shouting. Then the SUV, after letting the bus pass, started following behind it.”

“Wait a second. Did Gibilaro see where Ninetta was sitting?”

“Yes. She was on the left-hand side, if you’re looking at the bus from behind, and she was leaning with her head against the window and looking outside, at the road.”

“So it’s possible that the guy driving the SUV got a look at her face as he was passing the bus?”

“Very possible.”

“What then?”

“Gibilaro saw Ninetta get off at the Via delle Rose stop to catch the number three bus, which would take her close to where she lives.”

Montalbano decided that it was best to go and see with his own eyes where these streets actually were. Otherwise, knowing only their names, he wouldn’t have any sense of anything.

“Let’s go inside,” he said.

If he could sort things out right away, he would be better able to savor what Adelina had cooked for him.

“Ah, Chief! Ye’r back!” Catarella said joyfully.

“Yes, Cat, I’m back.”

As if there could be any doubt about the matter.

“Listen,” the inspector continued, “remember when, a few days ago, I left all those papers on the floor of my office?”

“Chief, beckin’ yer partin’ ’n’ all, but there’s always peppers onna floor o’ y’r’office.”

“Well, these ones were big topographical sheets.”

Catarella looked flummoxed.

“I dunno nuttin’ ’bout no top o’ the graphicals, but wha’ I seen was all covered wit’ squiggles like road maps.”

“Yeah, those are the ones I mean. Do you know where they are?”

“I’s worried ’atta cleanin’ laidies was gonna tro ’em aways, ’n’ so I rolled ’em all up in rolls an’ put ’em inna closit o’ the present Fazio.”

“Well done. Go get ’em.”

With Fazio’s help, Montalbano created the same shambles as before.

He moved all the chairs and spread the pages out on the floor, holding them in place with little boxes, staplers, and books.

“Did you manage to get a copy of the circle line’s route?”

“They gave me the routes of all the buses in town.”

On their floor map they traced out the route the circle line took, from the stop near the Splendor onwards.

To get the transfer to the number 3 bus, Ninetta got off at the Via delle Rose stop. Which must surely have been where she was kidnapped, because Via del Sambuco, which was where Engineer Vilardo had seen his SUV drive by, was the very next street over.

“Now give me that photo of Ninetta on my desk. . . .”

“Did Augello give it back to you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say why he’d wanted it?”

Montalbano answered vaguely.

“Apparently she looked like one of the girls somebody’d talked to him about, but he turned out to be wrong.”

Fazio looked at him as though not very convinced by his reply, but said nothing.

“Take the photo yourself,” the inspector continued, “and go tomorrow morning to Via delle Rose and ask around if anyone saw anything. Even though I already know it’ll be a waste of time.”

He went back to studying the maps.

“I forget the name of the street where Vilardo says he saw the SUV turn,” said Montalbano.

“He said he thought he saw it turn right, onto Via dei Glicini.”

“Let’s see where this Via dei Glicini leads.”

A quick glance at the map was enough for him to see.

The street ended in a small square that he already knew from having looked for it and found it a few days before. It was the same little piazza with a roundabout with exits onto four different streets: Via dei Glicini, Via Garibaldi, Via dei Mille, and Via Cavour.

“To me it seems clear,” he said to Fazio, “that the kidnapper must have noticed, by chance, when he overtook the bus in Corso De Gasperi, that Ninetta was on board, or somebody he mistook for Ninetta. Or it could have been something a little more complicated, like he sees someone he knows perfectly well is not the person he’s looking for but looks so much like her that she could serve as a stand-in.”

“Wait a second,” said Fazio. “Are you telling me that maybe the kidnapper didn’t pick her out at random, as the first to come along, but had a specific model in mind?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s a possibility we can’t rule out. I’ll continue. So he skids to a halt and lets the bus go ahead and then follows behind it. Three stops later, the girl gets off in Via delle Rose. Here the man grabs her and forces her to get inside the SUV. The car turns down Via del Sambuco. Vilardo sees it drive by and follows it with his eyes as it heads off to the right, in the direction of Via dei Glicini. But then his view is cut off by a bus.”

“The number three bus, the one Ninetta was supposed to take,” Fazio concluded.

“Right.”

“So,” Fazio continued, “if the number three bus was right behind the SUV, this means that the kidnapper moved extremely fast, grabbing the girl and forcing her into the car in a flash, before she could put up any resistance. And all this at a bus stop where there were other people waiting. How did he do it?”

“And you know what it means?”

“No.”

“It means you’ve got another job to do,” said Montalbano.

“And what’s that?”

“You have to find out from the bus company who was driving the number three that night, and then go and talk to him directly and ask him if he noticed anything as he was pulling up at the stop on Via delle Rose.”

“And how are we going to identify the other people waiting at the stop?”

“I think we’re better off forgetting about them. If they witnessed a violent sort of scene and still haven’t come forward to report it, they’re never going to.”

It wasn’t exactly a wonderful evening. Actually the evening itself was heartbreakingly beautiful, but the problem was the inspector’s bad mood managed to pollute even the landscape. And so he ate lackadaisically on the veranda, unable to get that poor girl out of his head.

And this was a big mistake, which made him even angrier.

Compassion and pity for a human being subjected to violence and other outrages were things you should feel afterwards, once the case has been solved. Whereas, if these feelings overwhelm you during an investigation, they fog your mind, which is supposed to remain cold and lucid and keep its focus on the tormentor and not the victim.

Speaking of tormentors and victims, should he take the initiative and call Livia or not?

It was certainly his turn, since Livia had already shown her desire to make peace by calling him last time, but then unfortunately it was Ingrid who answered the phone and the whole thing spun out of control.

He got up, went inside, and dialed her number. He was immediately ambushed.

“You did it on purpose!”

“I did what on purpose?”

“You had Ingrid answer the phone!”

“Livia, how can you possibly think I would ever—”

“You’re capable of anything with your Machiavellian ways!”

Pretend it’s nothing and carry on.

“Livia, please, if you really care about me, just let me talk without interruption for five minutes.”

“So talk.”

And so they made peace. But only towards dawn. In fact the phone company bosses probably cracked open a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

At nine-thirty the following morning, Fazio was already at the station with the results of his investigation.

“You got an early start this morning.”

“Chief, you know as well as I do that the more time passes, the worse it is for the girl.”

“Wha’d you find out?”

“The shops in Via delle Rose closest to the bus stop were all closed already, so there was no use wasting time. Right before closing the main door for the night, the concierge of the building at 28 Via delle Rose, which is right in front of the bus stop, noticed that there were about ten people there waiting. There was even a lady she knew, and they waved at each other in greeting.”

“Does she remember seeing the blond girl there?”

“She says she doesn’t, no.”

“And yet with Ninetta, all you have to do is see her once to remember her.”

“Well, in fact, the concierge says that doesn’t mean the girl wasn’t there, since she didn’t look at the crowd for very long.”

“Did you get the coordinates of her lady friend?”

“Yes, but I haven’t talked to her, I haven’t had time yet. I’ll go and see her as soon as we’re done talking. On the other hand, I did meet with the driver of the number three line just as he was checking in to work.”

“Did he see anything?”

Fazio stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a half-sheet of paper.

“What’ve you got written on that piece of paper?” the inspector asked.

“The personal particulars of the driver.”

“If you read it, I’ll shoot you.”

“Whatever you say.” Fazio sighed, resigned.

But Montalbano had to prod him to get him to resume talking.

“And so?”

“Well, when the driver pulled up at the stop, he saw an SUV with its rear end in the space reserved for the bus and a young blonde talking with someone inside the car, but sitting in back.”

“Is he sure?”

“That the guy she was talking to was sitting in back? Yes, absolutely.”

“Go on.”

“Then the driver started looking in the mirror at the people getting on the bus, because the bus was already packed and there were a lot of people getting on, and when he closed the door in back and got ready to maneuver his way around the SUV, it suddenly pulled out ahead of him.”

“And he never saw the girl after that?”

“No. And he couldn’t tell me whether she got on the bus or not.”

Montalbano sat there in silence.

“What are you thinking about?” Fazio asked him after a brief spell.

“I was trying to calculate the time frame.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . Just listen carefully for a second. Based on what the driver told you . . . What’s his name?”

“I don’t remember,” said Fazio, stone-faced.

“All right, all right, you can look at your goddamn piece of paper, but only to tell me his name.”

Which Fazio did, grinning with satisfaction.

“Caruana, first name Antonio.”

“Based on what Caruana told you, it might appear that there were two people in the SUV, one at the wheel and the other in the backseat, who would have been the one Ninetta was talking to.”

“Whereas that wasn’t the case?”

“I don’t think so. This, in my opinion, was the work of a lone kidnapper. Who seized the girl and wants to enjoy her all by himself. He doesn’t intend to share her with anyone.”

“So how could he have done it?”

“That’s why I said I was thinking about the time frame. So, Ninetta gets off at the three line’s stop and, immediately afterwards, an SUV pulls over almost entirely in the space reserved for the bus, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Up to that point, it’s smooth sailing. But now we start to enter rough waters—that is, the seas of supposition. Here’s how I think things went. The SUV pulls over, the guy driving gets out, gets into the backseat and pretends he’s looking for something. Then he opens the door on the side nearest the crowd and asks Ninetta a question. The girl comes closer, and at that instant the bus pulls in. At that point nobody, passengers and driver included, is looking at the SUV anymore. The passengers are all pushing towards the entrance. Caruana watches them in the rearview mirror. It all takes just a few seconds, but long enough for the kidnapper.”

“All right, makes sense, but how did he do it?”

“There’s only one way he could have done it, by resorting to swift, sudden violence. The kidnapper grabs Ninetta by the arm, pulling her inside, while with his other hand he deals her a punch that knocks her out. He gets out of the backseat, gets back behind the wheel, and drives off. Think about it for a second, and you’ll see that the whole operation may be extremely risky, but it’s possible.”

“You’re right. . . .”

“And the way he acted adds another stroke to our portrait of the kidnapper. The guy’s got an exceptionally cool head. He can calculate time to perfection, he never gets upset, knows how to exploit any situation to his advantage. And he’s prepared to use violence at the drop of a hat.”