Angelica's Smile (12 page)

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that it’s imprudent, Chief. Sorry to say.”

“But why?”

“Chief, that asshole journalist has already insinuated on TV that you might be covering for the girl. Just imagine what would happen if somebody saw you go to Cosulich’s house in the evening!”

“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And you can’t very well take her out to a restaurant again, either.”

“So what should I do, then?”

“Have her come here to the station.”

“And what if she doesn’t want to?”

“If she doesn’t want to, then it’s better for her to come to your house in Marinella, late in the evening, when it’ll be harder for them to see her.”

But were Fazio’s eyes smiling?

Was the little bastard having fun?

“I’ll have her come here,” Montalbano said decisively.

“It’s the best thing,” said Fazio, standing up.

The inspector was reaching for the phone to call Angelica when his hand froze in midair.

The call would be answered by the bank’s telephone operator. And he would be forced to say he was Inspector Montalbano.

And couldn’t a phone call from the police further compromise Angelica’s already shaky standing at the bank?

So how was he going to get in touch with her?

He had an idea.

He called Catarella.

“Yessir.”

“Cat, do you know if anyone here is a customer at the Banca Siculo-Americana?”

“Yessir, Chief. Afficer Arturo Ronsisvalle. I went wit’ ’im once issomuch as ’e ’ad a check an’—”

“Tell him to come to my office.”

While waiting, he picked up a piece of paper and wrote:

Please call me at the office as soon as you can. Thanks, Montalbano.

This way, if any of Angelica’s coworkers saw it, there was nothing to find fault with. He put the sheet of paper in an unaddressed envelope.

“You asked for me, Inspector?”

“Yes, listen, Ronsisvalle, do you know Angelica Cosulich?”

“I do. I’m a customer at the Banca—”

“I know. I want you to go to the bank and give her this letter, but without anyone noticing.”

“I’ll say I want a printout of my account balance as an excuse.”

“Good. Thanks.”

Half an hour later, Angelica called.

“What’s going on?”

“Can you talk?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it might be unwise for me to come to your place. Somebody might see me.”

“Who the hell cares?”

“Actually, you should care. Think about it. Among other things, the Peritores live on the same street as you. If anybody should find out, the rumor that you and I have an understanding will gain momentum and become harder and harder to deny.”

She sighed. A few moments later she said:

“I guess you’re right. But what are we going to do?”

“You could come to the station.”

“No.”

An immediate, decisive reply.

“Why not?”

“For the same reason that you won’t come to my place.”

“What’s the connection? I may have called you in for a detailed account of the burglary.”

“No. I just know it would be a mistake, I can feel it.”

“You could come to my place.”

“I’m delighted to accept the invitation. But, I’m sorry, isn’t it the same if someone sees me going to your place?”

“First of all, my house is isolated, and there are no other neighbors nearby. And if you come at ten
P.M.,
I assure you you won’t run into anybody.”

“At this point I have an alternative proposition,” said Angelica.

“And what’s that?”

She told him.

But it was not the sort of thing he should mention to Fazio.

He grabbed the list and read it for the umpteenth time.

1) P.I. Leone Camera and wife.

What did P.I. stand for? Private investigator?

2) Dr. Giovanni Sciortino and wife.

This was the couple at whose house the attempted burglary occurred.

3) Dr. Gerlando Filippone and wife.

Find out more about.

4) Emilio Lojacono, esq., and wife.

This is the lawyer who suffered the first burglary when he was with his mistress, Ersilia Vaccaro.

5) Giancarlo De Martino, engineer.

The one convicted for aiding and abetting an armed band.

6) Ragionier Matteo Schirò.

Unmarried? Find out more about.

7) Ragionier Mariano Schiavo and wife.

Find out more about.

8) Ragionier Mario Tavella and wife.

This was the one swimming in gambling debt.

9) Dr. Antonino Pirrera and wife.

Find out more about.

10) Stefano Pintacuda, esq., and wife.

Owns a vacation home. Find out more about.

11) Dr. Ettore Schisa.

Unmarried? Find out more about.

12) Antonio Martorana and wife.

The surveyor Martorana’s wife is apparently De Martino’s mistress. Find out more about.

13) Giorgio Maniace, surveyor.

Fazio said this guy was a widower. Was that his only good quality? What did he do in life? He also had a vacation home. And what else? Find out more about.

14) Dr. Angelica Cosulich.

This one he knew all too well.

15) Francesco Costa.

Must be the most ignorant of the lot, since he didn’t have any titles or degrees. Find out more about.

16) Agata Cannavò.

The widow and gossip. The one who thought she knew everything about everyone. Find out more about.

17) Dr. Ersilia Vaccaro (and husband).

She was the lover of the lawyer Lojacono, fine. But why was the mention of her husband in parentheses?

18) Gaspare Di Mare, esq., and wife.

Find out more about.

In conclusion, whatever Fazio might think, they had taken this list a little too lightly. There were quite a few people on it about whom they knew nothing.

Almost certainly Angelica could tell him something about them.

He folded the list back up and put it in his jacket pocket.

It was time to go and eat.

He left his office and, when walking past Catarella, noticed that he was so engrossed in his computer that he didn’t even realize the inspector was there.

“What are you doing?”

Catarella very nearly fell out of his chair, then shot to his feet, as red-faced as a turkey-cock.

“Well, sintz there in’t no phone traffic, I’s jess passin’ the time playin’.”

“On the computer?”

“Yessir, Chief.”

“What kind of game?”

“Iss a game whereats to play it, ’ere’s gotta be two o’yiz.”

“But there aren’t two of you.”

“’Ass true, but the ’pewter don’t know I’m alone.”

This was also true.

“Tell me what the game consists of.”

“Well, Chief, iss azackly the appazit o’ the game o’ ‘screw-your-friend.’”

“Explain.”

“Well, the game cossitts o’ doin’ a most damage y’can do to the apposing couple, who’d be the avversary, bu’ also tryin’ a proteck y’r own partner from danger.”

“So how are things going?”

“Right nows I’m in rilly big danger, bu’ my partner, who’s me m’self, ’s comin’a lenn me a hand.”

“Good luck.”

“Tanks, Chief.”

“Listen, Enzo.”

“What is it, Inspector?”

“This evening, around seven . . . that girl who ate with me the other day, remember her . . . ?”

“How could I forget?”

“. . . she’s going to drop off a little package for me. I’ll come by and get it around eight.”

“All right. What shall I bring you now?”

“Everything.”

He wouldn’t admit it to himself, but he was pleased.

Later, sitting down on the flat rock, his mood changed.

He was like a crocodile that shed tears as an effect of digestion.

He bitterly acknowledged that he was moving slowly, dragging the investigation he had on his hands behind him.

He was doing everything according to logic.

What was missing was the sudden flash, the lightning-quick intuition that leapt over all logical connections and in other situations had led him straight to the solution.

Was it his age?

He felt as if his brain was rusty, like a car left too long unused.

Or was it the cumbersome, continuous presence of Angelica in his thoughts, preventing him from taking that leap forward?

He felt broken in two.

Half of Montalbano told him to make sure he never saw her again.

The other half could think of nothing but the next moment he would have her beside him.

“How am I gonna get out of this?” he asked a crab that was having a rougher time than him climbing a rock.

He received no reply.

“Did you call Signorina Cosulich?” Fazio asked when he came in.

“Yeah, she doesn’t want to come to the station.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“She says she’ll call me tonight at home.”

Matre santa
, what a tangle of lies he was forced to move about in!

“Chief, I had an idea.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Since you’ll be talking to La Cosulich this evening, why don’t you ask her for some information about her friends? . . . You know, gossipy stuff.”

“About the friends on the Peritores’ list?”

“That’s right.”

“So you’re coming around to my idea?”

“I’m just following your lead, leaving no stone unturned.”

“Okay, have a look.”

He took the list out of his pocket and showed it to Fazio.

“I’d already thought of the same thing as you. There are four names that I’m particularly interested in.”

“Which ones?”

“Schirò, Schisa, Maniace, and Costa.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because they’re either unmarried or widowers.”

Fazio looked bewildered.

“For somebody who gets it in his head to become the mastermind of a burglary ring,” the inspector explained, “a wife represents a problem.”

“But she could be an accomplice.”

“Right. Nevertheless, if we can manage to find out a little more about these four, we will have taken a step forward.”

“If you want, I can do some research myself.”

“Of course I want you to!”

He was glad Fazio wasn’t putting up any more resistance about the list.

Around eight o’clock he dropped by Enzo’s trattoria to pick up his packet.

When he got home, he set the package down on the table and went and opened the refrigerator to see what Adelina had made for him.

Rice
sartù
, fritters of
nunnatu
, and a platter of baby shrimp to be dressed with olive oil, lemon, and salt.

He set the table on the veranda and started eating slowly, alternating mouthfuls with breaths of sea air.

When he finished, it was ten-thirty.

He cleared the table and rang Livia.

“Hi. I’m calling because I’m about to go out and probably won’t be back till late.”

“The usual stakeout?”

He didn’t like the tone Livia used in asking that question.

“I’ll be up all night and all you can do is be snide about it?”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t being snide; it was the last thing from my mind.”

So was it he, with his bad conscience, who was misinterpreting everything?

He felt like some kind of worm. Not only did he tell Livia lies, but he even accused her of intentions she didn’t have.

Inspector Montalbano wasn’t liking himself at all.

When he got off the phone, he opened the little package.

Inside were two keys, one small and one large. He dropped them both into his pocket, put on his jacket, and went out.

When he got to the posh part of town—which by the light of the crescent moon looked more like a nightmare from overeating than a residential area—he turned onto Via Costantino Nigra, a parallel street running behind Via Cavour’s buildings.

As soon as he was behind the one shaped like an ice cream cone, he stopped and parked the car.

But he waited five minutes before getting out.

Then, seeing that there wasn’t a soul on the streets and all the windows in the nearby buildings were dark, he quickly got out of the car, locked it, crossed the street, and went up to the service entrance of Angelica’s building.

He opened the door with three turns of the little key, went in, then locked the door behind him.

He found himself inside a large space lit with fluorescent lights and cluttered with bicycles and motor scooters.

On the left was a staircase leading to the upper floors, with an elevator directly opposite. He opened the elevator door, went in, and pressed the button for the top floor. It was slow, a typical freight elevator.

On his way up to his earthly paradise, the usual snake that can be found in such surroundings hissed in his ear:

You’re surely not the first to travel this secret path! It’s anybody’s guess how many have made the same journey!

But the snake did not succeed in its intent. All it did was point out things that he could imagine all by himself, knowing Angelica’s habits.

The elevator stopped. He had arrived. The door opened, he stepped out.

He was breathing heavily, panting, as if he had climbed the six stories on foot.

Before ringing the doorbell, he decided he should try to calm down a little.

When his breathing returned to normal, he extended a finger to press the button.

And at that moment the other half of Montalbano said:

You’re fucking up big-time!

Without knowing exactly how, he found himself back inside the elevator, ready to renounce paradise.

Then he heard Angelica’s voice.

“What are you doing inside the elevator?”

He reopened the door. By now his fate was sealed.

“I dropped my cigarette lighter.”

She smiled at him.

And, dazzled by that smile, he let her take him by the hand and lead him inside.

The spaceship apartment was in perfect order and looked as if the burglars had never set foot in it.

“But what did they steal of yours?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“Haven’t you seen the list?”

“No.”

“Well, a tidy sum’s worth of jewelry and furs.”

“Where did you keep them?”

“The jewelry? In a little safe in my study, hidden behind a painting. I spend all my money on jewelry, you know. I inherited quite a bit from my mother, too, and I guess I picked up her passion for it. The furs on the other hand were in the armoire.”

“But couldn’t you have kept it all at your bank?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t have been a good idea. It would only have fed all the gossip about me. But did you come here to interrogate me?”

“No. I came to find out—”

“Come, let’s go out on the terrace.”

“What if somebody sees us?”

“They can’t. Trust me.”

He followed her.

The terrace was huge, as he’d imagined. But he was most impressed by the great quantity of plants, scents, and roses.

Not far away she sees a charming nook

Where flowering thorn with the vermilion red

Of roses is made gay .
 . .

Oh, no! Not Ariosto again!

But there was nothing he could do about it. The Angelica he had beside him corresponded too closely with the one from his adolescent memories.