commissioner, nobody? It is your duty, I repeat, your duty—”
Montalbano raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Then he ran his handkerchief rapidly over his eyes.
“I know, I know, Mr. Commissioner,” he said, “but if you only knew how torn I feel between my duty on the one hand and my word of honor on the other ...”
He secretly congratulated himself. What a fine language Italian was! “Torn” was exactly the word required in this case.
“You’re raving, Montalbano! You don’t realize what you’re saying! You’re putting your duty on the same level as a promise made to a criminal!”
The inspector repeatedly nodded his head.
“You’re right! You’re right! Your words are the gospel truth!”
“So now, without beating around the bush, tell me why you met with Sinagra! I demand a full explanation!”
Now came the climax of the whole performance he’d been improvising. If the commissioner swallowed the bait, the whole business would end right then and there.
“I think he might want to turn himself in,” he murmured, in a low voice.
“What’s that?” said the commissioner, who’d understood not a word.
“I think Balduccio Sinagra has half a mind to turn himself in.”
As if propelled in the air by an explosion in the very spot in which he was seated, Bonetti-Alderighi shot out of his chair, ran anxiously over to the window and door, and shut them both, giving the latter a turn of the key for good measure.
“Let’s sit over here,” he said, pushing the inspector towards a small sofa. “So we won’t have to raise our voices.”
Montalbano sat down and fired up a cigarette, knowing full well that the commissioner went ape-shit, had out- and-out attacks of hysteria, whenever he saw the slightest shred of tobacco. But this time Bonetti-Alderighi didn’t even notice. With a faraway smile and dreamy eyes, he was imagining himself surrounded by squabbling, impatient journalists, in the glare of the floodlights, a cluster of microphones extended towards his mouth, while he explained in brilliant turns of phrase how he’d managed to persuade one of the most blood-thirsty bosses in the Mafia to cooperate with justice.
“Tell me everything, Montalbano,” he entreated him, his tone conspiratorial.
“What can I say, Mr. Commissioner? Yesterday Sinagra called me up personally to tell me he wanted to see me at once.”
“You could at least have let me know!” the commissioner reproached him, wagging his index finger in the air as if to say, “Naughty, naughty.”
“I didn’t have the time, believe me. Actually, no, wait . . .”
“Yes?”
“Now I remember: I did call you, but was told you were busy, I don’t know, in a meeting or something . . .”
“That’s possible, very possible,” the other admitted. “But let’s come to the point: what did Sinagra tell you?”
“Surely, Mr. Commissioner, you must know from the report that it was a very brief conversation.”
Bonetti-Alderighi got up, glanced at the sheet of paper on his desk, then came and sat back down.
“Forty-five minutes is not brief.”
“Granted, but in those forty-five minutes you’ve got to include the drive up there and back.”
“You’re right.”
“Anyway, Sinagra didn’t really tell me anything outright. Rather, he gave me to understand his intentions. Better yet, he left it all up to my intuition.”
“Sicilian-style, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you try to be a little more specific?”
“He said he was beginning to feel tired.”
“I can imagine. He’s ninety years old!”
“Exactly. He said his son’s arrest and his grandson’s life on the run were hard blows to take.”
It sounded like a line from a B movie, and it had come out well. The commissioner, however, looked a tad disappointed.
“Is that all?”
“It’s already a lot, Mr. Commissioner! Think about it. Why did he want to tell
“Of course, of course.”
“He said he’d call me back soon.”
