The Age Of Doubt

At this point in his reconstruction, the inspector became convinced that just around the corner there was a car waiting to take Lannec to the cruiser at the port.

But why go there by car and not on foot, since it’s only a stone’s throw away?

Probably because he had to pass by the Customs Police at the north entrance to the port, and in a car he was less likely to be noticed. He could, for example, partially hide his face, pretending to be asleep or reading a newspaper…

So the Frenchman goes aboard the Ace of Hearts. They talk about whatever it is they need to talk about, and they probably fail to come to an agreement. And so they decide to silence him.

Or else Lannec’s fate had already been sealed before he even came to Vigata. His journey only served to lead him to his killers. And so they invite him to lunch and poison him.

But why use rat poison?

Shooting him, of course, was out of the question. The noise might attract someone’s attention-say, a fisherman or sailor who happened to be passing along the quay at that moment.

Would it have made more sense to knife him?

No, using a knife would have left bloodstains everywhere, which would have been easily found in any eventual investigation.

What about strangling him? A colossus like the guy the inspector had seen on the Ace of Hearts could have done it with one hand.

This business of the poison was rather strange. It needed further reflection.

Whatever the case, once the guy’s dead, they strip him naked, smash his face in, and deposit him somewhere. On the morning of the storm, they decide it’s the right time to get rid of the corpse.

They start up the engines, take a few spins around the port, meanwhile inflating a brand-new dinghy, put the victim’s body in it, and when they reach the lighthouse at the tip of the eastern jetty, they lower the dinghy into the water, certain that the current will take it out to sea.

But there’s an unlucky hitch. The Vanna, as it’s heading towards the port, comes across the dinghy.

***

Montalbano felt satisfied with his reconstruction.

Most of all, he felt pleased that he’d been able to go a whole hour without thinking of Laura-Laura, who was opening her eyes and smiling at Mimi, as she lay beside him in bed…

10

He got into his car and headed straight for Montelusa Central Police, without dropping by the station.

Luckily for him, the office he needed to go to was located on the opposite side of the building from the commissioner’s office. At least there was no danger of running into that colossal pain in the ass Lattes.

But sooner or later they were bound to cross paths. How was he going to resolve the problem once and for all? He’d promised Livia he would tell him the truth-that is, that he wasn’t married and had no children, and was a bachelor though he’d been with the same woman for many years. But hadn’t he already told him this at least five times in the past, and each time the guy seemed not to hear him, so that, when next they met, he was immediately back to square one and asking the inspector how his family was doing? Trying to convince Lattes was therefore a waste of breath.

Perhaps, however, there was a solution: to show up in front of Lattes one fine morning, dressed in deep mourning and unshaven, and say, between sobs, that his wife and sons had died in a car accident. Yes, that seemed to be the only solution.

But wouldn’t Livia then make a big stink? Wouldn’t she accuse him at the very least of having wiped out his whole family? Was it worth the risk?

To say nothing of the fact that there would be no mention of the crash in the papers.

No, he had to find another solution.

Meanwhile, he’d arrived at Montelusa Central. Going in through a back door, he climbed two flights of stairs and stopped in front of a small table at which a uniformed policeman he knew was seated.

“Is Inspector Geremicca in?”

“Yes, the inspector’s in his office. You can go in.”

Montalbano knocked and entered.

Attilio Geremicca was about fifty years old, thin as a beanpole, and smoked foul-smelling cigars. Montalbano was convinced he had the things specially made for him out of a blend of chicken shit and tobacco. Geremicca was standing and looking at a fifty-euro note through a sort of gigantic microscope on a tall counter.

Looking up, he saw Montalbano and went up to him with open arms. They embraced, genuinely happy to see each other.

After chatting a bit, Geremicca asked Montalbano if he needed anything, and the inspector, after handing him Lannec’s passport, told him the whole story.

“And what do you want from me?” Geremicca asked.

“I want you to find out if that passport is authentic or not.”

Geremicca studied it carefully while lighting another cigar.

Thinking he would never manage to hold his breath for the whole time, Montalbano pretended to sneeze, giving himself an excuse to put his handkerchief over his nose and keep it there.

“It’s not easy to say,” Geremicca commented. “But if it’s not authentic, it was made, at least in part, by a real master. Look how many borders it’s crossed without ever arousing any suspicion.”

“So you’re inclined to say it’s authentic.”

“I’m not inclined to say anything. Do you have any idea how many people there are who travel for years and years with phony passports? Hundreds! And this Lannec…”

“Actually, as far as the name is concerned, there’s something you ought to know that might be important.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve discovered that this Emile Lannec, born in Rouen, has the same name and birthplace as the protagonist of a novel by Simenon. Could that be of any use to you?”

“I can’t say yet. Listen, could I hang on to this for a few days?”

“Not for too long. One week enough?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want it for?”

“I want to show it to a French colleague of mine who is quite the specialist on the subject.”

“Will you mail it to him?”

“No, there’s no need.”

“But how will your colleague know whether the paper, the stamps-”

“A passport’s not a banknote, Salvo!” Geremicca said, smiling. “Normally passport counterfeiters work with authentic documents obtained illegally or stolen from some office while still fresh. That’s why I said a minute ago that it looked to me, but only in part, like the work of a master. Anyway, if my French friend needs any further clarification, there’s always the Internet. Don’t worry, a week should be more than enough time.”

***

The first thing he did upon entering the station was to call Fazio into his office.

“Have the carabinieri brought back Shaikiri?”

“Yessir. He’s here.”

The inspector was about to tell him to bring him into the office when the telephone rang.