“I am terribly embarrassed to have to phone you at this hour, disturbing you in the intimacy of your home, probably after a long day of hard work...”
The inspector immediately recognized the voice at the other end of the line. It wasn’t just the voice, but the manner of speaking, the flowery phrases, that gave him away. Still, he had to play along.
“Could you please tell me who I’m speaking to?”
“I am Orazio Guttadauro, the lawyer.”
The very first time he’d had any dealings with Guttadauro, it had seemed to Montalbano that a worm had a keener sense of honesty than this lawyer, who was Don Balduccio Sinagra’s consigliere and right-hand man. And after getting to know him a little, he had become convinced that a pile of dog shit had a keener sense of honesty.
“Good evening, sir! And how is your friend and client?”
There was no need to mention any names. Guttadauro heaved a tortured sigh, then another. And then he spoke.
“It’s so sad, dear Inspector, so sad!”
“He’s not well?”
“I don’t know whether you’re aware that he got very sick a few months ago.”
“I’ve heard mention.”
“Then he recovered somewhat, at least physically, thank God.”
Montalbano asked himself a subtle theological question: Should God be thanked for letting a multiple murderer like Balduccio get better?
“Sometimes, however,” the lawyer continued, “he’s no longer all there in the head. His moments of lucidity alternate with moments of, well, confusion, memory lapses... It’s so sad, Inspector! A great mind like that!”
Should he join in the lament? He decided against it. Nor should he even ask the reason for the telephone call.
“Well, Mr. Guttadauro, I wish you a good night and—”
“Inspector, I must ask you a favor on behalf of my client and friend.”
“If I can.”
“He so wishes to see you. He told me that before closing his eyes forever he would really, and I mean really, like to meet with you one more time. You are aware of the high esteem in which he holds you. He says that men of exemplary honesty such as yourself should...”
“I’m sure that one of these days...”
“No, Inspector, I’m afraid I haven’t made myself clear. He would like to see you immediately.”
“Now?!”
“Now. You know what old folks are like. They become very stubborn and whimsical. Please don’t disappoint the poor old man . . . If you open your front door, you’ll find a car waiting for you outside. All you have to do is get in it. We are waiting for you. I’ll look forward to seeing you shortly.”
They hung up simultaneously. They had managed to talk for fifteen minutes without uttering the name of Balduccio Sinagra. The inspector put on his jacket and opened the door. In the darkness the car, which must have been black, was not visible. But its engine, which was running, was purring like a cat.
The lawyer opened the car door for him, showed him into the villa, and led him all the way to Don Balduccio’s bedroom. It was outfitted like a hospital room and smelled of medication. The old man lay in bed with eyes closed; he had oxygen tubes in his nostrils, and there was a huge tank at the head of the bed. Beside the tank stood a man nearly six and a half feet tall, a sort of armoire with legs. Guttadauro leaned over the old man and whispered a few words to him. Don Balduccio opened his eyes and extended a transparent hand to Montalbano. Who shook it ever so lightly, afraid that if he shook it any harder, the hand would break like glass. Then Don Balduccio made a sign to the human armoire. Who, in the twinkling of an eye, turned a crank that tilted the bed slightly and raised Don Balduccio to a sitting position. He then arranged some pillows behind the old man’s back, removed the tubes from his nose, closed the oxygen tank, placed a chair very close to the bed, and went out.
The lawyer remained standing, leaning against a set of shelves.
“I can’t read anymore,” Don Balduccio began, “my eyesight’s failing. An’ so I have the papers read to me. ’Parently in the States the number of executions from the death penalty is up to a thousand.”
“Right,” said the worldly Montalbano, showing no surprise at the don’s starting the conversation with such a subject.
“One was granted a reprieve,” Guttadauro interjected. “But they quickly made up for this by killing another man in a different state.”
“Are you for or against it, Inspector?” asked the old man.
“I’m against capital punishment,” said Montalbano.
“I would never have doubted it in a man like you. I’m against it, too.”
What? Against it? Hadn’t he condemned to death the ten-plus people he’d had killed? Or did Don Balduccio differentiate between deaths ordered by him and those ordered by the state?
“But I used to be in favor,” the old man added.
Now his statement made more sense. How many hit men had he kept on his payroll in the past?
