area. The father, however, maintained that his son had not taken refuge there, since he’d gone there himself to look for him the previous day. At ten o’clock this niorning, Captain Panzacchi went to Raffadali with six other police officers and began a detailed search of the house, which is rather large. Suddenly one of the policemen spotted a man running along one of the slopes of the barren hill that stands almost directly behind the house. Giving chase, Captain Panzacchi and his men found the cave into which young Di Blasi had fled. After properly positioning his men outside, Captain Panzacchi ordered the suspect to come out with his hands up. Suddenly, Di Blasi came forward shouting, “Punish me!
Punish me!” and brandishing a weapon in a threatening manner. One of the police officers immediately opened fire and young Maurizio Di Blasi fell to the ground, killed by a burst of automatic-weapons fire to the chest. The young man’s almost Dostoyevskian entreaty of “punish me” was tantamount to a confession. Meanwhile, Aurelio Di Blasi, the father, has been enjoined to appoint himself a defence lawyer. He is expected to be charged with complicity in his son’s escape, which came to such a tragic end’
When a photo of the poor kid’s horsey face appeared on the screen, Montalbano left the bar and returned to headquarters.
If the commissioner hadn’t taken the case away from you, that poor wretch would surely still be alive!’ Mimi shouted angrily.
Saying nothing, Montalbano went into his office and closed the door. There was a contradiction, big as a house, in the newsman’s account. If Maurizio Di Blasi had wanted to be punished, and if he was so eager for this punishment, why was he threatening the policemen with a weapon? An armed man aiming a pistol at the people who want to arrest him doesn’t want to be punished, he’s trying to avoid being arrested, to escape.
It’s Fazio. Can I come in, Chief?’
To his amazement, the inspector saw Augello, Germana, Gallo, Galluzzo, Giallombardo, Tortorella and even Grasso, enter behind Fazio.
Tazio just talked to a friend of his on the Montelusa Flying Squad,’ said Miml Augello. Then he gestured to Fazio to continue.
‘You know what he said the weapon was the kid threatened Panzacchi and his men with?’
‘No.’
‘A shoe. His right shoe.
Before he fell, he managed to throw it at Panzacchi.’
‘Anna? Montalbano here.’
‘It couldn’t have been him, Salvo! I’m sure of it! It’s all a tragic mistake! You must do something!’
‘Listen, that’s not why I called. Do you know Mrs Di Blasi?’
‘Yes. We’ve spoken a few times.’
‘Go and see her at once.
I’m very worried. I don’t want, her left alone with her husband in jail and her son just killed.’
I’ll go right away.’
‘Chief, can I tell you something? That friend of mine from the Frying Squad just called back.’
‘And he told you he was only kidding about the shoe, it was all a joke.’
‘Exactly. Therefore it’s true.’
‘Listen, I’m going home now, and I think I’ll stay there for the rest of the afternoon. Give me a ring if you need me.’
‘Chief, you gotta do something.’ ‘Get off my fucking back, all of you!’
After the bridge, he drove straight on. He didn’t feel like hearing again, this time from Anna, that he absolutely had to take action. By what right? Here’s your fearless, flawless knight in shining armour! Here’s your Robin Hood, your Zorro, your Night Avenger all in one: Salvo Montalbano!
His appetite was gone now.
He filled a saucer with green and black olives, cut himself a slice of bread, and, while munching on these, dialled Zito’s number.
‘Nicolo? Montalbano here.
Do you know if the commissioner has called a press conference?’
‘It’s set for five o’clock this afternoon.’
‘You going?’
‘Naturally.’
‘You have to do me a favour. Ask Panzacchi what kind of weapon Maurizio Di Blasi threatened them with. Then after he tells you, ask him if he can show it to you.’
What’s behind this?’
I’ll tell you in due time.’
‘Can I tell you something, Salvo? We’re all convinced here that if you’d stayed on the case, Maurizio Di Blasi would still be alive.’
So Nicolo was jumping aboard, too, behind Mimi.
‘Would you go and get fucked! ’
‘Thanks, I could use a little, it’s been a while. By the way, we’ll be broadcasting the press conference live.’
He went and sat on the veranda with the book by Denevi in his hands, but he was unable to read it. A thought was spinning round and round in his head, the same one he’d had the night before: what strange, anomalous thing had he seen or heard during his visit to the house with the doctor?
The press conference began at five on the dot. Bonetti-Alderighi was a maniac for punctuality (‘It’s the courtesy of kings,’ he used to repeat whenever he had the chance, his noble lineage having apparently gone so far to his head that he now imagined it with a crown on top).
There were three of them seated behind a small table covered with green cloth: the commissioner in the middle, flanked by Panzacchi on the right and Dr Lattes on the left. Behind them, the six policemen who had taken part in the operation. While the faces of the policemen were grave and drawn, those of the three chiefs expressed moderate contentment — only moderate because somebody had been killed.
The commissioner spoke first, limiting himself to praising Ernesto Panzacchi (‘a man with a brilliant future ahead of him’) and briefly taking credit for having-assigned the case to the captain of the Flying Squad, who had managed to solve it in twenty-four hours, when others, with their antiquated methods, would have taken untold days and weeks.’
Montalbano, sitting in front of the screen, took it all in without reacting, not even mentally.
Then it was Ernesto Panzacchi’s turn to speak, and he repeated exactly what the inspector had heard the TeleVigata newsman say earlier. He didn’t dwell on the details, however, and seemed in rather a hurry to leave.
‘Does anyone have any questions?’ asked Dr Lattes.
Somebody raised a hand.
‘Are you sure the suspect shouted “Punish me”?’ ‘Absolutely certain. He said it twice. They all heard it.’
He turned to the six policemen behind him, who nodded in agreement, looking like puppets on strings.
‘And in a desperate tone of voice.’ Panzacchi piled it on. ‘Desperate.’
‘What is the rather accused of?’ asked a second journalist.
‘Being an accessory after the fact,’ said the commissioner.
‘And maybe more’ added Panzacchi with an air of mystery.
‘Being an accomplice to murder?’ ventured a third newsman.
‘I didn’t say that,’
Panzacchi said curtly. Finally Nicolo Zito signalled that he wanted to speak.
‘What kind of weapon did Maurizio Di Blasi threaten you with?’
Of course, the journalists, who had no idea what had actually happened, didn’t notice anything, but the inspector distinctly saw the six policemen stiffen and the half-smile on Captain Panzacchi’s face vanish. Only the commissioner and the head of his cabinet had no perceptible reaction.
‘A hand grenade’ said Panzacchi.
‘Where did he get it?’ Zito pressed him.
‘Well, it was war surplus, but still functioning. We have a suspicion as to where he might have found it, but we need further confirmation’
‘Could we see it?’
‘The forensics lab has it’
And so ended the press conference.
At six thirty Montalbano called Livia. The phone rang a long time to no avail He started to feel worried. What if she was sick? He called Giovanna, Livia’s friend at work. She said Livia’d shown up at work as usual, but she, Giovanna, had noticed she looked very pale and nervous. Livia also told her she’d unplugged the telephone because she didn’t want to be disturbed.
‘How are things between the two of you?’ Giovanna asked him.
‘Not great, I’d say,’
Montalbano replied diplomatically.
No matter what he did -whether he read a book or stared out at the sea smoking a cigarette — the question kept coming suddenly back to him, precise and insistent: what had he seen or heard at the house that hadn’t seemed right?
