A Voice in the Night Read Online Free PDF

was well known that Prosecutor Seminara was rather sensitive to the pressures of a certain political party. Apparently Nero Duello had already informed him.
‘And what did he do?’
    ‘He immediately released him.’
    ‘But did he read what I wrote?’
    ‘Yes, sir. He had it on his desk.’
    ‘So in spite of my report, he released him?’
    Gallo threw up his hands.
    ‘OK, thanks.’
    Montalbano decided to set his mind at rest. All this meant was that when Strangio finally killed someone, it would be on Prosecutor Seminara’s conscience.
    Gallo was still on his way out when the telephone rang.
    ‘Ahh, Chief! Ahh, Chief, Chief!’
    This was the classic Catarellian litany whenever Hizzoner the C’mishner, as he called him, was on the phone.
    ‘Tell him I’m not in the office.’
    ‘Bu’, Chief, ya gotta unnastan’, ’e’s rilly pissed off!’
    ‘Well, just piss him off a little more.’
    ‘
Matre santa
, Chief, the guy’s libel a eat me right true the tiliphone line!’
    *
    Fazio came back in around six in the evening.
    ‘What did you find out about Borsellino?’
    Fazio sat down, stuck a hand in his pocket, and pulled out a small sheet of paper.
    ‘I’m warning you,’ said the inspector, ‘if you start reading me his date and place of birth and mother’s and father’s names, I’m going to take that
piece of paper out of your hands, crumple it up into a ball, and make you eat it.’
    ‘Whatever you say, Chief,’ said Fazio, half-resigned, half-offended.
    He folded it up and put it back in his pocket.
    He suffered from what the inspector called a ‘records office complex’. If, for example, Montalbano wanted simply to know what someone had done at eleven the previous morning, Fazio,
in his report, would start with the man’s date of birth, then his parents, their address, and so on and so forth.
    ‘And so?’ the inspector coaxed him.
    ‘Widower, fifty years old, no children, no known girlfriends or vices,’ said Fazio, telegraphic in his resentment.
    ‘And what do they say about him around town?’
    ‘That he was hired by the supermarket at the urging of the Honourable Mongibello.’
    The Honourable Mongibello, formerly of the Liberal Party, then the Christian Democratic Party, and then, after some time off, elected to Parliament in the last elections as a deputy for the
majority party, the one trying to force Italy into a straitjacket, had long been, and still was, a faithful lawyer of the Cuffaro family.
    ‘OK, but before being hired as manager, what did he do?’
    ‘He worked in Sicudiana as an accountant for a number of businesses belonging to the Cuffaros.’
    ‘So, a kind of loyal servant?’
    ‘Apparently.’
    ‘Listen, could you try and find out who is on the board of directors of the—’
    ‘Already taken care of.’
    Now that he’d had some measure of revenge, Fazio relaxed.
    ‘Who are they?’
    ‘Chief, I wrote their names down on that piece of paper. Can I take it back out?’
    Montalbano had no choice but to swallow Fazio’s sarcasm.
    ‘All right.’
    ‘The board of directors are Angelo Farruggia, Filippo Tridicino, Gerlando Prosecuto, and Calogero Lauricella. The first two are eighty-year-old retired railwaymen, Prosecuto is a
projectionist at the cinema, and Lauricella formerly worked as a warehouseman at the fish market. All front men.’
    ‘And who’s the president?’
    ‘The Honourable Mongibello.’
    Montalbano hesitated.
    ‘I wonder why he decided to expose himself personally?’
    ‘Maybe because on a board of directors you need at least one person who can read and write.’
    *
    He laid the table on the veranda, took a plate with a large serving of octopus from the fridge and brought it outside, then sat down and dressed it with olive oil and lemon
juice. He started eating it with a sense of satisfaction, relishing a sort of revenge on the creature after the morning’s scare. It was very tender; Adelina had cooked it perfectly.
    Suddenly he