Catarella was capable of triggering a nuclear war with a simple purse-snatching. But was it possible Fazio and Augello would go to all this trouble for a routine seizure of a motorbike? And why did they have Catarella call him?
“Listen, I want you to do something. Get ahold of Fazio and tell him to phone me at once here in Marinella.” He hung up.
“What is this, Termini Station?” said a voice behind him.
He turned around. It was Livia, eyes flashing with anger.
When she’d got up she’d slipped on Montalbano’s shirt from the day before instead of her dressing gown. Seeing her thus attired, the inspector felt an overwhelming desire to embrace her. But he held himself back, knowing that Fazio would be calling at any moment.
“Livia, please, my job . . .”
“You should do your job at the station. And only when you’re on active duty.”
“You’re right, Livia. Now come on, go back to bed.”
“Bed? I’m awake now, thanks to you! I’m going to go make some coffee,” she said.
The telephone rang.
“Fazio, would you be so kind as to tell me what the fuck is going on?” Montalbano asked in a loud voice, since there was no longer any need for precaution. Livia was not only awake, but pissed off.
“Stop using obscenities!” Livia screamed from the kitchen.
“Didn’t Catarella tell you?”
“Catarella didn’t tell me a goddamn thing—”
“Are you going to stop or not?” yelled Livia.
“—all he told me was something about a motorbike being seized, but not by the Carabinieri or the Customs police. Why the fuck—”
“Knock it off, I said!”
“—are you guys bothering me with this stuff? Go see if it was the traffic police!”
“No, Chief. If anything was seized, it was the girl who owned the motorbike.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s been a kidnapping, Chief.”
A kidnapping? In Vigata?
“Tell me where you are and I’ll come right over,” he said without thinking.
“Chief, it’s too complicated to find your way out here. If it’s all right with you, a squad car’ll be at your place in about an hour. That way you won’t have to tire yourself out by driving.” “Okay.”
He went in the kitchen. Livia had put the coffeepot on the burner and was now spreading the tablecloth over the small kitchen table. To smooth it out, she had to bend all the way forward, so that the inspector’s shirt she was wearing became too short.
Montalbano couldn’t restrain himself. He took two steps forward and embraced her tightly from behind.
“What’s got into you?” Livia asked. “Come on, let go!
What are you trying to do?”
“Guess.”
“You might hurt yo—”
The coffee rose in the pot. Nobody turned off the flame.
The coffee burned. The flame remained lit. The coffee started boiling. Nobody bothered with it. The coffee spilled out of the pot, extinguishing the flame on the burner. The gas continued to flow.
“Doesn’t it smell strangely of gas?” Livia asked languidly a bit later, freeing herself from the inspector’s embrace.
“I don’t think so,” said Montalbano, whose nostrils were filled with the scent of her skin.
“Oh my God!” Livia exclaimed, running to turn off the gas.
Montalbano had scarcely twently minutes to shower and shave. His coffee—a fresh pot had been made in the meantime—he drank on the run, as the doorbell was already ringing. Livia didn’t even ask where he was going or why.
She’d opened the window and lay stretched out, arms over her head, basking in the sunlight.
o o o
In the car Gallo told the inspector what he knew about the situation. The kidnapped girl—since there was no longer any doubt that she had in fact been kidnapped—was named Susanna Mistretta. A very pretty girl, she was enrolled at Palermo University and getting ready to take her first exam. She lived with her father and mother in a country villa about three miles outside of town. That was where they were heading. About a month earlier, Susanna had started going to a girlfriend’s house in the early evening to study, usually driving home on her moped around eight.
The previous evening, when she didn’t come home at the usual time, her father had waited about an hour
