killed.”
“Thanks. Good day,” said the inspector, standing up.
Even amidst all the filth, seeing somebody eat had redoubled his appetite.
Fourth floor. Beside the door to Apartment 18, under the doorbell, was a plaque that said: Guido and Gina De Dominicis. He rang the bell.
“Who is it?” asked a little kid’s voice.
What to say to a child?
“A friend of your papa’s.”
The door opened and a boy of about eight, a mischievous glint in his eye, appeared before the inspector.
“Is your papa there? Or your mama?”
“No, but they’ll be back soon.”
“What’s your name?”
“Pasqualino. What’s yours?”
“Salvo.”
At that moment Montalbano became convinced he smelled something burning inside the apartment.
“What’s that smell?”
“Nothing. I set the house on fire.”
The inspector sprang forward, pushing Pasqualino aside. Black smoke was pouring out of a doorway It was the bedroom. One fourth of the double bed had caught fire. He took off his jacket, saw a wool blanket folded up on a chair, grabbed this, opened it, and threw it onto the flames, patting it hard with his hands. A malicious little tongue of fire consumed half of one of his shirt cuffs.
“If you put out my fire I’ll just start another one somewhere else,” said Pasqualino, brandishing a box of kitchen matches menacingly.
The little demon! What to do? Disarm him or continue to extinguish the blaze? The inspector opted for the fireman’s role, repeatedly getting singed and seared. Then a woman’s shrill cry paralyzed him.
“Guiiiiidoooo!”
A young blonde, boggle-eyed, was clearly about to faint. Montalbano hadn’t had time to open his mouth when a bespectacled, broad-shouldered young man, a kind of Clark Kent, materialized beside the young woman. Without saying a word, Superman, with a single, extremely elegant gesture, pushed his jacket aside, and at once a pistol the size of a cannon was pointing at the inspector.
“Hands up.”
Montalbano obeyed.
“He’s a pyromaniac! A pyromaniac!” the young woman babbled, weeping and embracing her precious little angel.
“Mama! Mama! He said he wanted to burn the whole house down!”
It took a good half-hour to clear matters up. Montalbano learned that the husband worked as a cashier in a bank, which explained why he went around with a gun, and that Signora Gina had come home late because she’d been to see the doctor.
“Pasqualino’s going to have a brother,” the woman confessed, lowering her eyes in modesty.
Against a background of screams and cries from the kid, who’d been spanked and locked in a small, dark room, Montalbano learned that even when the Griffos were at home, it was as if they weren’t there.
“Never a cough, or even, say, the sound of something dropped on the floor, or a word spoken a little louder than the rest. Nothing!”
As for Nene Sanfilippo, Mr. and Mrs. De Dominicis didn’t even know the murder victim had lived in their building.
3
The last station on the Via Crucis was Apartment 19, fourth floor. Leone Guarnotta, lawyer.
Filtering out from under the door was a fragrance of ragu sauce that made Montalbano feel faint.
“Ah, you’re Inspector Montaperto,” said the big, mannish woman who answered the door.
“Montalbano.”
“I never get names right, but it’s enough for me to see a face just once on TV and I never forget it!”
“Who is it?” asked a male voice from inside the apartment.
“It’s the inspector, Leo. Come in, come in.”
As Montalbano entered, a skinny man of about sixty appeared, a napkin stuck into his shirt collar.
