“Guarnotta’s the name, pleased to meet you. Make yourself comfortable. We were about to eat. Come into the living room.”
“The living room!” the mannish woman intervened. “If you waste time talking, the pasta’s going to turn to glue. Have you eaten, Inspector?”
“Actually, no, not yet,” said Montalbano, feeling his heart flutter with hope.
“Well, then, there’s no problem,” Mrs. Guarnotta concluded. “You can sit down with us for a dish of pasta, and that way it’ll be easier for all of us to talk.”
The pasta had been drained at the right moment (“Knowin’ when it’s time to drain the pasta is an art,” his housekeeper Adelina had once proclaimed). And the meat in the sauce was savory and tender.
But, except for filling his belly, the inspector had come up empty again, as far as the investigation was concerned. He had made, as the Sicilians say, another hole in the water.
Around four o‘clock that afternoon, finding himself in his office with Mimi Augello and Fazio, Montalbano couldn’t help but notice that he’d in fact made three holes in the water.
“Not to mention that with you, one plus one does not make two,” said Fazio, “since there are actually twenty- three apartments in that building.”
“Twenty-three?” said Montalbano, flummoxed because he was truly hopeless with numbers.
“There are three on the ground floor, Chief, all offices. And they don’t know the Griffos, much less Sanfilippo.”
In conclusion, the Griffos had lived in the building for years, but it was as if they were made of air. As for Sanfilippo, forget about it. There were tenants who hadn’t even heard of him.
“You two,” said Montalbano, “before the news of the disappearance becomes official, I want you to go around town and try to find out more. Rumors, gossip, hearsay, backbiting, that sort of thing.”
“Why, do you think that people’s answers will change after they hear of the disappearance?” asked Augello.
“Oh, they’ll change all right. Something that at first seems normal is seen in a different light after something abnormal happens. And while you’re at it, ask them about Sanfilippo, too.”
Fazio and Augello left the office less than convinced.
Montalbano picked up the keys to Sanfilippo’s place, which Fazio had left on the table, put these in his pocket, and went out and called Catarella, who for the last week had been busy trying to solve a crossword puzzle for beginners.
“Cat, I want you to come with me. I’m entrusting you with an important mission.”
Overcome with emotion, Catarella couldn’t open his mouth, not even after they’d entered the murdered young man’s apartment.
“See that computer, Cat?”
“Yessir. It’s rilly nice.”
“Well, get to work on it. I want to know everything that’s inside it. Then put in all the diskettes and ... what are they called?”
“Ziti roms, Chief.”
“Have a look at all of them, too. And report to me when you’re done.”
“There’s also some videocassettes.”
“Leave the cassettes alone.”
He got in his car and headed towards Montelusa. His friend Nicolo Zito, newsman for the “Free Channel” television station, was about to go on the air. Montalbano handed him the photograph.
“These are the Griffos, Alfonso and Margherita. You’re to say only that their son Davide is worried because he has no news of them. Please mention it on tonight’s news.”
Zito, who was an intelligent person and a good journalist, looked at the photo and asked a question the inspector had been expecting.
“Why are you concerned about the disappearance of these two?”
“I feel sorry for them.”
“I’m sure you do. But I’m also sure that’s not the only reason. Is there some connection, by any chance?”
“With what?”
“With that kid, Sanfilippo, who was murdered in Vigata.”
“They lived in the same building.”
Nicolo literally leapt out of his chair.
“But that’s big news—”
“Which you’re not going to mention. There may be a connection, but then again there may not. Do as I say, and the first major developments will be all yours.”
