“I don’t understand,” said the lawyer.
“Never mind.”
And he said no more. He wanted Guttadauro the lawyer to do the talking, and so he pricked up his ears all the more.
“He asked about you. If you were in good health.”
A chill ran down the inspector’s spine. If Don Balduccio asked after somebody’s health, in ninety percent of the cases that person, a few days later, would be climbing the hill to Vigata Cemetery in a hearse. But again he didn’t open his mouth, to encourage Guttadauro to keep talking. Stew in your juices, asshole.
“The fact is, he would really like to see you,” the lawyer shot out, finally coming to the point.
“That’s not a problem,” said Montalbano with the aplomb of an Englishman.
“Thank you, Inspector, thank you! You cannot imagine how happy I am with your answer! I was sure you would satisfy the wishes of an elderly man who, despite everything people say about him—”
“Will he be coming to the police station?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who? Mr. Sinagra. Didn’t you just say he wanted to see me?”
Guttadauro cleared his throat twice in embarrassment.
“Inspector, the fact is that Don Balduccio has a great deal of difficulty moving about. He can’t stand on his feet. It would be very painful for him to come in to the police station. Surely you understand ...”
“I certainly do understand how painful it would be for him to come to the police station.”
The lawyer preferred not to notice the irony He remained silent.
“So where can we meet?” the inspector asked.
“Er, Don Balduccio suggested that ... well, if you would be so kind as to come to his place ...”
“I’ve no objection. Naturally, I’ll have to inform my superiors first.”
Naturally, he had no intention whatsoever of mentioning it to that imbecile, Bonetti-Alderighi. But he wanted to have a little fun with Guttadauro.
“Is that really necessary?” the lawyer asked in a whiny voice.
“Yes, I’d say so.”
“Because, you see, Inspector, what Don Balduccio had in mind was a more private conversation, a very private conversation, possibly a preamble to some important developments ...”
“A preamble, you say?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Montalbano sighed noisily, in resignation, like a peddler forced to sell cheap.
“In that case ...”
“How about tomorrow evening around six-thirty?” the lawyer promptly replied, as if fearing the inspector might reconsider.
“All right.”
“Thank you again, Inspector, thank you. Neither Don Balduccio nor I had any doubts as to your gentlemanly grace, your ...
5
The moment he stepped out of his car at eight-thirty the next morning, he could already hear, from the street, a tremendous uproar inside the police station. He went in.The first ten people summoned—five husbands and their respective wives—had shown up extremely early and were behaving exactly like children in a nursery school. They were laughing, joking, pushing one another, embracing. It immediately occurred to him that someone should perhaps consider creating community nursery schools for the aged.
Catarella, assigned by Fazio to maintain public order, had the unfortunate idea to shout out:
“The inspector himself in person has arrived!”
In the twinkling of an eye, that kindergarten playground turned inexplicably into a battlefield. Barreling into one another, tripping each other up or holding one another back by an arm or by the coattails, all present assailed the inspector, trying to get to him first. And during the struggle, they spoke and shouted so loudly that a deafened Montalbano understood not a word amidst the clamor.
“What is going on here?” he asked in a military voice.
Relative calm ensued.
“No favorites, now!” shouted one, barely taller than a midget, nestling up under the inspector’s nose. “We must proceed in strick flabettical order!”
“No sir, no sir! We’ll proceed in order of age!” another proclaimed angrily.
“What’s your name?” the inspector asked the quasi-midget, who’d managed to speak first.
“Abate’s the name, first name Luigi,” he said, looking around, as if to rebut any differences of opinion.
