Excursion to Tindari

not a whit more much about the Griffos than they had before.

The bus had exactly fifty-three seats, not counting the driver’s. The forty passengers had all gathered in the front part of the coach, twenty on one side of the aisle, twenty on the other. The Griffos, on the other hand, had sat in two of the five seats in the final row, on both the outward and return journeys, with the big rear window behind them. They had spoken to no one and no one had spoken to them. Fazio reported that one of the passengers had said to him: “You know what? After a while we forgot all about them. It was as if they weren’t traveling in the same coach with us.”

“But,” the inspector cut in, “we still don’t have the deposition of that couple whose wife is sick. Scime, I think they’re called.”

Fazio gave a little smile.

“Did you really think Mrs. Scime was going to miss the party? With all her girlfriends there? No, she came, together with her husband, though she could barely stand up. She had a fever of a hundred and two. I talked to her, Galluzzo talked to the husband. No dice. The lady could have spared herself the strain.”

They looked at each other in dejection.

“A night wasted, and it’s a girl,” commented Galluzzo, quoting the proverbial saying—Nottata persa e figlia fimmina—of the husband who has spent a whole night beside his wife in labor, only to see her give birth to a baby girl instead of that much-desired son.

“Shall we go eat?” asked Fazio, getting up.

“You two go ahead. I’m going to stay a little while yet. Who’s on duty?”

“Gallo.”

Left to himself, he started studying the sketch Fazio had made of the bus’s layout. There was a small isolated rectangle at the top with the word “driver” written inside, followed by twelve rows of four little rectangles, each bearing the name of its occupant, or left empty when vacant.

Eyeing it, the inspector became aware that Fazio must have resisted the temptation to draw much larger rectangles with the vital statistics of each occupant inside: first and last name, father’s name, mother’s maiden name, etc. In the last row of five seats, Fazio had written “Griffo” in such a way that each of the letters occupied one of the five little rectangles, except for the double f. Apparently he hadn’t managed to find out which of the five places the vanished couple had sat in.

Montalbano started to imagine the journey to himself. After the initial greetings, a few minutes of inevitable silence as people got comfortable, unburdening themselves of scarves, caps, and hats, checking purses or pockets for reading glasses, house keys, etc. Then the first signs of cheer, the first audible conversations, the overlapping phrases ... And the driver asking: Want me to turn on the radio? A chorus of “no” ... And maybe, from time to time, somebody turning around towards the back, towards the last row where the Griffos sat next to each other, immobile and as though deaf, since the eight vacant seats between them and the other passengers formed a kind of barrier against the sounds, the words, the noise, the laughter.

At this point Montalbano slapped himself on the forehead. He’d forgotten! The driver had told him something very specific, and he’d let it completely slip his mind.

“Gallo!”

What came out of his mouth was less the name than a strangled cry. The door flew open, a frightened Gallo appeared.

“What’s wrong, Inspector?”

“Call me the bus company on the double, I forget the name. If there’s anyone there, let me talk to them.”

He was in luck. The accountant answered.

“I need some information. On the excursion to Tindari last Sunday, was there anyone else in the coach besides the driver and passengers?”

“Of course. You see, Inspector, our company allows sales representatives for certain businesses to present their products. Kitchenware, detergents, knickknacks, that sort of thing ...”

This was said in the tone of a king granting a favor.

“How much do you get paid for this?” asked Montalbano, the disrespectful subject.

The accountant’s regal tone turned into a kind of painful stammering.

“Well ... you h-have to c-consider ... that the percentage—”

“I’m not interested. I want the name and telephone number of the salesperson who went on that excursion.”

“Hello? Is this the Dileo household? Inspector Montalbano here. I’d like to speak to Mrs. or Miss Beatrice Dileo.”

“This is Beatrice Dileo, Inspector. And it’s ”miss.“ I was wondering when you would get around to questioning me. If you hadn’t called by the end of the day, I was going to come to the station tomorrow.”

“Have you finished your lunch?”

“I haven’t started yet. I just got back from Palermo. I had an exam at the university. Since I live alone, I ought to be preparing something to eat, but I don’t really feel like it.”

“Would you like to meet me for lunch?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Meet me in half an hour at the Trattoria San Calogero.”