possible we made some big mistakes. Really big mistakes. And I say ‘we’ ’cause I’m also talking on behalf of the late Sisino Cuffaro and his people. He was my enemy for as long as he was alive.”
“What, are you starting to repent?”
“No sir, Inspector, I’ll never repent before the law. Before the Good Lord in Heaven, yes, when the moment comes. What I wanted to say is this: we made some really big mistakes, but we always knew there was a line that should never be crossed. Never. Because, you cross that line, and there ain’t no difference between a man and a beast.”
He closed his eyes, exhausted.
“I understand,” said Montalbano.
“But do you really understand?”
“Really.”
“Both things?”
“Yes.”
“Then I said what I wanted to say to you,” the old man continued, opening his eyes. “If you wanna go, you’re free to go. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” the inspector replied, getting up. He retraced his steps through the courtyard and down the lane and didn’t encounter anybody When passing the two playhouses under the monkey puzzles, he heard children’s voices. In one of the houses was a little boy with a water pistol in hand, in the opposite playhouse another little boy was holding an intergalactic machine gun. Apparently Guttadauro had turned out the bearded watchman and promptly replaced him with Don Balduccio’s great-grandsons so the inspector wouldn’t get the wrong idea.
“Bang! Bang!” said the boy with the pistol.
“Ratatatatatat!” answered the boy with the machine gun.
They were training for when they became adults. But maybe they didn’t even need to grow up. The previous day, in fact, at Fela, the police had arrested someone the papers called the “killer baby,” a boy barely eleven years old. One of those people who’d decided to squeal (Montalbano couldn’t bring himself to call them “repenters,” much less state’s witnesses) had revealed that a kind of public school existed where children were taught how to shoot and kill. Of course, Don Balduccio’s great-grandsons had no need to attend such a school. They could get all the education they wanted at home.
No sign of Guttadauro anywhere. At the gate was a man with a beret, who tipped his cap as the inspector drove past, then immediately closed the gate behind him. Descending the hill, Montalbano couldn’t help but notice how perfect the road surface was. Not a single pebble, not the tiniest crack in the asphalt. The maintenance must have cost the Marchese Lauricella his estate. In the rest areas, the situation hadn’t changed, even though more than an hour had passed. One man kept watching crows in the sky, a second was smoking inside his car, the third was still trying to fix his motorbike. Seeing the latter, Montalbano felt tempted to fuck with the guy’s head. When he was in front of him, he stopped.
“Won’t start?” he asked.
“No,” replied the man, dumbfounded.
“Want me to have a look at it?”
“No thanks.”
“I could give you a lift.”
“No!” the man yelled, exasperated.
The inspector continued on his way. In the cottage at the end of the road, the man with the cell phone was back at the window, obviously relaying the message that Montalbano was about to leave the confines of the kingdom of Don Balduccio.
It was getting dark. Back in town, the inspector headed to Via Cavour. He pulled up in front of number 44, opened the glove compartment, grabbed the keys, and got out. The concierge wasn’t in, and he didn’t see anybody on his way to the elevator. He opened the door to the Griffos’ apartment and, once inside, closed it. The place smelled stuffy. He turned on the light and got down to work. It took him an hour to gather all the papers he could find, which he then put in a garbage bag he took from the kitchen. He also found a tin box of Lazzaroni biscotti, stuffed full of cashier’s receipts. Looking at the Griffos’ papers was something he should have done at the very start of the investigation, but he’d neglected to do so. Too distracted by other concerns. Those papers might just contain the secret of the Griffos’ illness, the one that had made their conscientious doctor follow them in his car.
He was turning off the light in the entranceway when he remembered Fazio’s concern about his meeting with Don Balduccio. The telephone was in the dining room.
“Hallo! Hallo! Whoozzat onna line? Dis is Vigata police!”
“Cat, it’s Montalbano. Is Fazio there?”
“I’ll put ‘im right true immediatelike.”
“Fazio? I just wanted to let you know I’m back safe and sound.”
“I know, Chief.”
“Who told you?”
“Nobody, Chief. Right after you left, I followed behind. I waited for you near the cottage where the guards stay. When I saw you coming out, I went back to headquarters.”
“Any news?”
“No, Chief, except for that lady that keeps calling from Pavia looking for Inspector Augello.”
