“Why not her, too?”
“Because that would have triggered a huge scandal of international proportions. And he can’t have any shadows hanging over his private life, since that might diminish his earnings.”
“But isn’t he rich?”
“Extremely rich. At least, he would be if he didn’t have an obsession that’s siphoning off rivers of cash.”
“Gambling?”
“No, he doesn’t gamble. Maybe at Christmastime, playing gin rummy. No, his mania is for paintings. People say he’s got paintings of enormous value stored in a variety of bank vaults. Apparently when he sees a painting he likes, he can’t control himself. He’d be capable of having it stolen for him. One gossip told me that if the owner of a Degas proposed a trade for his wife, Vanya, he’d accept without hesitation. What is it, Salvo? Aren’t you listening?”
Augello had realized that his boss’s mind was far away. Indeed, the inspector was wondering why whenever anyone saw or mentioned Vanya Titulescu, the subject always turned to painting.
“So, you seem to think,” said Montalbano, “that it was the doctor who ordered Sanfilippo’s murder.”
“Who else, if not?”
The inspector’s thoughts flew over to the photograph still lying on the bedside table. But he immediately let those thoughts go; he first had to wait for an answer from Catarella, the new oracle.
“So, now can you tell me what it is we’re supposed to do tonight?” Augello asked.
“Tonight? Nothing. We’re going to pick up Balduccio Sinagra’s beloved grandson, Japichinu.”
“The fugitive?” asked Mimi, leaping to his feet.
“Yup, that’s the one.”
“And you know where he’s hiding?”
“Not yet. But a priest’s gonna tell us.”
“A priest? What the fuck is going on? All right, you’re going to tell me the whole story from the beginning, leaving nothing out.”
Montalbano told him the whole story from the beginning, leaving nothing out.
12
Catarella first studied the photo the way the nearsighted do, sticking it right in front of his eyes, then the way the farsighted do, holding it at arm’s length. Finally, he frowned.
“Chief, definitely no way, the scanner I got can’t do it. I gotta take it to my trusty friend.”
“How long will that take?”
“Two hours max, Chief.”
“Get back here as soon as you can. Who’s going to man the switchboard?”
“Galluzzo. Uh, and Chief, I wanted to tell you, that orphan guy’s been waitin’ a talk t‘you since early this morning.”
“Who’s this orphan?”
“Griffo’s his name, the guy whose mom and dad was killed, who says he can’t unnastanna way I talk.”
Davide Griffo was dressed all in black, in deep mourning. Disheveled, clothes full of wrinkles, looking spent. Montalbano held out his hand to him, inviting him to sit down.
“Did they make you come for the official identification?”
“Yes, unfortunately. I arrived in Montelusa yesterday, late afternoon. They took me to see them. After ... afterwards, I went back to the hotel and threw myself down on the bed, clothes and all. I felt so bad.”
“I understand.”
“Is there any news, Inspector?”
“None so far.”
They looked each other in the eye, both dejected.
“You know something?” said Davide Griffo. “It’s not out of any desire for revenge that I’m so anxious for the killers to be caught. I just want to know why they did it.”
He was sincere. Not even he knew about what Montalbano called his parents’ “secret illness.”
“Why did they do it?” Davide Griffo asked. “To steal Papa’s wallet and Mama’s purse?”
“Oh?” said the inspector.
“You didn’t know?”
“That they took their wallet and purse? No. I was sure they would find the purse under your mother’s body. And I didn’t check your father’s pockets. Anyway, neither the purse nor the wallet would have made any
