“And where was he getting these two million per month?”
“Don’t ask me,” the director said, offended.
“Thank you,” said Montalbano, standing up. And he held out his hand.
The director stood up, walked around his desk, looked the inspector up and down, and shook his hand.
“Could I have the printout?” Montalbano asked.
“No,” the Savoy bastard replied drily.
The inspector left the office and, once out on the sidewalk, fired up a cigarette. He’d guessed right. They’d made off with the passbook because those forty-eight million lire were the symptom of the Griffos’ fatal illness.
After he’d been back at headquarters ten minutes, Catarella returned wearing the desolate expression of an earthquake victim. He had the photo in his hand and set it down on the desk.
“Even my trusty friend’s scanner couldn’t do it. If you want, I’ll take it to Cicco de Cicco, ‘cause that crimololog ical thing’s not happenin’ till tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Cat, but I’ll take it there myself.”
“Salvo, why on earth don’t you learn how to use a computer?” Livia had asked him one day, adding: “You have no idea how many problems you could solve with it!”
Well, here was one little problem the computer hadn’t been able to solve. It had only made him waste his time. He reminded himself to tell this to Livia, just to keep the polemic going.
He put the photo in his jacket pocket, left the station, and got in his car. He decided, however, to pass by Via Cavour before going to Montelusa.
“Mr. Griffo’s upstairs,” the concierge informed him.
When he opened the door, Davide Griffo was in shirtsleeves, scrub brush in hand. He was cleaning the apartment.
“It was getting too dusty.”
He showed the inspector into the dining room. On the table, in little piles, were the papers Montalbano had given him shortly before. Griffo intercepted his gaze.
“You were right, Inspector. The passbook’s not here. Did you want to tell me something?”
“Yes. I went to the post office and found out how much your parents had in that passbook account.”
Griffo made a gesture as if to say that there wasn’t any point in discussing this.
“Not much, I’m sure.”
“Ninety-eight million three hundred thousand lire, to be exact.”
Davide Griffo turned pale.
“There must be a mistake!” he stammered.
“No mistake, I assure you.”
Davide Griffo, his knees turning to jelly, collapsed in a chair.
“But how can that be?”
“Over the last two years, your father deposited two million lire in the account every month. Do you have any idea who might have been giving him that money?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea! They never mentioned any extra earnings to me. I can’t understand it. Two thousand a month is a respectable stipend. What could my father have done, at his age, to earn it?”
“It wasn’t necessarily a stipend.”
Davide Griffo turned even paler, and went from being confused to looking downright scared.
“Do you think there could be a connection?”
“Between the two million a month and the murder of your parents? It’s a possibility that must be taken into serious consideration. That’s exactly why the killers took the passbook: so we wouldn’t think there was any cause- and-effect relationship.”
“But if it wasn’t a stipend, what was it?”
“Bah,” said the inspector. “I’ll make a conjecture. But first I have to ask you something, and I want you to be truthful. Would your father have ever done anything dishonest for money?”
Davide Griffo didn’t answer right away.
“It’s hard to judge, right offhand... I don’t think so, I don’t think he would. But he was, well, vulnerable.”
“How?”
“He and Mama were very attached to money. So, what’s your conjecture?”
“Your father might, for example, have served as a front man for someone involved in some illegal business.”
“Papa wouldn’t have agreed to anything like that.”
