“Montalbano’s the name.”
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Miss Giuliana Di Stefano.”
“Go ahead.”
“Right here, over the intercom?”
“Why, will it take long?”
“Well, it’d be better if—”
“Okay, I’ll buzz you in,” said the elderly voice. “Now, do as I say. As soon as the gate opens, come in and stop in the middle of the path. If you don‘t, I won’t open the front door.”
“All right,” said the inspector, resigned.
Standing in the middle of the path, he didn’t know what to do. Then he saw some shutters open on a balcony, and out came an old lady in a wig, dressed all in black, a pair of binoculars in hand. She raised these to her eyes and looked carefully, as Montalbano began inexplicably to blush, feeling naked. The lady went back inside, reclosed the shades, and a short while later the inspector heard the metal click of the front door being opened. Naturally, there was no elevator. On the second floor, the door with the name “Baeri” on it was closed. What further test awaited him?
“What did you say your name was?” asked the voice on the other side of the door.
“Montalbano.”
“And what is your profession?”
If he said he was a police inspector, the lady might have a stroke.
“I work at the Ministry.”
“Have you got an ID?”
“Yes.”
“Slide it under the door.”
With the patience of a saint, the inspector obeyed.
Five minutes of absolute silence passed.
“I’m going to open now,” said the old lady.
Only then, to his horror, did the inspector notice that the door had four locks. And certainly inside there must be a padlock and chain. After some ten minutes of various noises, the door opened and Montalbano was able to make his entrance into the Baeri household. He was led into a large sitting room with dark, heavy furniture.
“My name is Assunta Baeri,” the old lady began, “and your ID says that you’re with the police.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, isn’t that nice,” Mrs. (Miss?) Baeri said sarcastically.
Montalbano didn’t breathe.
“The thieves and killers do whatever they please, and the police go off to soccer games with the excuse that they need to maintain order! Or they serve as escorts to Senator Ar doli, who doesn’t need any escort, ‘cause all he’s gotta do is look at somebody and they die of fright.”
“Mrs. Baeri, I—”
“Miss Baeri.”
“Miss Baeri, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I came to talk to you about Giuliana Di Stefano. This used to be her apartment, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you buy it from the deceased?” What a question! “... Before she died, of course.”
“I didn’t buy anything! The ‘deceased,’ as you call her, left it to me, loud and clear, in her will! Thirty-two years, I lived with her. I even paid rent. Not much, but I paid it.”
“Did she leave you anything else?”
“Ah, so you’re not with the police after all, but with the tax bureau! Yes, sir, she left me another apartment, too, but a teeny-weeny one. I rent it out.”
“Anyone else? Did she leave anything to anybody else?”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know, some relative ...”
“There was her sister, who she made up with after they hadn’t spoken for years; she left her some little thing.”
“Do you know what this little thing might be?”
“Of course I know! She drew up her will right in front of me, and I’ve even got a copy of it. To her sister she left her stable and hide. Not much, just something to remember her by.”
Montalbano was flummoxed. Could one bequeath one’s hide to somebody? Miss Baeri’s next words cleared up
