the misunderstanding.
“No, not much at all. Do you know how much land is in a hide?”
“I couldn’t honestly say,” the inspector replied, recovering himself.
“Giuliana, when she left Vigata to come live here, wasn’t able to sell the stable and the land around it, which apparently was out in the middle of nowhere. So, when she made her will, she decided to leave them to her sister. They’re not worth much.”
“Do you know exactly where this stable is?”
“No.”
“But it must be specified in the will. You said you have a copy of it.”
“Oh,
“If you’d be so kind ...”
The old lady stood up, mumbling to herself, went out of the room, and returned less than a minute later. She knew perfectly well where the copy of the will was. She handed it rudely to Montalbano, who skimmed through it and finally found what he was looking for.
The stable was termed a “one-room rural construction”; as for the measurements, a four-by-four-meter box. Around it was a thousand square meters of land. Not much, as Miss Baeri had said. The building was in a district called “The Moor.”
“Thank you very much, and please excuse the disturbance,” the inspector said politely, getting up.
“Why are you interested in that stable?” asked the woman, also standing up.
Montalbano hesitated. He had to think up a good excuse. But Miss Baeri continued:
“I ask you because you’re the second person who’s inquired about it.”
The inspector sat back down, and Miss Baeri did likewise.
“When was that?”
“The day after poor Giuliana’s funeral, when her sister and her husband were still here. They were sleeping in the room in back.”
“Explain to me what happened.”
“I’d completely forgotten about it; I only remembered it now because we were talking about it. Anyway, the day after the funeral, it was almost time to eat. The phone rang and I went and answered it. It was a man who said he was interested in the stable and the land. I asked him if he knew that Giuliana had died and he said no. He asked me who he could talk to about it. So I put Margherita’s husband on, since it was his wife who’d inherited it.”
“Did you hear what was said?”
“No, I left the room.”
“Did the man who called say what his name was?”
“He might have, but I can’t remember anymore.”
“Afterward, did Mr. Griffo talk about the phone call in your presence?”
“When he went into the kitchen, Margherita asked him who was on the phone, and he said it was somebody from Vigata who lived in the same building as them. But that was all he said.”
Bull‘s-eye! Montalbano leapt up.
“I have to go now, thank you very much, please excuse me,” he said, making for the door.
“Just tell me one thing, I’m curious,” said Miss Baeri, following hard on his heels. “Why don’t you simply ask Alfonso these things?”
“Alfonso who?” asked Montalbano, having already opened the door.
“What do you mean, Alfonso who? Margherita’s husband.”
Jesus! The lady knew nothing about the murders! She obviously had no television and didn’t read the newspapers.
“I’ll ask him,” the inspector assured her, already on his way down the stairs.
At the first phone booth he saw, he stopped, got out of the car, went in, and immediately noticed a small red light flashing. The telephone was out of order. He spotted another. Also broken.
He cursed the saints, realizing that the smooth run he’d been on until that moment was beginning to be broken up by small obstacles, harbingers of bigger ones ahead. At the third booth, he was finally able to call headquarters.
“Oh Chief! Chief! Where you been hidin’ out? All mornin’ I been—”
“Tell me about it another time, Cat. Can you tell me where ‘The Moor’ is?”
First there was silence, then a little giggle of what was supposed to be derision.
“How’m I sposta know, Chief? You know what it’s like in Vigata these days. There’s Smallies everywhere.”
“Put Fazio on at once.”
Smallies? Were there so many Pygmies among the immigrant population?
