He sat down in the car and rested. He didn’t even feel like smoking a cigarette. When he felt sufficiently rested, he attacked the first of the two locks with the set of picklocks he now carried with him at all times. He tinkered for about half an hour before deciding it was useless. He got nowhere with the second lock either. Then he had an idea that at first seemed ingenious to him. He opened up the glove compartment of the car, grabbed his pistol, loaded it, aimed, and fired at the higher of the two locks. The bullet hit its target, ricocheted off the metal, and lightly grazed his side, the same one he’d injured a few years before. The only result he achieved was to have deformed the keyhole. Cursing, he put the pistol back in its place. Why was it that the policemen in American movies always succeed in opening doors with this method? The fright brought on another round of sweating. He took off his undershirt and spread it out next to his shirt. Armed with hammer and chisel, he started working on the wood of the door, all around the lock he had shot at. After an hour or so, he thought he’d done enough digging. A good shoulder-thrust should definitely open the door now. He took three steps back, got a running start, and crashed his shoulder into the door. But the door didn’t budge. The pain shooting through his entire shoulder and chest was so great that tears came to his eyes. Why hadn’t the goddamn thing opened? Easy: he’d forgotten that, before putting his shoulder into the door, he had to reduce the second lock to the same state as the first. Now his trousers, damp with sweat, were bothering him. He took them off, too, laying them next to the shirt and undershirt. After yet another hour, the second lock also began to feel shaky. His shoulder had swollen and started throbbing. He worked with the hammer and crowbar. The door resisted, inexplicably. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable rage: like Donald Duck in certain cartoons, he began kicking and punching the door, screaming like a madman. Limping, he returned to the car. His left foot ached, he took off his shoes. And at that moment, he heard a noise: by itself, and exactly like in a cartoon, the door decided to give in, collapsing into the room. Montalbano ran back to the house. The former stable, plastered and whitewashed, was completely empty. Not a single piece of furniture, not even a piece of paper. Nothing whatsoever, as if it had never been used. Except, at the base of the walls, a number of electrical outlets and telephone jacks. The inspector stood there staring at that emptiness, unable to believe his eyes. Then, when it got dark, he made up his mind. He picked up the door, leaned it against the jamb, gathered up his undershirt, shirt, and trousers, tossing them into the backseat, put on only his jacket and, after turning the headlights on, headed home to Marinella, hoping that nobody would stop him along the way.
He took a much longer route home, but it spared him the trouble of passing through Vigata. He had to drive slowly because of the shooting pains in his right shoulder, which was puffy as a loaf of bread fresh out of the oven. He pulled up in the parking area in front of his house, groaning as he gathered up his shirt, undershirt, trousers, and shoes, then turned off the headlights and got out of the car. The lamp outside the front door wasn’t on. He took two steps forward and froze. Right next to the door there was a shadow. Somebody was waiting for him.
“Who are you?” he asked angrily.
The shadow didn’t answer. The inspector took another two steps and recognized Ingrid. She was gawking at him, unable to speak.
“I’ll explain later,” Montalbano felt compelled to say as he searched for his keys in the trousers he was carrying on his arm. Ingrid, having slightly recovered, took the shoes from his hand. The door opened at last. In the light, Ingrid examined him with curiosity and asked:
“Have you been performing with the California Dream Men?”
“Who are they?”
“Male strippers.”
The inspector said nothing and took off his jacket. Upon seeing his swollen shoulder, Ingrid didn’t scream or ask for any explanation. She merely said:
“Have you got any liniment in the house?”
“No.”
“Give me the keys to your car and get in bed.”
“Where are you going?”
“There must be an open pharmacy somewhere, don’t you think?” said Ingrid, picking up the house keys as well.
Montalbano undressed—he needed only to remove his socks and underpants—and got into the shower. The big toe on his left foot was now as big as a medium-sized pear. Once out of the shower, he went and looked at his watch, which he’d put on his bedside table. It was already nine-thirty; he’d had no idea. He dialed the number of headquarters, and as soon as he heard Catarella, he transformed his voice.
“Allo? Zis is Monsieur Hulot. Je cherche Monsieur Augelleau.”
“Are you Frinch, sir? From Frince?”
“Oui. Je cherche Monsieur Augelleau, or, as you say, Augello.”
“He ain’t here, Mr. Frinch.”
“Merci.”
He dialed Mimi’s home phone. He let it ring a long time, but got no answer. As a last resort, he looked up Beatrice’s number in the phone book. She picked up at once.
“Montalbano here, Beatrice. Forgive me for intruding, but—”
“You want to talk to Mimi?” the divine creature cut in. “I’ll put him on.”
She wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. Mimi, on the other hand, was, and immediately began making excuses.
“Salvo, I happened to be in the area, you see, when I realized I was just outside Beba’s door—”
“For Heaven’s sake, Mimi, there’s no problem,” Montalbano conceded magnanimously. “Let me apologize, first of all, for disturbing you.”
“But not at all! I wouldn’t dream of it! What can I do for you?”
Could the Chinese have done any better in the way of ceremoniousness?