They were pulling in to headquarters.
“Just out of curiosity, did you read Sanfilippo’s novel?”
“Believe me, I didn’t have time. I thumbed through it. It’s odd: some pages are well written, others are terrible.”
“Would you bring it to me this afternoon?”
On their way in, Montalbano noticed that Galluzzo was at the switchboard.
“Where’s Catarella? I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
“He was summoned to Montelusa, Inspector, for a follow-up computer course. He’ll be back this evening around five-thirty.”
“So, how should we proceed?” Mimi asked again, having followed his boss inside.
“Listen, Mimi, I was ordered by the commissioner to work only on small stuff. In your opinion, the Griffo and Sanfilippo murders, are they small stuff or big stuff?”
“Big. Really big.”
“So it’s not our job. I want you to write me a report, in which you’re to present only the facts, not what I think. That way, he’ll assign it to the captain of the Flying Squad. Provided that, in the meantime, the captain’s recovered from the runs or whatever his problem was.”
“We’re gonna serve up a hot case like this to those guys?” Augello reacted. “They won’t even thank us for it!”
“Do you care so much about being thanked? Try instead to write that report well. Then bring it to me in the morning so I can sign it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, write it well?”
“It means you should season it with things like ‘having arrived at said premises,’ ‘in lieu of,’ ‘from which it may be surmised,’ ‘the above notwithstanding.’ That way they’ll feel like they’re on their own turf, in their own language, and they’ll take the case seriously.”
He kicked back for an hour. Then he called Fazio.
“Any news about Japichinu?”
“Nothing. Officially, he’s still at large.”
“How’s that jobless guy who set himself on fire doing?”
“Better, but he’s still not out of danger.”
Then Gallo came in and told him about a group of Albanians who had escaped from a concentration camp, called by some a reception camp.
“Did you track them down?”
“Not a single one of ‘em, Chief. And nobody’ll ever find’ ’em, either.”
“Why not?”
“Because these escapes are arranged on the sly with other Albanians who’ve put down roots here. A colleague of mine in Montelusa doesn’t agree. He says some Albanians escape and go back to Albania and that, all things considered, they discovered they were better off at home. A million lire a head to come here, and two to go back. The boatmen always make a killing.”
“Is that some kind of joke?”
“I don’t think so,” said Gallo.
The telephone rang. It was Ingrid.
“I’ve got Vanya’s number for you.”
Montalbano wrote it down. Instead of saying good-bye, Ingrid said:
“I talked to her.”
“When?”
“Just before calling you. We had a long conversation.”
“Should we meet?”
“Yes, I think it’s best. I even have my car back.”
“Good, that way you can change my bandages. See you at one o‘clock, at the Trattoria San Calogero.”
Something in Ingrid’s voice didn’t sound right. She seemed troubled.
Among the many gifts the Good Lord had given her, Ingrid also had a knack for punctuality. They went into the restaurant, and the first thing the inspector saw was a couple sitting at a table for four: Mimi and Beba. Augello sprang to his feet. Though the proud owner of a poker face, he was blushing slightly. He gestured for the inspector and Ingrid to join them at his table. The scene from a few days earlier was repeated in reverse.
“We don’t want to disturb you ...” said Montalbano hypocritically.
