“We start with the missing old folks. The dead guy’s already dead and can wait.”
In the main doorway they ran into Griffo, who was racing back like a bat out of hell.
“The concierge said somebody was murdered last night! Somebody who lived in this building!”
Only then did he notice Nene Sanfilippo’s silhouette, outlined in white on the sidewalk. He began to tremble violently.
“Calm down,” the inspector said to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“No ... it’s just that I’m afraid that—”
“Mr. Griffo, are you thinking that your parents might be somehow involved in this homicide?”
“Are you joking? My parents are—”
“Well, then, forget the fact that someone was killed in front of the building this morning. Let’s go have a look.”
Signora Ciccina Recupero, the concierge, was pacing about her six-by-six-foot porter’s lodge like certain bears that go insane in their cages and start rocking first on one leg, then another. She could allow herself this luxury because she was all bones, and the little bit of space she had available was more than enough for her to shuffle about in.
“Oh God oh God oh God!
Montalbano grabbed her by the arm—or, rather, by the bone of her arm—and forced her to sit down.
“Cut the theatrics. Stop crossing yourself and answer my questions. When did you last see the Griffos?”
“Last Saturday morning, when Mrs. Griffo came back from shopping.”
“Today is Tuesday Weren’t you worried?”
The concierge bristled.
“Why should I be? Those two never said a word to anyone! Stuck up, they were! And I don’t give a damn if their son hears me say it! They’d go out, come back with their groceries, lock themselves up in their house, and three days’d go by before anyone saw them again! They had my phone number. They could call if they needed anything!”
“And did that ever happen?”
“Did what ever happen?”
“Did they ever call you?”
“Yeah, it happened a few times. When Signor Fofo, the husband, was sick, he called me for help when his wife was out at the drugstore. Another time when a hose on the washing machine broke and their apartment got flooded. Another time—”
“That’s enough, thanks. You said you haven’t got the key?”
“I didn’t just say it, I don’t have it! Mrs. Griffo left me the key last summer when they went to see their son in Messina. She wanted me to water the plants she keeps on the balcony But then they asked for it back without a word of thanks, nothing, like I was their servant or something! And I’m supposed to be worried about them? Hell, if I went up to the fourth floor to ask them if they needed anything, they’d probably tell me to fuck off!”
“Shall we go up?” the inspector asked Davide Griffo, who was leaning against the wall. He looked a little weak in the knees.
They took the elevator to the fourth floor. Davide shot out at once. Fazio brought his mouth to the inspector’s ear.
“There are four flats on each floor. N ene Sanfilippo lived in the one directly under the Griffos,” he said, gesturing with his chin toward Davide, who was pressing all his weight against the door of number 17 and wildly ringing the doorbell.
“Stand aside, please.”
Davide, seeming not to hear him, kept pushing the doorbell button. They could hear it ringing inside, remote and useless. Fazio stepped forward, grabbed the man by the shoulders, and moved him aside. The inspector extracted a large key ring from his pocket. From it hung a dozen or so variously shaped picklocks, a gift from a burglar with whom he’d become friends. He fiddled with the lock a good five minutes. It not only had a bolt, but had been given four turns of the key.
The door opened. Montalbano and Fazio opened their nostrils wide to smell the odor inside. Fazio was holding back Davide, who wanted to rush in, by the arm. Death, after two days’ time, begins to stink. But there was nothing. The apartment merely smelled stuffy. Fazio let go and Davide sprang forward, immediately crying out:
“Papa! Mama!”
Everything was in perfect order. The windows shut, the bed made, the kitchen tidy, the sink empty of dirty dishes. Inside the fridge, a packet of prosciutto, some olives, a bottle of white wine, half-empty In the freezer, four slices of meat and two mullets. If they’d indeed gone away, they certainly left with the intention of returning soon.
“Do your parents have any relatives?”
Davide was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, head in his hands.
“Papa, no. Mama, yes. A brother in Comiso, and a sister in Trapani who died.”
“Do you think they could have gone to—”
