“Hello?” said a male voice, sounding slightly groggy.
The inspector hadn’t expected this and felt a little bewildered.
“Hello?” the male voice repeated, now not only slightly groggy but also slightly irritated.
“Inspector Montalbano here. I would like—”
“You want Paola?”
“Yes, if it’s not—”
“I’ll go get her.”
Three minutes of silence passed.
“Hello?” said a female voice the inspector didn’t recognize.
“Am I speaking with Paola Torrisi?” he asked, doubtful.
“Yes, Inspector, it’s me, thanks for calling.”
But it wasn’t the same voice as the previous evening. This one was a bit husky, deep, and sensual, like that of someone who…He suddenly realized that maybe nine in the morning wasn’t the right time of day to call a schoolteacher who, staying home from work, might be busy with other things.
“I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you …” She giggled.
“It’s no big deal. I want to tell you something, but not over the phone. Could we meet somewhere? I could drop by the station.”
“I won’t be in my office this morning. We could meet later this morning in Montelusa. You tell me where.”
They decided on a cafe on the Promenade. At noon. That way Paola could finish at her own pace what she had started before being interrupted by his phone call. And maybe even allow herself an encore.
“While he was at it, he decided to confront Dr. Pasquano. Better over the phone than in person.
“What’s the story, Doctor?”
“Take your pick. Little Red Riding Hood or Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” “No, Doctor, I meant—”
“I know what you meant. I’ve already let Tommaseo know that I’ve done what I was supposed to do and that he’ll have the report by tomorrow.”
“What about me?”
“Have Tommaseo give you a copy.”
“But couldn’t you tell me—”
“Tell you what? Don’t you already know he was shot in the face at close range? Or would you rather I use some technical terms where you wouldn’t understand a goddamn thing? And haven’t I also told you that although his thing was exposed, it hadn’t been used?”
“Did you find the bullet?”
“Yes. And I sent it over to Forensics. It entered through the left eye socket and tore his head apart.”
“Anything else?”
“Do you promise not to bug me for at least ten days if I tell you?” “I swear.”
“Well, they didn’t kill him right away.” “What do you mean?”
“They stuck a big handkerchief or a white rag in his mouth to prevent him from screaming. I found some filaments of white cloth wedged between his teeth. Sent them down to the lab. And after they shot him, they pulled the cloth out of his mouth and took it with them.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“If it’s the last.”
“Why are you speaking in the plural? Do you think there was more than one killer?”
“Do you really want to know why? To confuse you, my friend.”
He was a mean one, Pasquano, and enjoyed it.
But this business of the rag crammed into Angelo’s mouth was not something to be taken lightly.
It meant that the murder had not been committed on impulse. I came, I shot, I left. And good night.
No. Whoever went to see Angelo had some questions to ask him, wanted to know something from him. And needed some time to do this. That was why they put him in a state where he’d be forced to listen to what the other was saying or asking him, and they would take the rag out of his mouth only when Angelo had decided to answer.
And maybe Angelo answered and was killed anyway. Or else he wouldn’t or couldn’t answer, and that was why he was killed. But why hadn’t the killer left the rag in his mouth? Perhaps because he was hoping to lead the police down a less certain path? Or, more precisely, because he was trying to create a false lead by making it look like a crime of passion—a premise which, though supported by the bird outside the cage, would have been disproved if the rag had been found in the victim’s mouth? Or was it because the rag wasn’t a rag? Maybe it was a handkerchief with personalized initials that could have led to the killer’s first and last names?
He gave up and went out on the veranda.
He sat down and looked dejectedly at the two pages Catarella had printed up. He never had understood a damn thing about numbers. Back in high school, he remembered, when his friends were already doing abscesses—no,
