“Did he say why he went there?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. I’m sorry.”
“Another question, but this really will be the last.”
“Ask me as many as you like.”
“Did Angelo do coke, as far as you know?”
“No. No drugs.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Don’t forget that I was once quite an expert on the subject.”
She stepped forward.
“Bye, see you soon,” said Montalbano, running for the door, opening it, and dashing out onto the landing before the cheetah could spring, grab him in her claws, and eat him alive.
Dimora Jewelers of Montelusa—founded in 1901, as the religiously restored old sign in front said—were the best-known jewelers in the province. They made their hundred-plus years a point of pride, and in fact the furnishings inside were the same as they’d been a hundred years earlier. Except for the fact that now, to get inside, it was worse than entering a bank. Armored doors, tinted, Kalashnikov-proof windows, uniformed security guards with revolvers at their sides so big it was scary just to look at them.
There were three salespersons, all of them quite distinguished: a seventyish man, another around forty, and a girl of about twenty. Apparently they’d each been expressly selected to serve the clients of their corresponding age group. Then why was it the seventy-year-old who turned to speak to him, instead of the forty-year-old, as should have been his right?
“Would you like to see something in particular, sir?”
“Yes, the owner.”
“You mean Signor Arturo?”
“If he’s the owner, then Signor Arturo will do.” “And who are you, if I may ask?” “Inspector Montalbano.”
“Please follow me.”
He followed the salesman into the back room, which was a very elegant sort of little sitting room. Art nouveau furniture. A broad staircase of black wood, covered by a dark red runner, led to a landing where there was a massive, closed door.
“Please make yourself comfortable.”
The elderly man climbed the stair slowly, then rang a bell beside the door, which came open with a click. He went inside and closed the door behind him. Two minutes later there was another click, the door reopened, and the old man reappeared.
“You may go upstairs.”
The inspector found himself in a spacious, light-filled room. There was a large glass desk, very modern in style, with a computer on top. Two armchairs and a sofa of the kind one sees only in architectural magazines. A huge safe, the latest model, that not even a surface-to-air missile could open. Another safe, this one pathetic and certainly dating back to 1901, which a wet nurse’s hairpin could open. Arturo Dimora, a thirty-year-old who looked straight out of a fashion advertisement, stood up and extended his hand.
“I’m at your disposal, Inspector.”
“I won’t waste your time. Do you know if there was a certain Angelo Pardo among your clients over the last three months?”
“Just a second.”
He went back behind the glass desk and fiddled about with the computer.
“Yes. He bought—”
“I know what he bought. I would like to know how he paid.”
“Just a minute. There, yes. Two checks from the Banca Popolare di Fanara. Do you want the account number?”
15
Exiting the jeweler’s shop, he weighed his options. What to do? Even if he left for Fanara at once, he probably wouldn’t get there till after one-thirty; in other words, after the bank was already closed. Thus the best thing was to go back to Vigata and drive to Fanara the following morning. But his anxiousness to discover something important at the bank was eating him alive, and surely his nerves would keep him up all night. Suddenly he remembered that banks, which he scarcely frequented, also had afternoon hours these days. Thus the right thing was to leave immediately for Fanara, head straight for the local trattoria called Da Cosma e Damiano, where he’d eaten twice and been very well served, and then, after three, make an appearance at the bank.
When he arrived at his parked car, a rather troubling thought came over him—namely, that he had an appointment with the commissioner to which it was not clear he would make it in time. What was he going to do about this? The following: He was going to blow off Mr. Commissioner’s summons. The guy had done nothing but postpone the goddamned appointment day after day. Surely he was allowed to miss one? He got in the car and drove off.
Going from Enzo’s restaurant to Cosma and Damiano’s place in Fanara was like changing continents. Asking Enzo for a dish like the rabbit cacciatore he was slurping down would have been like ordering pork ribs or cotechino at a restaurant in Abu Dhabi.
When he got up from the table, he immediately felt the need for a walk along the jetty. But since he was in Fanara, there was no jetty, for the simple reason that the sea was fifty miles away. Though he’d already had a
