“Of course.”
“And so they make as many copies of the code as they will need for the people who need to exchange information. Clear?”
“Yes.”
“I think the code you found is the only copy in existence. It was only used by the person who conceived it, to encrypt certain names, the ones that appear in the two lists that Lagana gave me.”
“Did you manage to understand any of it?”
“Well, I think I’ve figured two things out. The first is that every surname corresponds to a number, the one in the left-hand column. Each number has six digits, whereas the names are of varying length and therefore have varying numbers of letters. This means that each digit does not correspond to a letter. There are probably some dummy digits within each number.”
“Which means?”
“Digits that serve no purpose, other than to throw people off. In other words, it’s a code within a code.” “I see. And what was the second thing?” Lagana and Melluso exchanged a very quick glance. “You want to tell him?” “The credit is all yours,” said Lagana.
“Inspector,” Melluso began, “you gave us two lists. In both of these lists, the numbers on the left, the ones that stand for names, always occur and recur in the same sequence. The numbers on the right, on the other hand, are al-ways different. After studying them closely, I arrived at a conclusion, which is that the figures on the right in the first list indicate sums of money in euros, while the figures on the right in the second list represent quantities. When you com-pare, for instance, the first two numbers on the right-hand side of the two lists, you discover that there’s a precise relationship between the two figures, which corresponds—”
“To the current market price,” the inspector finished his sentence.
Lagana, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Montalbano for the past five minutes, started laughing.
“I told you, Melluso, the inspector was going to get it straightaway!”
Melluso nodded slightly toward Montalbano in homage.
“So,” the inspector concluded, “the first list contains the names of the clients and the sum paid by each; the second list indicates the amount provided each time. There was a third list in the computer, but unfortunately it self-destructed.”
“Do you now have an idea of what it contained?” asked Lagana.
“Now I do. I’m sure it had the dates and the amount of merchandise the provider—let’s call him the wholesaler— delivered to him.”
“Shall I keep trying to decode the names?” asked Melluso.
“Of course. I really appreciate it.”
He didn’t say, however, that of those fourteen names he already knew two.
When he got back to the station, it was already growing dark. He picked up the receiver and dialed Michela’s number.
“Hello? Montalbano here. How are you doing?” “How am I supposed to be doing?”
The woman’s voice sounded different, as though far away, and weary, as after a long walk. “I need to talk to you.” “Could we put it off till tomorrow?” “No.”
“All right, then, come over.”
“Tell you what, Michela: Let’s meet in an hour at your brother’s apartment, since you have the keys. All right?”
At Michela’s place there were likely other people—the mother, the aunt from Vigata, the aunt from Fanara, as well as friends come to pay their condolences—and this might make it difficult or even prevent them from talking.
“Why there of all places?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
He raced home, undressed, slipped into the shower, put on a fresh set of clothes: underwear, shirt, socks, suit. He phoned Livia, told her he loved her, and hung up, probably leaving her befuddled. Then he poured himself a glass of whisky and went out on the veranda to drink it while smoking a cigarette. Now he had to lance the pustule, the foulest part.
Pulling up in front of Angelo’s apartment house, he parked the car, got out, and looked up at the balcony and windows on the top floor. It was pitch dark now, and he saw light in two of the windows. Michela must have already arrived. Thus instead of using his keys, he rang the intercom, but no voice replied. Only the click of the front door, as it opened. He climbed the lifeless stairs of the dead building, and when he reached the landing on the top floor, he saw Michela waiting for him outside the door.
He got scared. For an ever so brief moment, it seemed as if the woman he was looking at was not Michela but her mother. What had happened to her?
Naturally her brother’s death had been a terrible blow, but until the day before, she had seemed to Montalbano to take it well, carrying herself intelligently and accusing forcefully. Perhaps the lugubrious funeral ceremony had finally made her aware of the definitive, irrevocable loss of Angelo. She was wearing one of her usual broad, shapeless dresses, which looked like something she’d bought at a used-clothing stand where they only had sizes too large for her. The dress was black, for mourning. Likewise black were the stockings and the canvas shoes, which were without heels and had a button in the middle, like nuns’ shoes. She’d gathered her hair inside a big scarf—also black, of course. She stood with her shoulders hunched, leaning against the door. She kept her eyes lowered.
“Please come in.”
