“Inspector! Inspector Montalbano!”
Muffled voices called out to him; some asshole photographer blinded him with a burst of flashes. Luckily the Montelusa policeman standing guard recognized him and opened the gate. The inspector drove his car inside, pulled up, and got out.
He found Fazio sitting in the usual armchair in the living room, pale-faced, hollow-eyed, and looking generally very tired. His eyes were closed, head thrown back and resting against the back of the chair. A variety of gadgets were now attached to the phone, including a tape recorder and headset.
A uniformed policeman, not from the Vigata force, was standing near a French door, thumbing through a magazine. The moment the inspector entered, the telephone rang. Fazio leapt up, and in the twinkling of an eye had donned the headset, started the tape recorder, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
He listened for a moment.
“No, Mr. Mistretta is not at home . . . No, please don’t insist.”
He hung up and saw the inspector. He removed the headset and stood up.
“Oh, Chief! The phone’s been ringing nonstop for the last three hours! My head is numb! I don’t know how it happened, but everybody, all over Italy, knows about this disappearance, and they’re all calling to interview the poor father!” “Where’s Inspector Minutolo?”
“He’s back in Montelusa, packing an overnight bag. He’s gonna sleep here tonight. He just left.”
“What about Mistretta?”
“He just went upstairs to be with his wife. He woke up about an hour ago.”
“He was able to sleep?”
“Not for long, but he was given something. At lunchtime his brother the doctor showed up with a nurse who’s going to spend the night with the sick wife. Then the doctor gave his brother a shot of sedative. You know,Chief, there was some kind of argument between the two brothers.” “He didn’t want the shot?”
“Well, that too, but first Mr. Mistretta got upset when he saw the nurse. He told his brother he didn’t have the money to pay her, to which his brother replied that he would pay for it himself. Then Mistretta started crying, saying he was reduced to living on other people’s charity . . . Poor man, I really do feel sorry for him.” “Listen Fazio, sorry or not, tonight you’re going to clock out, go home and get some rest. Okay?”
“Okay, okay. Here’s Mr. Mistretta.”
The sleep hadn’t done him any good. He was swaying as he walked, weak-kneed and hands trembling. Seeing Montalbano, he became alarmed.
“Oh my God! What’s happened?”
“Nothing, I assure you. Please don’t get excited. But since I’m here, I’d like to ask you a question. Do you feel up to answering?”
“I’ll try.”
“Thank you. Do you remember that this morning you told me Susanna could only have had thirty euros, at the most, on her? Was that the amount your daughter usually went around with?” “Yes, I can confirm that. That’s more or less how much she usually had on her.”
“Did you know that she went to the bank yesterday afternoon?”
Mistretta looked stunned.
“In the afternoon? No, I didn’t know. Who told you that?”
“Francesco, Susanna’s boyfriend.”
Mr. Mistretta looked sincerely bewildered. He sat down in the first chair that came within reach and ran a hand over his brow. He was trying very hard to understand.
“Unless . . .” he muttered.
“Unless what?”
“Well, yesterday morning I told Susanna to go to the bank to see if some back payments had been credited to my pension. The account is in both of our names, mine and hers. If the money was there, she was supposed to withdraw three thousand euros and pay off some debts that, frankly, I didn’t want to think about anymore. They weighed on my mind.” “What kind of debts, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I dunno, the pharmacy, some shopkeepers . . . Not that they ever put any pressure on us, but it was I who . . . But, when Susanna came home around noon, I didn’t ask her whether she’d been to the bank, so maybe . . .” “. . . Maybe she’d forgotten to do it and didn’t remember until the afternoon,” the inspector finished his sentence for him.
“I’m sure that’s what happened,” said Mistretta.
“But that means that Susanna had three thousand or more euros on her person. Which isn’t a whole lot, of course, but to an imbecile . . .”
“But she would have paid the bills with it!”
“No, she didn’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because when she came out of the bank she . . . stopped to talk with Francesco.”
“Oh.”
