thing!
Actually, no, you’re worse! You’re a brute! A filthy pig!” She ran out, and the inspector heard the key turn in the bedroom door. He approached and knocked.
“Come on, Livia. Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a little?”
“No. You can sleep on the sofa tonight.”
“But it’s so uncomfortable! Come on, Livia! I won’t sleep a wink!”
No reaction. He decided to play the pity card.
“And I’m sure my wound will start throbbing again!” he said in a pathetic voice.
“Too bad.”
He knew he would never succeed in making her change her mind. He had to resign himself. He cursed under his breath.
As if in response, the telephone rang. It was Fazio.
“Didn’t I tell you to go home and rest?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to leave it all hanging, Chief.”
“What do you want?”
“They just phoned. Inspector Minutolo wanted to know if you could drop by.”
o o o
He arrived in a flash in front of the locked gate. On the way there, it occurred to him he hadn’t told Livia he was going out. Despite their quarrel, he should have. Even if only to avoid another spat. Livia was liable to think he’d gone to spend the night at a hotel out of spite. Too bad.
But now, how was he going to get somebody to open the gate for him? By the light of the headlamps, he could see there was no bell, no intercom, nothing. The only solution was the car horn. He hoped he didn’t have to keep honking until he woke up the whole town. He started with a timid, quick toot, and immediately a man came out of the house.
Fiddling with the keys, the man opened the gate and Montalbano drove through, pulled up, and got of the car. The man who’d come out introduced himself.
“I’m Carlo Mistretta.”
The doctor-brother was a well-dressed man of about fifty-five, rather short, with fine eyeglasses, a ruddy face, little facial hair, and a hint of a potbelly. He looked like a bishop in civvies. He continued: “When your colleague informed me that the kidnappers had called, I came running, because Salvatore felt ill.”
“How is he now?”
“I gave him something I hope will let him sleep.”
“How about his wife?”
The doctor threw his hands up by way of reply.
“Has she still not been informed of the—”
“No,” the doctor said, “that’s the last thing she needs. Salvatore told her Susanna’s in Palermo for exams. But my poor sister-in-law is not exactly lucid; she often goes blank for whole hours at a time.” In the living room there was only Fazio, who’d fallen asleep in the usual armchair, and Fifi Minutolo, sitting in the other armchair, smoking a cigar. The French doors were wide open, letting in cool, penetrating air.
“Were you able to find out where the phone call was made from?” was the first thing Montalbano asked.
“No. It was too brief,” replied Minutolo. “Now listen up; we can discuss things later.”
“Okay.”
As soon as he sensed Montalbano’s presence, Fazio, with a kind of animal reflex, opened his eyes and leapt to his feet.
“So you’re here, Chief? You want to listen? Sit down here in my place.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on the tape recorder.
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
