‘Susanna’s life is in your hands. Remove the obstacles and take the first step.’ ”
“What do you make of it?”
“Nothing. Chief, I’m leaving. Are you coming by the villa?”
“I don’t think so, not tonight. Listen, did you tell Minutolo about these phone calls?”
“No, Chief.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t think he would consider them important. Whereas you, I thought, might find them interesting.” Fazio went out.
Good cop. He’d realized that although those two phone calls might be incomprehensible, they had something in common. Not much, but a sure thing. Indeed, both the former Peruzzo’s employee and the old lady were advising Mr. and Mrs. Mistretta, husband and wife, to change their attitudes.
The first advised the husband to be more flexible, while the second suggested that the wife actually take the initiative, by
“removing the obstacles.” Maybe the investigation—which so far had been aimed entirely outwards—needed to change direction. That is, maybe they needed to look inside the kidnap victim’s family. At this point it became important to speak with Mrs. Mistretta. What sort of condition was she in, anyway? On the other hand, how would he justify his questions if the infirm woman was still unaware that her daughter had been kidnapped? He needed some serious help from Dr. Mistretta. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to eight.
He phoned Livia to tell her he’d be late for dinner.
“Not once can we eat dinner on time!”
He took it in, didn’t react. He didn’t have time to squabble with her.
The phone rang again. It was Gallo. They’d decided to keep Mimi in the hospital for observation.
o o o
The inspector arrived at the first filling station on the road to Fela at eight p.m. sharp, punctual as a Swiss watch. No sign, however, of Dr. Mistretta. Ten minutes and two cigarettes later, Montalbano started to worry. Doctors are never to be trusted. When they give you an office appointment, they make you wait an hour at the very least; when they give you an appointment outside the office, they still show up an hour late, with the excuse that a patient arrived at the last minute.
Dr. Mistretta pulled up next to Montalbano’s car in his SUV, only half an hour late.
“Sorry I’m late, but at the last minute, a patient—”
“I understand.”
“Will you please follow me?”
They set out, the one in front and the other behind. And they went on and on, the one in front and the other behind, turning off the national road, then off the provincial road, taking dirt road after dirt road and leaving these behind as well.
At last they arrived at an isolated spot in the open country, pulling up at the gate to a villa quite a bit bigger than the doctor’s geologist brother’s house, and in better condition. It was surrounded by a high wall. Did these Mistrettas feel somehow diminished if they didn’t live in country villas? The doctor got out of his car, opened the gate, and drove in, signaling Montalbano to do the same.
They parked in the garden, which was not as ill-tended as the other one, but almost.
To the right stood another large, low structure, probably the former stables. The doctor opened the front door to the villa, turned on the lights, and showed the inspector into a large salon.
“I’ll be right back. I have to go close the gate.” It was clear he had no family and lived alone. The salon was handsomely furnished and well-maintained. One wall was entirely covered by a rich collection of painted glass. Montalbano felt spellbound as he studied the shrill colors and simultaneously naive and refined strokes. Another wall was half covered with tall shelves containing not medical or scientific books, as he would have imagined, but novels.
“Forgive me,” the doctor said upon returning. “Can I get you something?”
“No, thank you. You’re not married, are you, Doctor?”
“No, when I was young I never wanted to get married.
Then one day I realized that I was too old to do so.”
“And you live here alone?”
The doctor smiled.
“I know what you mean. This house is too big for only one person. There used to be vineyards and olive groves . . .
That building you saw next to the house still has wine vats, cellars, and winepresses that nobody uses anymore . . . And here the upstairs has been closed off since time immemorial.
So the answer is yes, I’ve been living here alone for the last few years. For household matters, I have a maid who works morn-ings, three days a week. For my meals . . . I make do.” He paused.
“Or else I go eat at the house of a lady friend. You would have found out sooner or later, anyway. She’s a widow I’ve been seeing now for over ten years. And there you have it.” “Thank you, Doctor, but my purpose, in coming to see you, is to learn a little more about your sister-in-law’s illness, provided, of course, that you’re able and willing—”
“Look, Inspector, there’s no professional code of secrecy in this instance. My sister-in-law has been poisoned.
