Patience of the Spider

“Forensics kept it.”

The photo looked a bit different from the way Ragonese had described it. First of all, it was obvious she was not in a well, but in some sort of cement vat or cistern a good ten feet deep. It clearly hadn’t been used for a long time, because on the left-hand side there was a long crack that started at the very top and ran about a foot and half downward, growing wider at the end.

Susanna was in the position he’d described, but she wasn’t crying. On the contrary. In her expression Montalbano noticed a determination even stronger than he’d seen in the other photo. She was sitting not on rags, but on an old mattress. And there was no chain around her ankle. Ragonese had made it up, no doubt to add color. In any case, never in a million years could the girl escape on her own. Beside her, but almost outside the frame, were a dish and a plastic glass. She was wearing the clothes she’d had on when she was abducted.

“Has her father seen this?”

“Are you kidding? Not only have I not let him see the photo, I haven’t let him watch TV. I told the nurse not to let him out of his room.”

“Did you inform the uncle?”

“Yes, but he said he couldn’t come for another two hours.”

As he asked his questions, the inspector kept looking at the photograph.

“They’re probably keeping her in a rainwater cistern that’s no longer in use,” said Minutolo.

“Out in the country?”

“Well, yes. They probably used to have these kinds of tanks here in town, but now I don’t think it’s very likely. Anyway, she’s not gagged. She could scream if she wanted to. If she was in some inhabited area, people would hear her.” “She’s also not wearing a blindfold, for that matter.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, Salvo. They could put on ski masks when they go visit her.”

“They must have used a ladder to put her down there,” said Montalbano. “Which they lower whenever she needs to come up. And they probably feed her by lowering a basket on a rope.” “If we’re in agreement, then,” said Minutolo, “I’ll ask the commissioner to intensify the searches across the countryside.

Especially around farmhouses. The photo, at least, was good for one thing: We know now she’s not being held in a cave.” Montalbano was about to hand back the photograph, but changed his mind and continued to study it carefully.

“Something not look right to you?”

“The light,” replied Montalbano.

“They probably just put a lamp down there.”

“Okay. But not just any lamp.”

“You’re not going to tell me they used a floodlight!”

“No. They used one of those lights that mechanics use . . .

You know, when they need to look at a motor in a garage . . .

One of those with a long cord . . . See these regular lines of shadow that intersect? They’re a projection of the broad-mesh screen that protects the lightbulb.”

“And so?”

“But that’s not the light that doesn’t look right to me.

There must be some other light source, because it’s casting a shadow on the rim across from it. See? The person taking the photo is not standing on the edge, but beside it, and he’s leaning forward to take the shot of Susanna below. This means that the sides of the cistern are quite thick and slightly above ground level. To cast this sort of shadow, the man taking the snapshot must have some kind of light behind him. But, mind you, if it was an intense light, the shadow would be deeper and more sharply defined.” “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“There was an open window behind the photographer.”

“So?”

“So does it seem logical to you for them to photograph a kidnapped girl with the window open and not put a gag on her?”

“But that merely confirms my hypothesis! They’re holding her at some godforsaken country farmhouse, and she can scream all she wants! Nobody will hear her, even with all the windows open!” “Bah,” said Montalbano, flipping the photo over.

to the person concerned

Written in block letters with a ballpoint pen by someone clearly accustomed to writing in Italian. Still, there was something odd, something forced, about the handwriting.

“I also noticed,” said Minutolo. “He didn’t try to falsify his handwriting. It looks rather like somebody left- handed trying to write with his right hand.”

“To me it looks like it was written slowly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t really explain it. It’s as though somebody with bad, almost illegible handwriting had forced himself to trace every letter clearly, and thus had to slow down his normal writing speed. Then there’s another thing. The letter T beginning the word the is written over something, as if to correct it. One can clearly see that a W was written there first.

He’d probably intended to write ‘To whom it may concern,’