Patience of the Spider

“All according to script, in other words.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they keep enacting the same drama that we’ve become accustomed to seeing. A sham performance. The real show they put on for one spectator alone, Antonio Peruzzo, and they asked him to join in. Then there was a third show aimed at the general public. How was Peruzzo? Did he play his part well?” “Frankly, Montalbano, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Have you succeeded in getting in touch with Peruzzo?”

“Not yet.”

“So what happens next?”

“The judge is going to hear Susanna’s story, then this afternoon there’ll be a press conference. Aren’t you going to come?”

“Not even if you put a gun to my head.”

o o o

He was barely in the doorway to his office when the phone rang.

“Chief? There’s some jinnelman onna line says he’s the moon. So, tinkin he’s makin some kinda joke, I says I’m the sun. He got pissed off. I tink he’s insane.”

“Put him on.”

What did the devoted nurse want from him?

“Inspector Montalbano? Good morning. This is Francesco Luna, the lawyer.”

“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”

“First of all, my compliments on your receptionist.”

“Well, sir, you see—”

“Pay them no mind, but look and move on, as the poet says.

Let’s drop it. I’m calling you only to remind you that your pointless, offensive sarcasm yesterday, toward myself and my client, was inexcusable. You know, I have the misfortune, or good luck, of having an elephant’s memory.” Because you, sir, ARE an elephant, the inspector wanted to say, but he managed to restrain himself.

“Please explain what you mean, sir.”

“Yesterday evening, when you and your colleague came to my house, you were convinced my client would not pay the ransom, whereas, as you have seen—”

“Excuse me, but you’re mistaken. I was convinced that your client, like it or not, would pay the ransom. Have you managed to get in touch with him?”

“He phoned me last night, after doing what he needed to do. What people expected of him.”

“Can we talk to him?”

“He doesn’t feel up to it yet. He’s just been through a terrible ordeal.”

“You mean the ordeal of three million euros in bills of five hundred?”

“Yes. Three million, stuffed in a suitcase or a duffel bag, I’m not sure which.”

“Do you know where they told him to drop the money off?”

“Well, they phoned him yesterday evening around nine and described in minute detail a road he was supposed to take to a small overpass, the only one there is along the road to Brancato. With hardly any traffic. Under the overpass, he would find a sort of little well covered by a lid that could be easily lifted. All he needed to do was put the suitcase or duffel inside, close it back up, and leave. My client arrived on the spot shortly before midnight. He did exactly as he was ordered to do, then quickly went away.” “Thank you, Mr. Luna.”

“Excuse me, Inspector. I want to ask a favor of you.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I would like you to help us resuscitate my client’s reputa tion, which has been so gravely compromised. And this you can do by honestly saying exactly what you know. Not one word more, not one word less.”

“May I ask who the other resuscitators are?”

“Myself, Inspector Minutolo, all the engineer’s friends from within and without the party—in short, everyone who’s had a chance to know—”

“If the opportunity presents itself, I’ll be sure to do so.”

“I appreciate it.”

The telephone rang again.

“Chief, iss Doctor Latte with an S at the end.” That is, Dr. Lattes, chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, a churchgoing, cloying sort of man, subscriber to the L’Osservatore Romano, and known informally as Caffe-Lattes.

“My dear Inspector! How are you doing?”

“I can’t complain.”

“Let us thank the Blessed Virgin! And how’s the family?” What a pain in the ass! He had got it in his head that