Patience of the Spider

the inspector had a family, and there was no way to shake him out of this conviction. If he ever found out that Montalbano was a bachelor, the shock might be lethal.

“Fine, thanking the Blessed Virgin.”

“Well, on behalf of Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi, I’m inviting you to attend the press conference that will be held at Montelusa Central Police at five-thirty this evening, concerning the felicitous outcome of the Mistretta kidnapping. The commissioner would like to make it clear, however, that only your attendance is being requested— that is, you will not be asked to speak.” “Thank the Blessed Virgin,” Montalbano muttered under his breath.

“What was that? I didn’t hear.”

“I said I was wondering something. As you know, I’m still convalescing, and was called back into service only because—”

“I know, I know. And so?”

“So could I be exempted from attending the press conference? I’m a bit tired out.”

Lattes couldn’t hide how happy the inspector’s request made him. Montalbano was always considered a loose cannon at these official functions.

“But of course! Of course! Take good care of yourself, dear friend. But consider yourself on duty until further notice.”

o o o

Surely someone had already thought of writing The Perfect Investigator’s Handbook. It had to exist, since there was, after all, a Junior Woodchucks’ Guidebook. And it was certainly written by Americans, who were capable of publishing handbooks on how to put buttons in buttonholes. Montalbano, however, had never seen such a handbook. Nevertheless, somewhere in such a book the writer must surely recommend that the sooner the investigator inspects a crime scene, the better. That is, before the elements—rain, wind, sun, man, animals—so alter the scene that the telltale signs, already barely perceptible, become indecipherable.

Based on what Mr. Luna had told him, Montalbano—

alone among the investigators—knew where Peruzzo had left the ransom money. It was his duty, he reasoned, to inform Minutolo of this fact at once. Surely the kidnappers had spent a long time hiding in the area around the overpass on the road to Brancato, first making sure there were no policemen lying in ambush, then waiting for Peruzzo’s car to arrive, and finally letting a bit more time pass to ensure that all was calm before coming out in the open and picking up the suitcase. And surely they had left some trace of their presence. It was therefore imperative to examine the site before the crime scene was altered (as per aforementioned Handbook).

Wait a second, he said to himself as his hand was picking up the telephone. What if Minutolo couldn’t go there immediately? Wasn’t it better to get in his car and have a first look himself? Just an initial, superficial inspection? If, then, he discovered anything important, he would alert Minutolo so a more thorough examination could be conducted.

Such was how he tried to quiet his conscience, which had been muttering to itself for some time. His consience, however, was stubborn. Not only would it not be silenced, but made its own feelings known.

No point in making excuses, Montalba.You just want to screw Minutolo, now that the girl’s no longer in danger.

“Catarella!”

“Your orders, Chief!”

“Do you know the quickest way to Brancato?”

“Which Brancato, Chief? Upper Brancato or Lower Brancato?”

“Is it so big?”

“No sir. There’s just five hunnert nabitants till yesterday.

Fact is, tho, that seeing as how Upper Brancato’s been falling down the mountainside below—”

“What do you mean? Are there landslides?”

“Yessir, so, seeing as how there’s what you just said there is, they hadda build a new town unner the mountin. But there’s fifty old folks din’t wanna leave their homes and so now the nabitants been nabitting all apart from nother wuther, wit four hunnert forty-nine b’low ’n’ fifty up top.” “Wait a second. We’re missing one inhabitant.”

“Din’t I jes say there’s five hunnert till yesterday? Yesterday one of ’em died, Chief. My cussin Michele tol’ me. He lives out Lower Brancato way.”

Of course! How could Catarella not have a relative in that godforsaken village?

“Listen, Cat. If you’re driving from Palermo, which comes first, Upper or Lower Brancato?”

“Lower, Chief.”

“And how do you get there?”

The explanation was long and convoluted.

“Listen, Cat. If Inspector Minutolo rings, tell him to call me on the cell phone.”

o o o

He took the scorrimento veloce, the “expressway,” for Palermo, which was clogged with traffic. This was a perfectly ordinary two-lane road, slightly broader than normal, but, for no apparent reason, everyone considered it a kind of autostrada and therefore drove as though they were on an autostrada. Trucks passing trucks, cars racing at ninety miles an hour (since such was the speed limit a cabinet minister, the one ostensibly “in charge” of such matters, had set for the