“Don’t answer a question with a question,” he said.
He was sharp, this kid. Alert and clever. It was a pleasure to talk to him.
“Why shouldn’t I think it was him?” said Montalbano.
“Mr. Peruzzo, according to what we’ve learned about him, is an unscrupulous man with a penchant for dangerous gambits.
He probably sized up his situation. The essential thing, for him, was to avoid getting drawn into the case, because once he was, he could only lose. Therefore, why not take yet another risk and try to save six billion lire?” “And what if they killed Susanna?”
“He could claim, as a last resort, that he’d paid the ransom and that it was the kidnappers who hadn’t kept their word. Because there was always the chance that Susanna might recognize one of them, which would have made it necessary to eliminate her. He would have cried and wailed in front of the TV cameras, and some people would have ended up believing him.” “And would you have been one of those people, Inspector?”
“I plead the Fifth,” said Montalbano.
o o o
“Montalbano? This is Minutolo. I spoke with the commissioner.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said he didn’t want to take advantage of your courtesy.”
“Which, translated into the vernacular, means the quicker I get my ass out of the way, the better.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, my friend, what do you want me to say? I guess I’ll go back to convalescing and wish you all the best.”
“But if I need to exchange a few ideas with you, can I—”
“Whenever you like.”
“Did you know that the Customs Police have found truck-loads of incriminating stuff in Peruzzo’s offices? Everybody thinks he’s screwed for good this time.”
o o o
He picked up the photographic enlargements that he’d had Cicco De Cicco make and put them in an envelope, which he managed, with some effort, to fit in his jacket pocket.
“Catarella!”
“Your orders, Chief.”
“Is Inspector Augello around?”
“No, Chief. He’s in Montelusa ’cause the c’mishner wants
’Specter Augello to be the inner-in-chief.” So the c’mishner had finally marginalized the inspector and was speaking only to Augello, the inner-in-chief.
“What about Fazio?”
“He ain’t here, neither, Chief. He went for a minnit over to Via Palazzolo, ’cross from the alimentary school.”
“What for?”
“There’s some shopkeeper who din’t wanna pay per-tection money shot at the guy who axed him for it but ’e missed.”
“So much the better.”
“Smuch the bitter, Chief, but t’make it up he got some guy who’s passin by in the arm.”
“Listen, Cat. I’m going home to resume my convalescence.”
“Straightaway straightaway?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come see you sometimes when I wanna see you sometimes?”
“Come whenever you like.”
o o o
Before returning to Marinella, he dropped in at the grocer’s where he sometimes got his provisions. He bought green olives,
Back at home, he set the table on the veranda while the pasta cooked. After shilly-shallying a bit, the day had finally surrendered to the late spring sunshine. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, not a breath of wind in the air. The inspector drained the pasta, dressed it with pesto, took the dish outside, and began to eat. A man was walking by along the water, and for a moment he stopped and stared at Montalbano on the veranda. What was so strange about him that a man should eye him as if he were a painting? Perhaps he really was a painting, one that might be titled:
The telephone rang. It was Livia. She told him she’d made it back without incident, that everything was all right, she was cleaning her apartment, and would call him back that evening. A brief phone call, but long enough to let the pasta turn cold.
