“If you only knew how much comes out of my mouth! Come on, Ciccio, out with it!”
“You saw the wounds made by the rocks, right?”
“Right.”
“They’re superficial, Inspector. This past month we had rough seas for ten days straight. If the body was thrown against any rocks in those waters, it wouldn’t have that kind of wound. It would have had its head knocked off, or some ribs broken, or a few bones sticking out.”
“So? Maybe during those bad days you mention, the body was out on the open sea, far from any rocks.”
“But Inspector, you found it in an area where the currents go backwards!”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you find it right off Marinella?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the currents there either go out to sea or run parallel to the coast. Another two days and the body would have passed Capo Russello, you can be sure of that.”
Montalbano fell silent, lost in thought. Then he said:
“You’ll have to explain this business about the currents a little better for me.”
“Whenever you like.”
“You free tonight?”
“Yessir. Why don’t you come to my place for dinner? My wife’s making striped surmullet her own special way.”
Immediately Montalbano’s tongue was drowning in saliva.
“Thanks. But what do you make of all this, Ciccio?”
“Can I speak freely? First of all, rocks don’t leave the kind of wounds that guy had around his wrists and ankles.”
“Right.”
“He must have been tied up by the wrists and ankles before they drowned him.”
“With iron wire, according to Pasquano.”
“Right. Then they took the body and let it soak for a while in sea water, probably in some secluded place. Then, when they figured he was pretty well pickled, they put ’im out to sea.”
“Why would they wait so long?”
“Inspector, those guys wanted to make it look like the body came from far away.”
Montalbano looked at him with admiration. Not only had Ciccio Albanese, a man of the sea, come to the same conclusions as Dr. Pasquano, a man of science, and Montalbano, a man of ironclad police logic; he also had taken a big step forward.
4
But the inspector was destined never to get so much as a whiff, not even from afar, of the striped surmullets specially prepared by Ciccio Albanese’s wife. Around eight that evening, when he was getting ready to leave the office, a call came in for him from Deputy Commissioner Riguccio. Though he’d known him for years and they got on rather well, their relationship had never gone beyond the confines of work. It wouldn’t have taken much for it to turn into friendship, but neither of them could make up his mind.
“Hello, Montalbano? Sorry, but is there anyone in your office who wears glasses with a correction of three for nearsightedness in both eyes?”
“Huh?” the inspector replied. “We’ve got two patrolmen who wear glasses, Cusumano and Torretta, but I have no idea what their prescriptions are. Why do you ask? Is this some survey you’re doing for your beloved minister?”
It was no mystery that Riguccio’s political positions were close to those of the new government.
“I haven’t got time for jokes, Salvo. See if they’ve got a pair that might work for me and send them over to me as soon as possible. Mine just broke and I’m lost without my glasses.”
“Don’t you have an extra pair at the office?” asked Montalbano as he was calling Fazio.
“I do, but I’m not in Montelusa.”
“Where are you?”
“Here in Vigata. On tourist duty.”
The inspector explained the problem to Fazio.
“Riguccio? I’m having somebody look into it. How many tourists you got today?”
“At least a hundred and fifty, on two of our patrol craft. They came across on two big boats that were shipping water and about to crash into the rocks at Lampedusa. From what I could gather, their guides abandoned them at sea and escaped on a dinghy. They were all about to drown, poor things. You know something, Montalba? I don’t think I can stand to see any more of these wretched people. They—”
“Tell it to your pals in the government.”
