“When?”
“Night before last. When they started bringing in the wounded from Scroglitti, the hospital called me and asked me to come in to work. It was my day off. I live right nearby, and I always walk to work. Anyway, as I was approaching the hospital, I saw this woman running towards me, dragging three little kids behind her. When she was almost right beside me, a car drove up and came to a sudden stop. The man at the wheel called to the woman, and when they’d all gotten in the car, he drove off again at high speed.”
“Listen, I’m going to ask you something that may sound strange, but please think hard before answering. Did you notice anything unusual?”
“In what sense?”
“Well, I don’t know . . . By any chance, did the oldest boy try to run away before getting in the car?”
Agata Militello thought it over carefully.
“No, Inspector. The biggest boy got in first; his mother pushed him in. Then the other kids, then the woman last.”
“Did you manage to see the license plate?”
“No. It didn’t occur to me. There wasn’t any reason.”
“Indeed. Thank you for calling.”
Her testimony brought the whole affair to a definitive close. Riguccio was right. It was some kind of family reunion. Even though the biggest kid had ideas of his own about that reunion, and didn’t want to go.
The door slammed hard, Montalbano jumped out of his chair, and a piece of plaster fell, even though the wall had been redone less than a month before. Looking up, the inspector saw Catarella standing motionless in the doorway. This time he hadn’t even bothered to say his hand had slipped. He had such a look about him that a triumphal march would have been the ideal background music.
“Well?” asked Montalbano.
Catarella puffed up his chest and let out an elephantine sort of blast. Mimi came running from the next room, alarmed.
“What’s happening?”
“I found ’im. I idinnified ’im!” Catarella yelled, walking up to the desk and laying down an enlarged photo and a computer printout of the profile.
The big photo and the much smaller one in the upper left-hand corner of the profile seemed to be of the same man.
“Would somebody please explain?” said Mimi Augello.
“Certainly, ’Nspecter,” Catarella said proudly. “This here big photoraph was givenna me by Fazio, and it shows the dead man ’at was swimmin the other day with the Chief. This one here’s the one I idinnified myself. Have a look, Chief. Ain’t they like two peas in a pod?”
Mimi circled around the desk, went behind Montalbano, and bent down to get a better look. Then he gave his verdict.
“Yeah, they look alike. But they’re not the same person.”
“But, ’Nspector Augello, you gotta consider a consideration.”
“And what would that be?”
“That the big photoraph’s not a photoraph but a photoraph of a drawing of a face the man mighta had when ’e died. ’S just a drawing. Ya gotta allow a little margin of era.”
Mimi walked out of the office, unconvinced.
“They’re not the same person.”
Catarella threw up his hands and looked over at the inspector, leaving his fate up to him. The dust or the altar, that was the question. There was a certain resemblance, that much was undeniable. Might as well check it out. The man’s name was Ernesto Errera, a fugitive from justice the last two years, with a whole slew of crimes to his credit, all committed in Cosenza and environs, ranging from housebreaking to armed robbery. To save time, it was better not to follow procedure.
“Cat, go to Inspector Augello and ask him if we have any friends in the Cosenza Police Department.”
Catarella returned, opened his mouth, and said:
“Vattiato, Chief. ’At’s his name.”
It really was his name. For the third time in a row, Catarella had been on the mark. Was the end of world nigh?
“Call Cosenza Police, ask for Vattiato, and let me talk to him.”
Their Cosenza colleague was a man with a nasty disposition. He proved true to form this time as well.
“What is it, Montalbano?”
“I may have found one of your fugitives, a certain Ernesto Errera.”
“Really? Don’t tell me you’ve arrested him!”
Why was he so surprised? Montalbano smelled a rat and decided to play defensively.
“Are you kidding? At best, I may have found his corpse.”
“Go on! Errera died almost a year ago and was buried in the cemetery here. His wife wanted it that way.”
