“Explain.”
“First he had me take him to the cemetery. He got out, went in, stayed there about ten minutes, and then came back to the car. Then he had me take him to the north entrance to the port, got out, disappeared for about ten minutes, and came back. After that, he had me drive him to the train station, where he got out, was gone for about ten minutes, then got back in the car. Finally, he told me to take him to the Pesce d’Oro restaurant, where he paid me and left.”
“Did you notice whether he went into the restaurant?”
“Nah, when I left he was just standing there, looking around.”
“What time was it?”
“A little after twelve-thirty.”
“All right. I want you to retrace the exact route you took that morning, then drop me off at the Pesce d’Oro. Actually, no. Let’s go back to the taxi stand. I’ll take my car and follow you.”
He paid the man his fare, went and parked his own car, then returned to the spot where the cabbie had dropped off Lannec. Montalbano was convinced that all the twists and turns the Frenchman had made the driver go through had a specific purpose, that of making it impossible for anyone to know where he was actually going. A waiter stood in the doorway to the restaurant, inviting him to come in. And the inspector yielded to the temptation.
He went inside. The place was completely empty. Maybe it was too early. He sat down at the first table he came to and opened the menu.
The dishes looked promising. But writing is one thing, and cooking another.
The waiter approached the table.
“Have you decided?” he asked.
“Yes. But first I must ask you for some information.”
He pulled the passport out of his pocket and handed it to the man. The waiter took a long look at the photo. Then he asked:
“What would you like to know?”
“If this man came and ate here a few days ago.”
“No, he didn’t come inside. But I did see him.”
“Tell me everything.”
“Why, may I ask?”
The man’s tone had changed and the smile had disappeared from his face.
“The name’s Montalbano. I’m an inspector with the-”
“Good God, yes! So you are! Now I recognize you!”
“So, please tell me…”
“I was standing outside the door, like I was doing just now, when a cab pulled up and this man got out. The cab drove off and the passenger just stood there in front of the curb without moving. He looked like he didn’t know where to go. So I went up to him and asked him if he needed any help. And you know what he said?”
“No.”
“That’s exactly right. He said no. A minute later, he started walking, turned right, and after that I didn’t see him anymore. And that’s the story. Now, what can I get you to eat?”
Damn the moment he’d decided to eat at that stinking restaurant! Stinking and expensive to boot! The cook must have been a terminal drug addict or a criminal sadist bent on exterminating humanity. The food was overcooked, burnt, flavorless, or oversalted. The guy didn’t get a single thing right, not even by accident.
An unlucky couple who had entered after him started showing signs of distress right after the first course. The woman raced to the restroom, perhaps to rinse out her mouth, while the man knocked back a whole bottle of wine to wash away the bad taste in his.
Back outside, he started walking, turned right as Lannec had done, then continued straight. A short while later, after crossing a side street, he saw the north entrance of the port come into view.
He headed in that direction. The moment he was past the gate, there were the
Lannec and the sea.
The inspector became convinced that the Frenchman had come to the port to meet someone, not knowing he would meet his death instead. He had made a journey to go to the last appointment of his life.
Then, all at once, the bad lunch bubbled up in Montalbano’s throat in a burst of burning, acidic reflux. There was only one thing to do. He walked over to a stack of wooden crates, took cover behind them, stuck two fingers into his throat, and vomited.
He walked out of the port, retracing the steps he had taken, got in his car, and headed to Enzo’s trattoria. He went into the bathroom, rinsed out his mouth, then sat down at a table.
“What would you like, Inspector?” Enzo asked.
“The best thing you’ve got.”
“Ahh Chief! Ahh Chief Chief! Dacter Latte rang four times lookin f’ yiz!”
That colossal pain in the ass of the ruined documents.
“I’m not back yet. Is Augello here?”
“Nah, ’e ain’t onna premmisses.”
“How about Fazio?”
“Yessir, ’e’s ’ere.”
“Send him to me.”
The first thing the inspector noticed about Fazio was that he had a black eye.
“What happened to you?”
“A fist.”
“Whose?”
“Our friend Zizi’s, late last night.”
“Sit down and tell me what happened.”
“Chief, some time after nine o’clock last night I staked out a spot near Giacomino’s tavern and waited for the crew of the
“Who was it?”
“The whole crew. Alvarez, Ricca, Digiulio, and Zizi. I went in about half an hour later. They were talking and laughing, eating and drinking. Zizi was drinking more than the others. At a certain point he got up and started walking over to my table. Digiulio tried to stop him, but the Arab shoved him out of the way. I was just looking at him. So he planted himself in front of me with his legs spread and said: ‘What the fuck you lookin’ for, fucking cop?’ He spoke pretty good Italian. He’s one of those types who’s always looking for trouble.”
“And what did you do?”
“What could I do, Chief? I couldn’t just pretend nothing was happening. Everyone in the tavern had heard him. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could just let slide. I barely had time to stand up when the guy punched me so hard in the face I flew back against the wall. Then it was Ricca who tried to stop him, but he got punched himself. That Zizi’s a bull. But I was able to take advantage of the momentary distraction when he was busy with his friend, and I dealt him a swift kick in the balls. He fell to the floor, writhing in pain, and I slapped the handcuffs on him.”
“And what did you do with him?”
“I brought him here to the station and locked him up.”
“And where’s he now?”
