a squad car.
“Tell me how he died.”
“Chief, I don’t know anything yet. It was Catarella who rang me. But the way he pronounced the name, Chaziki or something like that, it took me a good ten minutes to figure out that he was talking about the Arab with the
“Do you know at least where we need to go?”
“Of course. To the pier, to the
On the wharf, right in front of the yacht’s gangway, stood Lieutenant Garrufo, a sailor from the Harbor Office, and Captain Sperli. Montalbano and Fazio shook hands with the group.
“What happened?” Montalbano asked Garrufo.
“Perhaps it’s better to let the captain speak,” said Garrufo.
“I was in my cabin,” Sperli began, “and about to get into bed, when I thought I heard a scream.”
“What time was it?”
“Quarter past two; I looked instinctively at my watch.”
“Where did it come from?”
“That’s just it. It seemed to me to come from the crew’s quarters. Which is on this side, the one closest to the pier.”
“You heard a scream and nothing else? No other sound?”
“That was all. And the scream was sort of cut off, as though suddenly interrupted.”
“And what did you do?”
“I left the cabin and went to the crew’s quarters. Alvarez, Ricca, and Digiulio were sleeping soundly, but Shaikiri’s bunk was empty.”
“And so?”
“And so I said to myself that maybe the cry had come from the wharf. So I went out on deck with a flashlight. But from what I could see by the light of the lampposts, the quay was deserted. I leaned out over the railing-the one right there, above the gangway-and as I made that movement the flashlight pointed downwards. And that was when I saw him, completely by chance.”
“Show me.”
“You can see him from here, even without going aboard.”
He went to the edge of the wharf and lit up the very narrow space between the quay and the side of the yacht. Montalbano and Fazio bent down to look.
There was a human body wedged vertically, head down, under water up to the bottom of the rib cage. Only the hips and absurdly spread legs remained out of the water.
A question immediately came to the inspector’s mind.
“But with the body in that position, how could you tell it was Shaikiri?” he asked the captain.
Sperli didn’t hesitate for a second.
“From the color of his jeans. He wore them often.”
The jeans were so yellow they appeared to glow in the dark.
“Have you informed Signora Giovannini?”
This time the captain was unable to hide an ever so brief moment of hesitation.
“N… no.”
“Isn’t she on board?”
“Yes, but… she’s asleep. I’d rather not bother her. Anyway, what use would she be?”
“And have you told the crew?”
“Well, when those guys get drunk, it takes a while to wear off. And last night they must have had a lot to drink. It would only create confusion.”
“Maybe you’re right. I doubt they could tell us much. And what do
“What else? Poor Ahmed, drunk as he certainly must have been, probably took a wrong step and fell into the water, getting stuck with his head down. He must have drowned.”
Montalbano made no comment.
“What should we do?” the lieutenant asked the inspector.
“If things went the way the captain says, then the case doesn’t fall into my jurisdiction, but yours, Lieutenant. It looks like an accident that occurred within the precincts of the port. Don’t you think?”
“I guess so,” the lieutenant said reluctantly.
This time it would be his turn to stay up all night. As for Signora Giovannini, she could forget about leaving any time soon.
As he was driving the inspector back to Marinella, Fazio asked him:
“Do you really think it was just an accident?”
Montalbano answered with another question.
“Can you explain to me why the captain felt the need to grab a flashlight to go out and see if there was anyone on the wharf? The wharf is lit up, isn’t it?”
“Of course. So why’d he grab it?”
“So he could feed us that bullshit about how he happened to find the corpse, that’s why. No flashlight, no way he notices the body.”
“So you don’t think it was an accident.”
“I’m convinced it wasn’t.”
Fazio was confused.
“Then why didn’t you-”
“Because it’s better this way, I tell you. We’ll let him believe we’ve swallowed his story. The body’s going to end up in Pasquano’s hands anyway. And tomorrow I’ll give the doctor a ring.”
When he got undressed again, it was almost five o’clock in the morning. But he no longer felt the least bit sleepy.
He prepared a pot of coffee, drank a mug of it, and sat down at the kitchen table with a sheet of paper and ballpoint pen.
He started wondering how the killers had managed to discover that the poor Arab was a sort of fifth column in their midst. Maybe the guy had done something stupid. Like getting himself arrested twice.
As he was thinking, his hand started tracing lines randomly on the paper.
When he looked down, he realized he’d tried to sketch a portrait of Laura.
But since he didn’t know how to draw, the portrait looked as if it had been done by an abysmal imitator of Picasso in a moment of total drunkenness.
At six o’clock, despite all the coffee he’d drunk, an irresistible need to sleep came over him. He went and lay down, slept three hours, and woke up to the sound of clatter in the kitchen.
“Adelina?”
“Ah, you’s aweck? I bring you coffee now.”
As he was drinking it, he asked her:
