“About thirty.”
“Take them and put them under a faucet. Let the water run over them for about two hours.”
“But that’ll ruin them, Chief!”
“That’s the idea. When they’re nice and soaked, put them with the already useless ones. We don’t want to miss this excellent opportunity.”
“But-”
“Wait, I haven’t finished. Then grab a chair, climb up on top of the filing cabinet, and pour about twenty pitchersful of water over it. But without opening any drawers.”
“So it’ll look like the water came from the roof?”
“Exactly.”
“Chief, the records cabinet is made of steel. It’s watertight.”
Montalbano seemed disappointed.
“Oh, well. Forget about the filing cabinet.”
Fazio looked bewildered.
“But why?”
“Look, before they can figure out which documents were destroyed and redraft them, a good month, at the very least, will go by. Don’t you think that’s an incredible stroke of luck? A month without having to sign a bunch of papers that are as useless as they are overdue?”
“If you say so…,” said Fazio, leaving.
“Cat, call up Dr. Lattes for me.”
He would tell the cabinet chief that they were forced to use boats to make their way around the station and that all their documents had become illegible. And he would also confess to a fear he had. Might this deluge not be the sign of an imminent Great Flood? For a bureaucrat and religious fanatic such as Lattes, such words might trigger a heart attack.
“Scuse me, Chief, but izzit possible fer summon a have a lass name of ‘Garruso’?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“But there’s a liutinnint atta Harbor’s Office onna phone who says ’ass ’is name, Garruso. Mebbe ’e’s from up north.” [4]
“Why do you say that?”
“Cuz ’ss possible the Northers don’ know iss a bad word down ’ere, Chief.”
“No need to worry, Cat. The lieutenant’s name is ‘Garrufo,’ with an
“Jeez, whatta rilief!”
“Why do you care so much?”
“Well, I’s a li’l imbarissed to call a liutinnint a ‘garruso.’”
“Put ’im on.”
“Inspector Montalbano? This is Garrufo.”
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“We’ve got a problem. The dead man.”
People often say that death is a liberation. For those who die, naturally. Because for those who go on living it’s almost always a colossal pain in the ass.
“Explain.”
“Dr. Raccuglia is on the scene here, and he very strongly advised that we ask you to come and have a look.”
Raccuglia was the harbor physician, a serious, much-admired person. On top of that, the inspector liked him. And so Montalbano really had no choice but to go and have a look, as the lieutenant put it.
“All right, I’m on my way.”
As soon as he stepped outside he noticed that the sky was perfectly clear again. Only the gleaming constellation of puddles in the street bore witness to what had happened just a few hours before. The sun was beginning to set, but was strong enough to make it hot outside. Sicily’s getting to be like a tropical island, the inspector thought, with rain and sunshine continually alternating in a single day. Except that, according to what one saw in ’Murcan films, on tropical islands you could eat, drink, and not give a fuck about anything, whereas here you only ate what the doctor allowed you to eat, drank only what your liver allowed you to drink, and every minute of life was a ballbuster. That made quite a difference.
The so-called boat was a rather large and elegant yacht, and it was docked at the central quay. It was flying, go figure, a Panamanian flag. Waiting for him at the foot of the gangway was a naval lieutenant, who must have been Garrufo, and Dr. Raccuglia.
A short distance away, a sailor from the Harbor Office stood guard over a dinghy lying on the quay.
There was no sign of anybody on the yacht’s decks. The owner and crew must have been below.
“What’s the problem, Doctor?”
“Sorry to make you come all the way here, but I wanted you to see the body before the ambulance comes and takes it away to Montelusa for the autopsy.”
“Why?”
“Because the corpse shows certain-”
“I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t make myself clear. Why do you think the matter falls within my jurisdiction? Wasn’t the body found in international-”
“The dinghy with the corpse in it,” Lieutenant Garrufo interrupted him, “was intercepted right outside the mouth of the harbor, not in international waters.”
“Oh,” said Montalbano.
He’d tried to unload the case onto someone else and it hadn’t worked. But perhaps all was not lost, and he could still push the bitter cup away from his lips. (Damn cliches!)
“But the boat may have been brought here from far away by the currents, which have been very strong with all the bad weather…”
Garrufo smiled at this second, pathetic attempt.
“Inspector, I realize it’s a headache for you, but there’s no doubt whatsoever that the boat had just drifted out of
The lieutenant placed special emphasis on the word
“All right, let’s have a look,” he said. “Where is he?”
“Follow me,” said the lieutenant. “I’ll lead the way.”
On the deck, not a soul. They went below to the mess room. On the table in the middle of the space lay the body, covered by an oilcloth.
Montalbano had imagined the corpse differently. Lying before him was a well-built male specimen of about forty, completely naked. Aside from the face, there were no wounds or scars on the front of the body. The face, on the other hand, had been reduced to a pulp of flesh and bone that didn’t look like anything.
“Did you take off his clothes or was he…?”
“They told me that’s how they found him in the dinghy. Naked,” said Garrufo.
“And on the back, are there any-?”
“No wounds on the back, either.”
A sickly-sweet smell festered in the room. The corpse wasn’t fresh. As the inspector was about to ask another question, a woman appeared through a door, dressed in greasy overalls and wiping her hands with an equally
