Fazio arrived at once.
“Before you say anything, let me talk first. I’ve been to see Pasquano.”
He told him what the doctor said.
“So, in conclusion,” said Fazio, “the victim was a forty-year-old man, five feet ten inches tall, and trim. Not much to get excited about. I’ll start looking into the disappearance reports.”
“Meanwhile tell me what you wanted to tell me.”
“Chief, the woman you wanted information on is called Dolores Alfano. She’s thirty-one, married without children, and lives at 12 Via Guttoso. She’s foreign, maybe Spanish. Alfano met her abroad when she was twenty, fell head over heels for her, and married her. And she is, in fact, a very beautiful woman.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No, but every single man I talked to raved about her looks.”
“Does she have a car?”
“Yes. A Fiat Punto.”
“What does she do?”
“Nothing. Housewife.”
“What about the husband?”
“Sea captain. At the moment he’s sailing as first mate on a container ship. He’s been out of the country for the past few months. They say if the husband comes home four times a year it’s already a lot.”
“So, in theory, the poor girl is forced to go hungry. Did you hear anything to the contrary? Did anyone suggest that she fools around when the husband’s away?”
“I got some conflicting reports. For one or two people, Signora Dolores is actually a slut who’s too shrewd to get caught in the act; for others she’s a woman who is so beautiful that if she does have a lover, she’s right to have one, since her husband is always away; for the majority, however, she’s a virtuous woman.”
“Sounds like you held a referendum!”
“But, Chief, men just love to talk about a woman like that!”
“In essence, though, it’s all smoke and no fire. All gossip. You know what I say? Let’s forget about her. Maybe the attempt to run her over really was nothing more than a moronic prank.”
“On the other hand . . . ,” said Fazio.
“On the other hand?”
“If you’ll allow me, I’d like to try to find out more about this woman.”
“Why?”
“At the moment I can’t really explain it, Chief. But there’s something somebody said to me that made me wonder. It was sort of a flash, an idea that immediately faded. I don’t remember if it was a single word or a phrase, or if it was the way the word or phrase was said to me. Or maybe it was just a silent stare that seemed important to me at that moment.”
“You don’t remember at all who the person was?”
“I’m having trouble bringing it into focus, Chief. I talked to about ten people in all, women as well as men. I can’t very well go back and ask them the same questions.”
“Do what you think best.”
Phoning Vanni Arqua, the chief of the Forensic Laboratory, was always a pain. The inspector didn’t like the man one bit, and the feeling was amply returned in kind.
But he had no choice. Because if he didn’t call him himself, Arqua would never relay any information to him. Before picking up the receiver, Montalbano took a deep breath, as if about to plunge underwater, all the while repeating to himself:
He dialed the number.
“Arqua? Montalbano here.”
“What do you want? Look, I haven’t got any time to waste.”
To avoid blowing up right off the bat, he clenched his teeth so hard that the words came out very strangely.
“I hrd tht ths mrning—”
“Why are you talking that way?”
“What way? I’m talking the way I always talk. I heard that this morning Dr. Pasquano sent you a bridge he’d found—”
“Yes, he did. So what? Goodbye.”
“No, I’m sorry . . . but, if possible, I would like . . . a little more quickly . . . I realize how swamped with work you people are . . . but you must realize, that . . . for me...”
In the effort to try to be nice, to avoid hurling abuse at Arqua, he became incapable of constructing a complete sentence. He felt furious at himself.
“The bridge is no longer here with us.”
