know that road because it leads up to some houses, including one that I’ve been to a few times. I had to keep fairly close behind his car because the road intersects with quite a few others that lead to the different houses. If he’d turned off the main road, it would have been hard to keep following him. But in fact he stopped in front of the fourth house on the right, got out, opened the gate, and went in.”
“And what did you do?”
“I continued on.”
“You passed behind him?”
“Yes, but he turned around.”
“Damn!”
“Calm down. There’s no way he could have recognized me. I’ve only had my Micra for a week.”
“Yes, but you yourself are very—”
“Recognizable? Even with sunglasses and a great big hat a la Greta Garbo?”
“Let’s hope you’re right. Go on.”
“A little bit later I came back, but with the engine turned off. Mimi’s car was in the yard. He’d gone inside.”
“Did you wait for the woman to arrive?”
“Of course. Until half an hour ago. I never saw her arrive.”
“So what does it mean?”
“Look, Salvo, when I drove past the house the first time, I swear I saw the light on inside. There was already someone there waiting for him.”
“You mean the woman lives there?”
“Not necessarily. Mimi left his car in the yard. He didn’t put it in the little garage next to the house, maybe because the woman had already put her own car in it when she got there earlier.”
“But, Ingrid, the garage might have the woman’s car in it not because she got there shortly before Mimi, but because she lives there.”
“That’s also possible. At any rate, Mimi didn’t knock or ring a bell when he arrived. He opened the gate with a key he already had.”
“Why didn’t you wait a little longer?”
“Because too many people were starting to pass by.”
“Thanks,” said Montalbano.
“Thanks? That’s all?” asked Ingrid.
“Thanks, and that’s all,” said Montalbano.
Before leaving the house just before nine o’clock, the inspector phoned the Antimafia Commission’s Montelusa office.
“Hello, Musante? Montalbano here.”
“
“Could I drop by this morning? There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, it shouldn’t take long.”
“Could you come in about an hour? I’ve got a meeting afterwards that—”
“Thanks, see you in a bit.”
He got in his car, and when he was at the abandoned filling station, he did an extremely slow U-turn that unleashed the worst homicidal instincts in the drivers behind him.
“Asshole!”
“Faggot!”
“Blow you away, muthafucka!”
He turned onto the unpaved road, and after a short stretch passed by the fourth house. Windows shuttered, garage door down. The gate, however, was open because an old man was working in the garden, which was well tended. The inspector stopped, parked the car, got out, and started looking at the house.
“Looking for someone?” asked the old man.
“Yes. A Mr. Casanova, who’s supposed to live here.”
“Afraid not, sir. You’re mistaken. Nobody lives here.”
“But who owns the house?”
“Mr. Pecorini. But he only comes here in summertime.”
“Where can I find this Mr. Pecorini?”
“He’s in Catania. Works at the port, at customs.”
He got back in the car and headed for the station. If he got to Montelusa five minutes late, too bad. He parked in the station’s lot but remained in the car, pressed his hand on the horn and did not let up until Catarella appeared in the doorway.
