Seeing the inspector in his car, he came running up.
“Whattizzit, Chief? Whass wrong?”
“Fazio around?”
“Yessir.”
“Call’im.”
Fazio arrived like a bat out of hell.
“Fazio, get moving, fast. I want to know everything there is to know about a certain Pecorini who works at customs in the port of Catania.”
“Should I proceed with caution, Chief?”
“Yeah, it’s probably better if you do.”
The local headquarters of the national Antimafia Commission consisted of four offices on the fifth floor of the Montelusa Central Police building. As the elevator was, as usual, out of order, Montalbano started climbing the stairs. Looking up when he’d reached the third floor, he saw Dr. Lattes descending. To avoid the usual hassle of answering his idiotic questions about the family, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his face in it, heaving his shoulders as if he were weeping uncontrollably. Dr. Lattes recoiled against the wall and let him pass, not daring to say a word.
“Want some coffee?” asked Musante.
“No, thanks,” said Montalbano.
He didn’t trust what passed for coffee in law enforcement offices.
“So, tell me everything.”
“Well, Musante, I believe I have a homicide on my hands that looks like the work of the Mafia.”
“Stop right there. Answer me a question. In what form are you going to say what you are about to say to me?”
“In trochaic pentameter.”
“C’mon, Montalbano, be serious.”
“Sorry, but I didn’t understand your question.”
“I meant, are you telling me this officially or unofficially?”
“What difference does it make?”
“If it’s official, then I have to write up a transcript; if it’s unofficial, I have to have a witness present.”
“I see.”
Apparently they didn’t take any chances at the Antimafia Commission. Given the ties between the Mafia and the upper echelons of business, industry, and government, it was best to cover one’s ass and proceed with caution.
“Since you’re a friend, I’ll give you a choice of witnesses. Gullotta or Campana?”
“Gullotta.”
The inspector knew him well and liked him.
Musante went out and returned a few minutes later with Gullotta, who smiled as he shook Montalbano’s hand. It was clear he was happy to see him.
“You can go on now,” said Musante.
“I’m referring to the unknown man we found dismembered in a garbage bag. Have you heard about it?”
“Yes,” said Musante and Gulotta in chorus.
“Do you know how he was killed?”
“No,” said the chorus.
“With a bullet to the base of the skull.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the chorus.
At that moment there was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” said the chorus in chorus.
A mustachioed man of about fifty came in, looked at Montalbano, then looked at Musante and signaled to him that he wanted to tell him something. Musante stood up, the man whispered something in his ear and then left. Musante then gestured to Gullotta, who got up and went over to him. Musante whispered into Gullotta’s ear, and they both turned and looked at Montalbano. Then they looked at each other and sat back down.
“If that was a mime scene, I didn’t get it,” said Montalbano.
“Go on,” Musante said in a serious tone.
“The fact of the shot to the base of the skull would already be one indication,” the inspector resumed. “But there’s more. Are you familiar with the Gospel according to St. Matthew?”
“What?!” said Gullotta, thrown for a loop.
Musante, for his part, bent down towards Montalbano, lay a hand on his knee, and asked him lovingly:
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
