“One hundred percent certain,” said Gullotta.
“So I didn’t convince you?”
“Yes, you did, in part, and verbally. But we can’t very well go to our superiors saying that you became firmly convinced reading some silly novel like Camilleri’s...”
“. . . and the Gospel according to Matthew,” Gullotta concluded.
“How old are you?” Montalbano asked them.
“I’m forty-two,” said Musante.
“And I’m forty-four,” said Gullotta.
“You’re too young,” Montalbano observed.
“What do you mean?”
They were talking in chorus again.
“I mean you’ve become accustomed to today’s Mafia and no longer understand a thing about semiology.”
“Semiology? I’ve never even—” Gullotta began doubtfully.
“You see, Montalbano,” Musante interrupted him, “if you had actually identified the body, and we were certain that it belonged to a mafioso, then—”
“I get it,” said the inspector. “You want your lunch served to you on fine china.”
In perfect sync, the chorus threw their hands up in the air to express their regret.
Montalbano stood up; the chorus stood up.
“Can I ask you something?”
“If we can be of help...”
“As far as you know, was there any notable Mafia activity in the Vigata area about two months ago?”
Montalbano realized that these words had got the attention of the two-man chorus. They had sort of straightened themselves up from the relaxed posture of goodbye they had assumed.
“Why?” the chorus asked warily.
Damned if he was going to tell them now that the dismembered stranger’s death dated from about two months ago.
“Oh, I dunno, just wondering...”
“No, there hasn’t been anything,” said Musante.
“Nothing at all,” Gullotta confirmed.
Apparently, when they had to lie, they become soloists. It was clear they had no intention whatsoever of letting a borderline madman like him in on a secret investigation.
They said goodbye.
“Take care of yourself,” Gullotta suggested.
“Take a few days off,” Musante advised.
So something had definitely happened two months earlier. Something the Antimafia Commission was keeping hidden because the investigation was still ongoing.
When he got to the station he called Fazio and told him of his talk with Musante and Gullotta. He did not tell him, of course, that they thought he was crazy.
“Have you got any friends at Antimafia?”
“Sure, Chief. Morici.”
“Is he about fifty, with a mustache?” asked Montalbano, alarmed.
“No.”
“Could you talk to him?”
“What do you want me to say to him?”
“Ask him if he knows what happened two months ago, which Musante and Gullotta didn’t want to tell me.”
“I can try, Chief, but...”
“But what?”
“Morici and I may be friends, but he’s a man of few words. The guy’s like a statue. He doesn’t even sweat.”
“Well, try to make him sweat a little. Have you started working on Pecorini?”
“Yessir. I’ve started and I’ve even finished. The response was negative.”
“Meaning?”
“He doesn’t work at customs in Catania and never has. Nobody with that name has.”
