“Ah, I see. Maybe the person who gave me this information didn’t mean ‘customs’ as in ‘customs office,’ but was simply referring to that part of town. People do talk that way, sometimes.”
“So where am I supposed to find him now, this Pecorini?”
Wasn’t it possible that Mimi went through some agency to rent that house?
“Listen, how many real estate agencies are there in Vigata?”
Fazio did a quick mental tally.
“Five and a half, Chief.”
“What do you mean by ‘a half’?”
“There’s one that also sells cars.”
“See if Pecorini used one of them to rent a house.”
“To rent it himself or to rent it out to others?”
“To rent it out. He owns the house. And if you have any luck, have them tell you where he works, or at least where he lives. He must have an address and phone number with the agency.”
“Do you know the address of the house?”
“No.”
It was best not to give Fazio too much information. He was liable to discover that Mimi was renting it.
That afternoon, as he was coming back in to the station, he nearly collided with Mimi Augello, who was coming out in a hurry.
“Greetings, Mimi.”
“Greetings,” Mimi replied brusquely.
Montalbano turned around to look at him as he headed through the parking lot towards his car. Mimi seemed to be walking with his back slightly hunched.
At that very moment another car parked right beside Mimi’s, and from it emerged a woman of more than considerable beauty.
But Augello didn’t consider her at all. He didn’t even look at her, in fact, but only started up his car and left.
How he had changed! Once upon a time, Mimi would most certainly have tried to strike up a conversation and make friends with a woman like that.
9
Five minutes after the inspector had sat down at his desk, the door flew open and slammed against the wall with such force that it frightened Catarella himself, the author of what should have been a simple knock.
“Man, whatta crash! Even scared me m’self, Chief! Ahhh Chief! Whatta woman!”
“Where?”
“Right ’ere, Chief. Inna waitin’ room. Says ’er name’s Dolorosa. I say it oughter be Amorosa! Says she wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson. Jesus, whatta woman! Ya gotta have eyes t’see this one!”
She must be the woman the inspector saw get out of the car. A woman who puts even Catarella in a state like that, and Mimi doesn’t deign to give her a glance? Poor Mimi! He was in a really bad way!
“Send her in.”
She didn’t seem real. She was stunning, about thirty, dark and very tall, with long hair falling over her shoulders, big, deep eyes, a broad mouth, full lips siliconized not by a surgeon but by Mother Nature herself, perfect teeth for eating living flesh, and big hoop earrings, like a gypsy. Also gypsylike were her skirt and a blouse that swelled with two international-tournament-size bocce balls.
She didn’t seem real, but she was. Man, was she ever real.
Montalbano had the impression he’d already met her somewhere, but then realized that it was because she looked like a Mexican movie actress from the fifties he’d seen in a recent retrospective.
When she entered, the office filled with a faint scent of cinnamon.
But it wasn’t perfume that gave off that scent, the inspector thought. It was her skin. As she held out her hand to him, Montalbano noticed that she had extremely long fingers, disproportionately long, fascinating and dangerous.
They sat down, she in front, he behind the desk. The woman had a serious, worried air about her.
“What can I do for you, signora . . . ?”
“My name is Dolores Alfano.”
Montalbano sprang up towards the ceiling, and on his way back down, his left butt-cheek landed on the edge of the chair and he very nearly disappeared behind the desk. Dolores Alfano seemed not to notice.
So here, at last, personally in person, was the mysterious woman Fabio Giacchetti had talked to him about, the woman who, returning from an amorous tryst, nearly got run over by someone, perhaps on purpose.
“But Alfano is my husband Giovanni’s surname,” she continued. “My maiden name is Gutierrez.”
“Are you Spanish?”
“No, Colombian. But I’ve been living in Vigata for years, at Via Guttuso, 12.”
