Dolores picked it up, looked at it, and didn’t say a word, but from her half-open mouth came a sort of faint, long lament. Then, photograph still in hand, she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She remained that way for a moment, chest rising and falling with her anxious breath, waiting for the effect of what she’d seen to pass. Then she sighed deeply, opened her eyes, bent down brusquely, and grabbed the other two photos. She didn’t even need to study them, and tossed them back onto the table.
She must have turned pale, because her skin, which was naturally dark, had now lightened to a kind of gray.
“Somebody . . . somebody went in after I . . . It’s not possible . . . I left everything in order...”
Montalbano then took the fourth photograph out of the envelope, the enlargement of the shot of the trousers, and handed it to her.
“I know this is a difficult question, but can you tell me if these trousers belong to your husband?”
She took a long look at the photograph. Then she leaned back in her chair again, closed her eyes again. This time, however, a tear fell from her left eye. Only one, very round. It looked like a pearl. That single tear was more tragic, more desperate than a whole waterfall of tears. Dolores managed to say, in a soft voice:
“They’re the ones he was wearing when he left to board the ship.”
“Are you sure?”
Without answering, Dolores Alfano stood up, went to a chest in the living room, opened a drawer, returned to the table with a magnifying glass in hand, and picked up the photo again. Then she passed the glass and photo to the inspector. She had regained complete control of herself.
“See? He left the belt in the trouser loops. If you look closely, the buckle is a large plate of copper with his initials interwoven,
The inspector was unable to read the initials, but he could see that something had been carved into the copper plate.
“So it’s clear your husband waited for you to leave before going back into the flat. And he came with someone else.”
“But why?! To do what?!”
“Maybe he needed some time, was waiting until a certain hour and didn’t want to be seen out and about, since he had officially taken ship already. Does your husband drink wine?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t like beer.”
“Apparently whoever was with him did. Do you know if the beer and wine were already there in the apartment?”
“Yes. There was beer in the fridge, because I like to drink it.”
“As you can see, the bathroom was left a mess. Does your husband care about cleanliness and hygiene?”
“Inspector, anyone who spends long periods of time on a ship follows strict rules of hygiene. And my husband is a maniac for cleanliness.”
“So it couldn’t have been him who left the bathroom in that condition.”
“Absolutely not. And he must not even have realized that the person with him hadn’t—”
“Why would he have changed his trousers?”
“That’s something I can’t understand. Maybe he’d got them dirty or torn them.”
“It doesn’t look like it in the photo.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Did he have a change of clothes with him?”
“Of course. In two big bags he took away with him that morning.”
“Weren’t there any clothes in the armoire?”
“No, he’d taken everything away with him.”
“So, once back in Via Gerace, your husband opened a bag, took out a pair of trousers, and put them on instead of the ones he’d been wearing.”
“Apparently.”
12
Until that moment, Dolores Alfano had managed to stay calm and control herself. Now she began to tremble slightly. She still had a gray cast.
“Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom,” she said, getting up.
She went out. She’d left the door open, and they could hear her vomiting.
“Fazio, have you got your cell phone with you?” asked the inspector, also getting up.
“Yessir.”
“Call Catarella and ask him for the number of the Gioia Tauro police, then call and ask for Inspector Macannuco. Then pass the phone to me.”
“But where are you going now?”
