“Out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette.”
He felt a weariness weighing down on him like a ton of iron. It had come over him all at once, when a thought had flashed in his brain as he was studying the photo of the trousers. What a strange reaction!
Time was when he would have made an angry or sly remark. No longer. Weariness and discouragement were his only response.
As he looked out over the railing at the port—a steamboat mooring, seagulls flying low, fishing boats in drydock—a melancholy feeling welled up inside him, on top of his fatigue, bringing a lump into his throat.
“I’ve got Macannuco on the line,” said Fazio, reaching through the window and handing him the cell phone.
“Montalbano here. Did you get the warrant?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I wanted to ask you if the trousers that were on the bed were dirty or torn.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Did you get any fingerprints?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“My dear Salvo, somebody took great care to get rid of every last trace. A perfect job, professional. And you don’t seem surprised. Did you expect as much?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see now if I can surprise you with some other news. Inside the bathroom ceiling, right over the sink, there’s a trapdoor.”
“It’s not visible in the photo you sent.”
“That’s because the shot’s not taken from the right angle. Anyway, I climbed a little stepladder and opened it. There’s a small sort of attic there, and I found an empty suitcase and a shoebox.”
“Which am I supposed to be surprised by, the suitcase or the shoebox?”
“The shoebox. It was also empty, but I noticed, on the bottom, a trace of some white powder, which I had tested.”
“Cocaine.”
“That’s right. And that’s why I had to inform the public prosecutor.”
“I understand. Thanks, Macannuco. I’ll be in touch.”
He went back inside. Fazio was sitting in the armchair. Dolores still hadn’t returned from the bathroom.
“What did Macannuco say?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Dolores came into the room. She had washed and changed her clothes. But she hadn’t recovered her vivacity. She looked withered. In her movements, her way of walking, and her eyes. She sat down with a sigh.
“I’m sorry, but I feel very tired.”
“We’ll be leaving right away, signora,” said the inspector. “But first I must ask you at least one question, which could be helpful to the investigation. Very helpful. I know it’s painful for you to be asked at a time like this to remember the past, but I have no choice.”
“Go ahead.”
“How did you meet your husband?”
The question shocked Fazio, who looked at Montalbano with surprise. Signora Dolores winced before answering, as if from a shooting pain.
“He came to my father’s office.”
“In Bogota?”
“No, we were in Putumayo.”
Putumayo. The biggest drug production center in Colombia. Filippo Alfano had gone to the right place.
“The nurse had been absent for several days,” Dolores continued, “and my father asked me to fill in for her.”
“Your father was a doctor?”
“A dentist.”
“And what sort of dental work did Giovanni need?”
She smiled at the memory.
“He’d fallen from his motorbike. Papa had to give him a bridge.”
What more did he need to know? Who’s in Grandma’s bed? The big bad wolf. What’s thirty minus two? Twentyeight. He had known for at least the past half hour who the dead man in the
