“Right. But then he might as well have him killed here and be done with it!”
Fazio remained a little doubtful.
“And there’s more,” Montalbano continued. “You want to hear it?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s imagine that Balduccio sends a real professional to Gioia Tauro, someone who knows his trade and never makes mistakes.”
“And in fact he left no fingerprints whatsoever,” said Fazio.
“Yeah. But he left a little cocaine inside a shoebox in the crawl space. Does that seem to you like an insignificant fuckup? For us, the cocaine means a direct connection to Balduccio. So, in short, this so-called professional fails to do the very thing he’s supposed to do, remove the very notion that any cocaine has ever passed through the place. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“So it does . . .”
“And shall I throw down my ace while we’re at it?”
“Might as well . . .” said Fazio, resigned.
“Why leave a pair of trousers in plain view on the bed? It’s clear they belong to Giovanni Alfano—you can even see the initials on the belt buckle. Not only that, but there was no reason for Alfano to change his trousers. All they had to do was put those trousers back in their place in the armoire, and we never would have known that Alfano went back to Via Gerace. So what, then, is the purpose of those trousers? Is it to let us know that Alfano, by force or by his own choosing, returned to his apartment? And who benefits from such information? If it was a mistake, it was a huge one, because Signora Dolores noticed immediately that the apartment was not the way she left it. There was even shit in the toilet bowl! Can you tell me what need there was for the professional to return to the apartment with Giovanni? Wouldn’t it have been better to get rid of him while he was on his way to board the ship? The only possible explanation is that he went back to the apartment to eliminate any trace of a possible connection with Balduccio. But that’s exactly what he didn’t do! So why, then, go back there with Alfano? There’s something here that doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Enough. I surrender,” said Fazio, who got up and left.
“Chief ? ’At’d be a Mr. Lambrusco.”
“What’s he want?”
“ ’E says you summonsed ’im fer tomorrow mornin’.”
“So, let him come tomorrow morning.”
“ ’E don’t got the possibility, Chief. Says how tomorrow mornin’ ’e can’t ’cuz tomorrow mornin’ he gotta go to Milan emergently tomorrow mornin’.”
“All right then, put him on.”
“I can’t put ’im on in so much as ’at this Lambrusco’s ’ere poissonally in poisson.”
“Then send him in.”
He was a fortyish man with beard, mustache, and eyeglasses, tiny in stature and all polished and shiny, from his hair to his shoes.
“Hello, I’m Carlo Dambrusco. I’m sorry, I know you summoned me for tomorrow morning, but since tomorrow I have to—”
“What was this in reference to?”
“Well, I . . . I believe I gathered that . . . well, in short, I’m a friend of Giovanni Alfano.”
“Ah, yes. Please sit down.”
“Has something happened to Giovanni?”
“He was supposed to board a ship and never showed up.”
“He didn’t show up?”
“No. His wife has filed a report.”
Dambrusco seemed genuinely stunned by the news.
“He didn’t board the ship?” he asked again.
“No.”
“So where did he go?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“The last time I saw him...”
“When was that?”
“Let me think . . . The first of September.”
“Go on.”
“He said goodbye to me because he was going to set sail two or three days later . . . He made no indication to me that he didn’t intend to . . . He takes his work very seriously.”
“Does he confide in you much?”
“Good heavens . . . we were very good friends in childhood, before he left for Colombia . . . Then we got back in touch, later on, but it was different. We were friends, but we weren’t so close that...”
