“Listen, I need to go to Lido di Palmi. Should I take the autostrada?”
“The autostrada doesn’t go there—or, rather, you would have to follow a long and complicated route. You’re better off taking the state road, which’ll take you down the shoreline. It’s a lot nicer.”
The man explained how to get to the state road.
“One more thing, I’m sorry. Could you tell me where Via Gerace is?”
“You’ll pass it on the way to the state road.”
Via Gerace 15 consisted of a little apartment that must have originally been a rather large garage. It was the first of four identical apartments situated one beside the other, each with a little gate and a tiny yard. Beside the door was a garbage bin. The four flats were situated behind a rather tall building of some ten stories. No doubt they were used as crash pads or pieds-a-terre for people passing through. The inspector got out of the car, took from his pocket the keys he had taken from Fazio’s desk, opened the little gate, closed it behind him, opened the door, and closed this too. Macannuco had done a good job entering the place without forcing the locks. The apartment was quite dark, and Montalbano turned on the light.
There was a tiny entrance hall that hadn’t been photographed ; it had barely enough room for a coatrack and a small, low piece of furniture with one drawer and a small lamp on top, which illuminated the space. The kitchen looked the same as in the photograph, but now the cupboards were open, as was the refrigerator; and bottles, boxes, and packages had been scattered higgledy-piggledy across the table.
The search team had passed through the bedroom like a tornado. Alfano’s trousers were balled up on the floor. In the bathroom, they had dismantled the flushing system and exposed all the pipes, breaking the wall. The trapdoor directly above the sink was left open, and there was a folding stepladder beside the bidet. Montalbano moved it under the trapdoor and climbed it. The storage space was empty. Apparently the Forensics team had taken the suitcase and shoebox away with them.
He climbed down, went back into the entrance hall, and opened the drawer on the little stand. Stubs of electric and gas bills. Sticking out from under the stand, whose legs were barely an inch and a half tall, was the white corner of an envelope. Montalbano bent down to pick it up. It was an unopened bill from Enel, the electric company. He opened it. The payment deadline on it was August 30. It hadn’t been paid. He put it back under the stand and was about to turn out the light when he noticed something.
He went up to the little stand again, ran a finger over it, picked up the lamp, put it back down, opened the door, went out, closed it behind him, and raised the lid on the garbage bin. It was empty. There were only a few rust stains at the bottom. He put it back in place, opened the little gate, was about to close it again behind him, when a voice above him called out:
“Who are you, may I ask?”
It was a fiftyish woman who must have weighed a good three hundred pounds, with the shortest legs Montalbano had ever seen on a human being. A giant ball. She was looking out from a balcony on the first floor of the tall building, directly above the Alfanos’ apartment.
“Police. And who are you?”
“I’m the concierge.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
A half-open window on the second floor of her building then opened all the way, and a girl who looked about twenty came forward, resting her elbows on the railing, as if settling in to listen to the proceedings.
“Look, signora, must we speak at this distance?” the inspector asked.
“I got no problem with it.”
“Well, I do have a problem with it. Come down to the porter’s desk at once. I’ll meet you there.”
He closed the little gate, got into his car, circled round the building, stopped in front of the main entrance, got out, climbed four steps, went inside, and found himself face-toface with the concierge, who was getting out of the elevator sideways, pulling in her tits and paunch as best she could. Once out, the ball reinflated.
“Well?” she asked belligerently.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Alfanos.”
“Them again? Haven’t we heard enough about them? What’s your rank with the police?”
“I’m an inspector.”
“Ah, well, then, can’t you ask your colleague Macannuco about it instead of hassling me again? Do I have to keep repeating the same story to all the inspectors in the kingdom?”
“I think you mean the republic, signora.” Montalbano was starting to have fun.
“Never! I do not recognize this republic of shit! I am a monarchist and I’ll die a monarchist!”
Montalbano smiled cheerfully, then assumed a conspiratorial air, looked around carefully, bent down towards the ball, and said in a low voice:
“I’m a monarchist, too, signora, but I can’t say so openly, or else my career . . . You understand.”
“My name is Esterina Trippodo,” the ball said, holding out a tiny, doll-like hand to him. “Please come with me.”
They went down a flight of stairs and entered an apartment almost identical to the Alfanos’. On the right-hand wall in the entrance hall was a portrait of King Vittorio Emanuele III under a little lamp, which was lit. Next to this, lit up in turn, was a photo of his son, Umberto, who had been king for about a month, though Montalbano’s memory was a bit hazy. On the left-hand wall, on the other hand, was a photograph, unlit, of another Vittorio Emanuele, Umberto’s son, the one known in the scandal sheets for a stray shot he had once fired. The inspector looked at the photo in admiration.
“He certainly is a handsome man,” said Montalbano, bullshitter extraordinaire, without shame.
