Fazio obediently poured himself two fingers’ worth.
“Now I’m going to tell you a story,” Montalbano began, “but you’d better keep the whisky bottle within reach.”
By the time he’d finished his story, Fazio had drunk a quarter of a brand-new bottle. During the half hour in which Montalbano was talking, Fazio’s only comment, which he said five times, was:
“Holy shit!”
The color of his face, on the other hand, changed often: initially red, it turned yellow, then purple, and then a blend of all three colors.
“So, tomorrow morning, what I want you to do,” the inspector concluded, “is this: The minute Mimi gets to the office, you tell him that an idea came to you during the night, and then you hand him a copy of the article.”
“What do you think Inspector Augello will do?”
“He’ll race to Montelusa to talk to Tommaseo, claiming it’s proof, then he’ll do the same with the commissioner and even with Musante. He’ll waste the whole morning running from one office to another. You, then, will throw down your ace, and make things more difficult for him.”
“And then what?”
“Tomorrow evening, as soon as Dolores gives herself away, Macannuco will phone me at the station. I’ll call Mimi and tell him she’s been arrested. You should be there, too. I can’t imagine what his reaction will be.”
At six P.M. the following evening, Mimi Augello returned to the office dead tired and in a rage over all the time he’d wasted in Montelusa. But he also seemed worried about something else.
“Has Signora Alfano called you?” the inspector asked.
“Called me? Why would she do that? Has she called Fazio, by any chance?”
“No, she hasn’t.”
He was agitated. It looked like Dolores had left without saying anything. And was keeping her cell phone turned off. Apparently she urgently needed to go to Catania to talk to Arturo Pecorini.
“And how did it go in Montelusa?”
“Don’t get me started, Salvo! What a bunch of imbeciles ! All they do is shilly-shally, take their time, and find excuses. What better proof do you want than that newspaper article! But I’ll be there again tomorrow, talking to Tommaseo!”
He left, furious, and went into his office.
At seven that evening, Macannuco rang.
“Bingo! Montalbano, you are a genius! When, as you suggested, Signora Trippodo let Dolores have a glimpse of a bloody syringe, Dolores dug her own grave. And you want some good news? She gave up immediately. She realized the jig was up and confessed, blaming it all on her lover, the butcher. Who, incidentally, was arrested about fifteen minutes ago at his butcher shop in Catania . . . So there you go. Anyway, bye now, I’ll keep you informed.”
“Informed of what? No need to bother anymore, Macannu. I’ll learn the rest from the newspapers.”
The inspector took three, four, five deep breaths, to get his wind back.
“Fazio!”
“Your orders, Chief.”
A quick glance sufficed to communicate their thoughts. There was no need for words.
“Go tell Mimi I want to see him, and you come back, too.”
When the two returned, Montalbano was swaying back and forth in his chair, hands in his hair. He was putting on a performance of surprise, shock, and dismay.
“
“What is it, Salvo?” Mimi asked, frightened.
“I just got a call from Macannuco!
“Why, what happened?” Mimi nearly yelled.
“He’s just arrested Dolores Alfano in Gioia Tauro!”
“Dolores?! In Gioia Tauro?!” Mimi repeated, flabbergasted.
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“For the murder of her husband!”
“But that’s impossible!”
“No, it’s true. She confessed.”
Mimi closed his eyes and fell to the floor too fast for Fazio to catch him. And at that moment Montalbano realized that Mimi had suspected all along, but had never been able to admit, not even to himself, that Dolores was involved up to her neck in her husband’s murder.
The day after his arrival in Boccadasse, the inspector had just entered Livia’s apartment when the phone rang. It was Fazio.
