“Good luck.”
So Gege had been foiled. What he had so carefully neglected to mention to Montalbano, the inspector had managed to find out anyway. And from what Fatma had just told him, he drew a logical conclusion.
~
When he arrived at headquarters at the crack of dawn, the officer on guard gave him a look of concern.
“Anything wrong, chief ?”
“Nothing at all,” he reassured him. “I just woke up early.”
He had bought the two Sicilian newspapers and sat down to read them. With a great wealth of detail, the first announced that the funeral services for Luparello would be held the following day. The solemn ceremony would take place at the cathedral, officiated by the bishop himself. Special security measures would be taken, due to the anticipated arrival of numerous important personages come to express their condolences and pay their last respects. At latest count they would include two government ministers, four undersecretaries, eighteen members of parliament between senators and deputies, and a throng of regional deputies. And so city police, carabinieri, coast guard agents, and traffic cops would all be called into action, to say nothing of personal bodyguards and other even more personal escorts, of which the newspaper mentioned nothing, made up of people who certainly had some connection with law and order, but from the other side of the barricade atop which stood the law. The second newspaper more or less repeated the same things, while adding that the casket had been set up in the atrium of the Luparello mansion and that an endless line of people were waiting to express their thanks for everything the deceased had dutifully and impartially done—when still alive, of course.
Meanwhile Sergeant Fazio had arrived, and Montalbano spoke to him at great length about a number of investigations currently under way. No phone calls came in from Montelusa. Soon it was noon, and the inspector opened a file containing the deposition of the two garbage collectors concerning their discovery of the corpse. He copied down their addresses, said goodbye to the sergeant and the other policemen, and told them they’d hear back from him in the afternoon.
If Gege’s men had talked to the whores about the necklace, they must certainly have said something to the garbage collectors as well.
~
Number 28 Gravet Terrace was a three-story building, with intercom at the front door. A mature woman’s voice answered.
“I’m a friend of Pino’s.”
“My son’s not here.”
“Didn’t he get off work?”
“He got off, but he went somewhere else.”
“Could you let me in, signora? I only want to leave him an envelope. What floor is it?”
“Top floor.”
A dignified poverty: two rooms, eat-in kitchen, bathroom. One could calculate the square footage the minute one entered. Pino’s mother, fiftyish and modestly attired, showed him in.
“Pino’s room’s this way.”
A small room full of books and magazines, a little table covered with paper by the window.
“Where did Pino go?”
“To Raccadali. He’s auditioning for a part in a play by Martoglio, the one about St. John getting his head cut off. Pino really likes the theater, you know.”
Montalbano approached the little table. Apparently Pino was writing a play; on a sheet of paper he had lined up a column of dialogue. But when he read one of the names, the inspector felt a kind of shock run through him.
“Signora, could I please have a glass of water?”
As soon as the woman left, he folded up the page and put it in his pocket.
“The envelope?” Pino’s mother reminded him when she returned, handing him his water.
Montalbano then executed a perfect pantomime, one that Pino, had he been present, would have admired: he searched first in the pockets of his trousers, then more hastily in his jacket, whereupon he gave a look of surprise and finally slapped his forehead noisily.
“What an idiot! I forgot the envelope at the office! Just give me five minutes, signora, I’ll be right back.”
Slipping into his car, he took out the page he’d just stolen, and what he read there darkened his mood.
He restarted the engine and left. 102 Via Lincoln. In his deposition Saro had even specified the apartment number. With a bit of simple math, the inspector figured that the surveyor/garbage collector must live on the sixth floor. The front door to the block was open, but the elevator was broken. He had to climb up six flights of stairs but had the satisfaction of having guessed right: a polished little plaque there read BAL
DASSARE MONTAPERTO. A tiny young woman answered the door with a baby in her arms and a worried look in her eye.
“Is Saro home?”
“He went to the drugstore to buy some medicine for the baby, but he’ll be right back.”
“Is he sick?”
Without answering, she held her arm out slightly to let him see. The little thing was sick, and how: sallow, hollow-cheeked, with big, already grown-up eyes staring angrily at him. Montalbano felt terrible. He couldn’t stand to see children suffer.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The doctors can’t explain it. Who are you, sir?”
