“No, that’s not a theater scene, that’s . . .”
He fell silent, at a loss. It occurred to him that if those weren’t lines of dramatic dialogue, he would have to explain what they were, and it wouldn’t be easy.
“I’ll help you out,” said Montalbano. “This is a transcript of a phone call one of you made to Rizzo, the lawyer, right after you found Luparello’s body, before you came here to headquarters to report your discovery. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who made the phone call?”
“I did. But Saro was right beside me, listening.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Because Luparello was an important person, a big cheese. So we immediately thought we should inform Rizzo. Actually, no, the first person we thought of calling was Deputy Cusumano.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because Cusumano, with Luparello dead, was like somebody who, when an earthquake hits, loses not only his house but also the money he was keeping under the floorboards.”
“Give me a better explanation of why you called Rizzo.”
“Because we thought maybe something could still be done.”
“Like what?”
Pino didn’t answer, but only passed his tongue over his lips.
“I’ll help you out again. You said maybe something could still be done. Something like moving the car out of the Pasture and letting the body be found somewhere else? Were you thinking that’s what Rizzo might ask you to do?”
“Yes.”
“And you would have been willing to do it?”
“Of course! That’s why we called!”
“What did you expect to get out of it?”
“We were hoping maybe he could find us other jobs or help us win some competition for surveyors, or find us the right job, so we wouldn’t have to work as stinking garbage collectors anymore. You know as well as I do, Inspector, you can’t sail without a favorable wind.”
“Now explain the most important thing: why did you write down that conversation? Were you hoping to blackmail him with it?”
“How? With words? Words are just air.”
“So what was your reason?”
“Well, believe it or not, I wrote down that conversation because I wanted to study it. Something didn’t sound right to me—speaking as a man of the theater, that is.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Let’s pretend that what’s written down is supposed to be staged. I’m the Pino character, and I phone the Rizzo character early in the morning to tell him I’ve just found his boss dead. He’s the guy’s secretary, his devoted friend, his political crony. He’s more than a brother. But the Rizzo character, he keeps cool as a cucumber, doesn’t get upset, doesn’t ask where we found him, how he died, if he was shot, if he died in a car crash, nothing. He only asks why we’ve come to him, of all people, with the news. Does that sound right to you?”
“No. Go on.”
“He shows no surprise, in other words. In fact, he tries to put a distance between himself and the dead man, as if this was just some passing acquaintance of his. And he immediately tells us to do our duty, which is to call the police. Then he hangs up. No, Inspector, as drama it’s all wrong. The audience would just laugh. It doesn’t work.”
Montalbano dismissed Pino and kept the sheet of paper. When the garbage collector left, he reread it.
It did work, and how. It worked marvelously, if in this hypothetical drama—which in the end was not really so hypothetical—Rizzo, before receiving the phone call, already knew where and how Luparello had died and anxiously wanted the body to be discovered as quickly as possible.
~
Jacomuzzi gaped at Montalbano, astonished. The inspector stood before him, dressed to the nines: dark blue suit, white shirt, burgundy tie, sparkling black shoes.
“Jesus! Going to your wedding?”
“You done with Luparello’s car? What did you find?”
“Nothing of importance inside. But—”
“The suspension was broken.”
“How did you know?”
“My bird told me. Listen, Jacomuzzi.”
He pulled the necklace out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table. Jacomuzzi picked it up, looked at it carefully, and made a gesture of surprise.
“But this is real! It’s worth tens of millions of lire!
