“Really? Let me see it.”
“No problem, Inspector. You must understand, before bandying my clients’ names about, I wanted to be quite sure that you had the same object they were looking for.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, extracted a sheet of paper, and handed it to Montalbano. The inspector read it carefully.
“Who’s this Giacomo Cardamone that signed the letter?”
“He’s the son of Dr. Cardamone, our new provincial secretary.”
Montalbano decided it was time to repeat the performance.
“But it’s so strange!” he mumbled again almost inaudibly, assuming an air of deep contemplation.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Montalbano did not answer at once, letting the other stew a moment in his own juices.
“I was just thinking that in this whole affair, fate, as you say, is playing too many tricks on us.”
“In what sense, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“In the sense that the son of the new party secretary happens to be in the same place at the same time as the old secretary at the moment of his death. Curious, don’t you think?”
“Now that you bring it to my attention, yes. But I am certain there is not the slightest connection between the two matters, absolutely certain.”
“So am I,” said Montalbano, adding, “I don’t understand this signature next to Giacomo Cardamone’s.”
“That’s his wife’s signature. She’s Swedish. A rather reckless woman, frankly, who seems unable to adapt to our ways.”
“How much is the piece worth, in your opinion?”
“I’m no expert, but the owners said about eighty million lire.”
“Then here’s what we’ll do: Later this morning I’m going to call my colleague Jacomuzzi—he’s got the necklace at the moment—and have it sent back to me. Tomorrow morning I’ll send it over to your office with one of my men.”
“I don’t know how to thank you—”
Montalbano cut him off.
“And you will give my man a proper receipt.”
“But of course!”
“As well as a check for ten million lire—I’ve taken the liberty of rounding off the value of the necklace—
which would be the usual percentage due anyone who finds valuables or large sums of money.”
Rizzo absorbed the blow almost gracefully.
“That seems quite fair. To whom should I make it out?”
“To Baldassare Montaperto, one of the two street cleaners who found Luparello’s body.”
The lawyer carefully wrote down the name.
9
Rizzo had no sooner finished closing the door than Montalbano already began dialing Nicolo Zito’s home phone number. What the lawyer had just told him had set in motion a mechanism inside his brain that outwardly manifested itself in a frantic need to act. Zito’s wife answered.
“My husband just walked out. He’s on his way to Palermo.”
Then, suddenly suspicious:
“But didn’t he stay with you last night?”
“He certainly did, signora, but something of importance occurred to me just this morning.”
“Wait, maybe I can still get him. I’ll try calling him on the intercom.”
A few minutes later he heard his friend’s panting, then his voice:
“What do you want? Wasn’t last night enough for you?”
“I need some information.”
“If you can make it brief.”
“I want to know everything—but really everything, even the most bizarre rumors—about Giacomo Cardamone and his wife, who seems to be Swedish.”
“No ‘seems’ about it. She’s a statuesque six-footer with tits and legs like you wouldn’t believe. But if you really want to know everything, that would take time, which I haven’t got right now. Listen, let’s do this: I’m going to leave now. On the way I’ll give it some thought, and as soon as I arrive I’ll send you a fax.”
“Send a fax to police headquarters? Here we still use tom-toms and smoke signals!”
“I meant I’ll send a fax for you to my Montelusa office. You can even pass by later this morning, or around midday.”
~
He had to do something, so he went out of his office and into the sergeants’ room.
