covered by a mirror that reflected the bed. That section was divided into three shelves: the topmost and middle shelves contained, jumbled together, hats, Italian and foreign magazines whose common denominator was pornography, a vibrator, sheets and pillowcases. On the bottom shelf were three female wigs on their respective stands—one brown, one blond, one red. Maybe they were part of the engineer’s erotic games. The biggest surprise, however, came when he opened the right-hand door: two women’s dresses, very elegant, on coat hangers. There were also two pairs of jeans and some blouses. In a drawer, minuscule panties but no bras. The other was empty. As he leaned forward to better inspect this second drawer, Montalbano understood what it was that had so surprised him: not the sight of the feminine apparel but the scent that emanated from them, the very same he had smelled, only more vaguely, at the old factory, the moment he’d opened the leather handbag.
There was nothing else to see. Just to be thorough, he bent down to look under the furniture. A tie had been wrapped around one of the rear feet of the bed.
He picked it up, remembering that Luparello had been found with his shirt collar unbuttoned. He took the photographs out of his pocket and decided that the tie, for its color, would have gone quite well with the suit the engineer was wearing at the time of his death.
~
At headquarters he found Germana and Galluzzo in a state of agitation.
“Where’s the sergeant?”
“Fazio’s with the others at a filling station, the one on the way to Marinella. There was some shooting there.”
“I’ll go there at once. Did anything come for me?”
“Yes, a package from Jacomuzzi.”
He opened it. It was the necklace. He wrapped it back up.
“Germana, you come with me to this filling station. You’ll drop me off there and continue on to Montelusa in my car. I’ll tell you what road to take.”
He went into his office, phoned Rizzo, told him the necklace was on its way with one of his men, and added that he should hand over the check for ten million lire to the agent.
As they were heading toward the site of the shooting, the inspector explained to Germana that he must not turn the package over to Rizzo before he had the check in his pocket and that he was to take this check—he gave him the address—to Saro Montaperto, advising him to cash it as soon as the bank opened, at eight o’clock the following morning. He couldn’t say why, and this bothered him a great deal, but he sensed that the Luparello affair was quickly drawing to a conclusion.
“Should I come back and pick you up at the gas station?”
“No, stop at headquarters. I’ll return in a squad car.”
~
The police car and a private vehicle were blocking the entrances to the filling station. As soon as he stepped out of his car, with Germana taking the road for Montelusa, the inspector was overwhelmed by the strong odor of gasoline.
“Watch where you step!” Fazio shouted to him.
The gasoline had formed a kind of bog, the fumes of which made Montalbano feel nauseated and mildly faint. Stopped in front of the station was a car with a Palermo license plate, its windshield shattered.
“One person was injured, the guy at the wheel,”
said the sergeant. “He was taken away by ambulance.”
“Seriously injured?”
“No, just a scratch. But it scared him to death.”
“What happened, exactly?”
“If you want to speak to the station attendant yourself . . .”
The man answered Montalbano’s questions in a voice so high-pitched that it had the same effect on him as fingernails on glass. Things had happened more or less as follows: A car had stopped, the only person inside had asked him to fill it up, the attendant had stuck the nozzle into the car and left it there to do its work, setting it on automatic stop because meanwhile another car had pulled up and its driver had asked for thirty thousand in gas and a quick oil check.
But as the attendant was about to serve the second client, a car, from the road, had fired a burst from a submachine gun and sped off, disappearing in traffic.
The man at the wheel of the first car had set off immediately in pursuit, the nozzle had slipped out and continued to pump gasoline. The driver of the second vehicle was shouting like a madman; his shoulder had been grazed by a bullet. Once the initial moment of panic had passed and he realized there was no more danger, the attendant had assisted the injured man, while the pump continued to spread gasoline all over the ground.
“Did you get a good look at the face of the man in the first car, the one that drove off in pursuit?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you really sure?”
“As sure as there’s a God in heaven.”
Meanwhile the firemen summoned by Fazio arrived.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Montalbano said to the sergeant. “As soon as the firemen are done, pick up the attendant, who hasn’t convinced me one bit, and take him down to the station. Put some pressure on him: the guy knows perfectly well who the man they shot at was.”
“I think so, too.”
“How much do you want to bet it’s one of the Cuffaro gang? I think this month it’s their turn to get it.”
