Montalbano now felt at peace with man and God, it was also true that he still did not feel very pacified in his own regard.
When the meal was over, the signora cleared the table and knowingly put a bottle of Chivas on the table for the inspector and a bottle of bitters for her husband.
“I’ll let you two talk about your murder victims, the real ones; I’m going into the living room to watch the pretend murders, which I prefer.”
It was a ritual they repeated at least twice a month. Montalbano was fond of the commissioner and his wife, and that fondness was amply repaid in kind by both. The commissioner was a refined, cultured, reserved man, almost a figure from another age.
They talked about the disastrous political situation, the unknown dangers the growing unemployment held in store for the country, the shaky, crumbling state of law and order. Then the commissioner asked a direct question.
“Can you tell me why you haven’t yet closed the Luparello investigation? I got a worried phone call from Lo Bianco today.”
“Was he angry?”
“No, only worried, as I said. Perplexed, rather. He can’t understand why you’re dragging things out so much. And I can’t either, to tell you the truth. Look, Montalbano, you know me and you know that I would never presume to pressure one of my officers to settle something one way or another.”
“Of course.”
“So if I’m here asking you this, it’s out of personal curiosity, understood? I’m speaking to my friend Montalbano, mind you. To a friend whom I know to possess an intelligence, an acumen, and, most important, a courtesy in human relations quite rare nowadays.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll be honest with you. I think you deserve as much. What seemed suspicious to me from the start of the whole affair was the place where the body was found. It was inconsistent, blatantly inconsistent, with the personality and lifestyle of Luparello, a sensible, prudent, ambitious man. I asked myself: why did he do it? Why did he go all the way to the Pasture for a sexual encounter, putting his life and his public image in danger? I couldn’t come up with an answer. You see, sir, it was as if, in all due proportion, the president of the Republic had died of a heart attack while dancing to rock music at a third-rate disco.”
The commissioner raised a hand to stop him.
“Your comparison doesn’t really work,” he observed with a smile that wasn’t a smile. “We recently had a minister go wild on the dance floor of third-and worse-rate nightclubs, and he didn’t die . . .”
The “unfortunately” he was clearly about to add disappeared on the tip of his tongue.
“But the fact remains,” Montalbano insisted.
“And this first impression was abundantly confirmed for me by the engineer’s widow.”
“So you’ve met her? Quite a mind, that lady.”
“It was she who sought me out, after you had spoken well of me. In our conversation yesterday she told me her husband had a pied-a-terre at Capo Massaria and gave me the keys. So what reason would he have to go risk exposure at a place like the Pasture?”
“I have asked myself the same question.”
“Let us assume for a moment, for the sake of argument, that he did go there, that he let himself be talked into it by a woman with tremendous powers of persuasion. A woman not from the place, who took an absolutely impassable route to get him there. Bear in mind that it’s the woman who’s driving.”
“The road was impassable, you say?”
“Yes. And not only do I have exact testimony to back this up, but I also had my sergeant take that route, and I took it myself. So the car is actually driven down the dry bed of the Canneto, ruining the suspension.
When it comes to a stop, almost inside a big shrub in the Pasture, the woman immediately mounts the man beside her, and they begin making love. And it is during this act that Luparello suffers the misfortune that kills him. The woman, however, does not scream, does not call for help. Cool as a cucumber, she walks slowly down the path that leads to the provincial road, gets into a car that has pulled up, and disappears.”
“It’s all very strange, you’re right. Did the woman ask for a ride?”
“Apparently not, and you’ve hit the nail on the head. And I have yet another testimony to this effect.
The car that pulled up did so in a hurry, with its door actually open. In other words, the driver knew whom he was supposed to encounter and pick up without wasting any time.”
“Excuse me, Inspector, but did you get sworn statements for all these testimonies?”
“No, there wasn’t any reason. See, one thing is certain: Luparello died of natural causes. Officially speaking, I have no reason to be investigating.”
“Well, if things are as you say, there is, for example, the failure to assist a person in danger.”
“Do you agree with me that that’s nonsense?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s as far as I’d gone when Signora Luparello pointed out something very essential to me, that is, that her husband, when he died, had his underwear on backwards.”
“Wait a minute,” said the commissioner, “let’s slow down. How did the signora know that her husband’s underwear was on backwards, if indeed it was?
As far as I know, she wasn’t there at the scene, and she wasn’t present at the crime lab’s examinations.”
Montalbano became worried. He had spoken impulsively, not realizing he had to avoid implicating Jacomuzzi, who he was sure had given the widow the photos. But there was no turning back.
“The signora got hold of the crime-lab photos. I don’t know how.”
