“What did you say? I told you the truth!” the woman said, upset and offended.
“The truth is slightly different and more unpleasant. You both immediately realized the man was dead. But you didn’t say anything; you acted as if you’d never seen him at all. Why?” “We didn’t want our names ending up on everyone’s lips,” Signora Piccirillo admitted in defeat. Then in a sudden burst of energy, she shouted hysterically: “We’re honest people!” So those two honest people had left the corpse to be discovered by someone else, perhaps someone less honest. And what if Lapecora hadn’t been dead yet? They’d left him there to rot, to save . . . to save what?
He went out, slamming the door behind him, and found Fazio, who was on his way to keep him company, standing before him.
“Here I am, Inspector. If you need anything—” An idea flashed in his brain.
“Yes, I do need something. Knock on this door. There are two women inside, mother and daughter. Failure to offer assistance. Haul ’em in, and make as much racket as possible. I want everyone in the building to think they’ve been arrested.
Then, when I get back to headquarters, we’ll let ’em go.”
o o o
Upon opening the door, Mr. Culicchia, an accountant who lived in the first apartment on the fourth floor, gave the inspector a little push backwards.
“We can’t let my wife hear us,” he said, standing outside the doorway.
“I’m Inspector—”
“I know, I know. Did you bring me back my bottle?”
“What bottle?” Montalbano asked in shock, staring at the skinny seventy-year-old, who had assumed a conspiratorial air.
“The one that was next to the dead man, the bottle of Corvo white.”
“Wasn’t it Mr. Lapecora’s?”
“Absolutely not! It’s mine!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. Explain.”
“I went out this morning to go shopping, and when I got back, I opened the elevator door, and there was Mr.
Lapecora inside, dead. I realized it at once.”
“Did you call the elevator?”
“Why would I do that? It was already on the ground floor.”
“And what did you do?”
“What could I have done, my boy? I’ve got injuries to my left leg and right arm. Got shot by the Americans. I had four bags in each hand. I couldn’t very well have taken the stairs now, could I?” “Are you telling me you came up in the elevator with the body inside?”
“I had no choice! But then, when the elevator stopped at my floor, which was also the deceased’s floor, the bottle of wine rolled out of one of my bags. So I opened the door to my apartment, took all the bags inside, and then came back out to get the bottle. But I didn’t get back in time; somebody’d called the elevator to the next floor up.” “How is that possible if the door was open!”
“But it wasn’t! I’d closed it without thinking! Ah, the mind! At my age one doesn’t think so clearly anymore. I didn’t know what to do. If my wife found out I’d lost a bottle of wine she’d skin me alive. You must believe me, Inspector. She’s capable of anything, that woman.” “Tell me what happened next.”
“The elevator passed by in front of me again and went down to the ground floor. So I started going down the stairs.
When I finally arrived, bum leg and all, I found the security guard there, who wasn’t letting anyone get near. I told him about the wine and he promised he’d mention it to the authorities. Are you the authorities?” “In a sense.”
“Did the guard mention the bottle of wine to you?”
“No.”
“So what am I supposed to do now? Eh? What am I supposed to do? That woman counts the money I spend!” he complained, wringing his hands.
Upstairs they could hear the desperate voices of the Piccirillo women, and Fazio’s imperious commands:
“Down the stairs! On foot! And keep quiet!” Doors opened, questions were asked aloud from floor to floor.
“Who’s been arrested? The Piccirillo girls? Are they being taken away? Are they going to jail?” When Fazio came within reach, Montalbano handed him ten thousand lire.
“After you’ve taken them to headquarters, go buy a bottle of Corvo white and bring it to this gentleman here.”
o o o
Montalbano’s interrogation of the other tenants did not yield any important new information. The only one who said anything of interest was the elementary-school teacher Bonavia, who lived on the third floor. He explained to the inspector that his eight-year-old son Matteo had fallen down and bloodied his nose when getting ready for school. As it wouldn’t stop bleeding, he had taken him to the emergency room. This was around seven-thirty, and there was no trace of Mr. Lapecora, dead or alive, in the elevator.
