incident should be handled by the Harbor Office of Mazara. The
“I didn’t dare ask.”
o o o
“Montalbano here, Mr. Commissioner. Please excuse me if—”
“Any news?”
“No, nothing. I was just having some, uh, procedural doubts. Major Marniti of the Harbor Office phoned me just now to tell me their command has decided that the investigation of the Tunisian who was machine-gunned should be transferred to Mazara. So I was wondering if we, too—” “Yes, I see, Montalbano. I think you’re right. I’ll call my counterpart in Trapani at once and tell him we’re quitting the investigation. They’ve got a vice-commissioner in Mazara who’s really on the ball, if I remember correctly.
We’ll let them take over everything. Were you handling the case directly yourself ?”
“No, my deputy, Inspector Augello, was taking care of it.”
“Tell him we’ll be sending the autopsy and ballistics reports to Mazara. We’ll have copies sent to Inspector Augello to keep him informed.”
o o o
He kicked open the door to Mimi Augello’s office, held out his right arm, clenching the fist and grabbing the forearm with his left hand.
“Here, Mimi.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the investigation of the killing on the fishing boat has been transferred to Mazara.You’re left empty- handed, while I’ve still got my elevator murder. One to nothing.” He felt in a better mood now. In fact, the wind had dropped and the sky was clearing.
o o o
Around three in the afternoon, Officer Gallo, guarding the late Lapecora’s apartment and awaiting his widow’s return, saw the door to the Culicchia flat open up. The accountant approached the policeman and said in a whisper: “My wife has fallen asleep.”
Informed of this, Gallo didn’t know what to say.
“The name’s Culicchia, the inspector knows me. Have you eaten?”
Gallo, whose insides were tied in knots from hunger, shook his head “no.”
Culicchia went back into his apartment and soon returned with a platter on which there was a bread roll, a sizable slice of caciocavallo cheese, five slices of salami, and a glass of wine.
“That’s Corvo white. The inspector bought it for me.” He returned again half an hour later.
“I brought you the newspaper, to help you pass the time.”
o o o
At seven-thirty that evening, as if on cue, every single balcony or window on the same side of the building as the main entrance was full of people looking out for the return of Signora Antonietta, who still didn’t know she’d become a widow. The show was going to be in two parts.
Part one: Signora Antonietta, stepping off the bus from Fiacca, the seven twenty-five, would appear at the top of the street five minutes later, with her usual unsociability and self-possession in full view, and with no idea whatsoever that a bomb was about to explode over her head. This first part was indispensable to a full appreciation of the second (for which the spectators would move quickly away from balconies and windows and onto landings and stairwells): upon hearing from the officer on duty why she couldn’t enter her apartment, the widow, now apprised of her widowhood, would begin behaving like the Virgin Mary, tearing out her hair, crying out, beating her breast while being ineffectually re-strained by fellow mourners who in the meantime would have promptly come to her aid.
The show never took place.
It wasn’t right, the security guard and his wife decided, for Signora Antonietta to learn of her husband’s murder from a stranger’s mouth. Dressed for the occasion—he in a charcoal-gray suit, she completely in black—they lay in wait for her near the bus stop. When Signora Antonietta got off, they came forward, their faces now matching the colors of their clothing: he gray, she black.
“What’s wrong?” Signora Antonietta asked in alarm.
There is no Sicilian woman alive, of any class, aristocrat or peasant, who, after her fiftieth birthday, isn’t always expecting the worst. What kind of worst? Any, so long as it’s the worst.
Signora Antonietta conformed to the rule:
“Did something happen to my husband?” she asked.
Since she was doing it all herself, the only thing left for Cosentino and his wife was to play supporting roles. They spread their hands apart, looking sorrowful.
And here Signora Antonietta said something that, logi-cally speaking, she shouldn’t have said.
“Was he murdered?”
The Cosentinos spread their hands apart again. The widow teetered, but kept her footing.
The people at their windows and balconies therefore witnessed a scene that could only have been a disappointment: Mrs. Lapecora walking between Mr. and Mrs. Cosentino and speaking calmly. She was explaining in
