The Snack Thief

great detail the operation that her sister had just undergone in Fiacca.

In the dark as to these developments, Officer Gallo, upon hearing the elevator stop at his floor at seven thirty- five, stood up from the stair on which he’d been sitting, reviewing what he was supposed to say to the unhappy woman, and took a step forward. The elevator door opened and a man got out.

“Giuseppe Cosentino’s the name. Seeing as how Mrs.

Lapecora is going to have to wait, I’m putting her up at my place. Please inform the inspector. I live on the sixth floor.”

o o o

The Lapecora apartment was in perfect order. Living–dining room, bedroom, study, kitchen, and bath, nothing out of place. On the desk in the study lay the wallet of the deceased, with all his documents and one hundred thousand lire. Therefore—Montalbano said to himself—Aurelio Lapecora had got dressed to go somewhere he wouldn’t need identification, credit, or money. He sat down in the chair behind the desk and opened the drawers, one after the other. In the first drawer on the left he found stamps, old envelopes with aurelio lapecora inc. importazione-esportazione printed on the back, pencils, ballpoint pens, erasers, outdated stamps, and two sets of keys. The widow explained that one set was for the house and the other for the office. In the drawer below this one, there were only some yellowed letters bound together with string. The first drawer on the right held a surprise: a brand-new Beretta with two reserve car-tridge clips and five boxes of ammunition. Mr. Lapecora, if he’d wanted to, could have carried out a massacre. The last drawer contained lightbulbs, razor blades, rolls of string, and rubber bands.p>

The inspector told Galluzzo, who had replaced Gallo, to bring the weapon and ammunition to headquarters.

“Then check to see if the pistol was registered.” A smell of stale perfume, burnt straw in color, hung aggressively in the air of the study, even though the inspector, upon entering, had thrown the window wide open.

The widow had gone and sat in an armchair in the living room. She seemed utterly indifferent, as if sitting in a railway station waiting room, awaiting her train.

Montalbano also sat down in an armchair, and at that moment the doorbell rang. Signora Antonietta instinctively started to get up, but the inspector stopped her with a gesture.

“Galluzzo, go see who it is.”

The door was opened, they heard some whispering, and the policeman returned.

“There’s somebody who lives on the sixth floor says he wants to talk to you. Says he’s a security guard.” Cosentino had put on his uniform; he was on his way to work.

“Sorry to disturb you, but seeing as how something just occurred to me—”

“What is it?”

“You see, after she got off the bus, Signora Antonietta, when she found out her husband was dead, asked us if he’d been murdered. Now, if somebody came to me and told me my wife was dead, I might think of the different ways she could have died, but I would never imagine she’d been murdered. Unless I’d considered the possibility beforehand. I’m not sure if that’s clear . . .” “It’s perfectly clear. Thank you,” said Montalbano.

He went back in the living room. Mrs. Lapecora looked as if she’d been embalmed.

“Do you have any children, signora?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“One son.”

“Does he live here?”

“No.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-two.”

“He should be informed.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Gong. End of the first round. When they resumed, the widow took the initiative.

“Was he shot?”

“No.”

“Strangled?”

“No.”

“Then how did they manage to kill him in an elevator?”

“With a knife.”

“A kitchen knife?”

“Probably.”

The woman got up and went into the kitchen. The inspector heard her open and close a drawer. She returned