and sat back down.
“Nothing missing here.”
The inspector went on the counterattack.
“Why did you think the knife might be yours?”
“Just a thought.”
“What did your husband do yesterday?”
“He did what he did every Wednesday. He went to his office. He used to go there Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”
“What was his schedule?”
“He’d go from ten in the morning to one in the afternoon, then he’d come home for lunch, take a little nap, go back to work at three-thirty and stay there till six-thirty.” “What would he do at home?”
“He’d sit down in front of the television and not move.”
“And on the days when he didn’t go to the office?”
“Same thing, he’d sit in front of the TV.”
“So this morning, today being a Thursday, your husband should have stayed home.”
“That’s right.”
“Instead he got dressed to go out.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have any idea where he was going?”
“He didn’t tell me anything.”
“When you left the house, was your husband awake or asleep?”
“Asleep.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that, as soon as you went out, your husband suddenly woke up, got dressed in a hurry, and—”
“He might have got a phone call.”
A clear point in the widow’s favor.
“Did your husband still have many business relationships?”
“Business? He shut down the business years ago.”
“So why did he keep going regularly to the office?”
“Whenever I asked him, he’d say he went to watch the flies. That’s what he’d say.”
“Would you say that after your husband came home from the office yesterday, nothing out of the ordinary happened?”
“Nothing. At least till nine o’clock in the evening.”
“What happened at nine o’clock in the evening?”
“I took two Tavors. And I slept so soundly that the building could have collapsed on top of me and I still wouldn’t have woken up.”
“So if Mr. Lapecora had received a phone call or visitor after nine o’clock, you wouldn’t have known.”
“Of course not.”
“Did your husband have any enemies?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Any friends?”
“One. Cavaliere Pandolfo. They used to phone each other on Tuesdays and then go and chat at the Caffe Albanese.”
“Have you any suspicions as to who might have—” She interrupted him.
“Suspicions, no. Certainty, yes.”
Montalbano leapt out of the armchair. Galluzzo said
“Shit!” but in a soft voice.
“And who would that be?”
“Who would that be, Inspector? His mistress, that’s who.
Her name’s Karima, with a
