abroad, this nephew, because he spoke with an odd sort of accent. No, he couldn’t remember anything about the BMW’s license plate, hadn’t paid any notice.
Suddenly the thin young man assumed the expression of somebody looking at the ruins of his home after an earth-quake. He said he had a precise opinion about this crime.
“And what would that be?” asked Montalbano.
It could only have been the usual young lowlife looking for money to feed his drug habit.
They went back downstairs, where Montalbano called Mrs. Lapecora from the office phone.
“Excuse me, but why didn’t you tell me you have a nephew?”
“Because we don’t.”
o o o
“Let’s go back to the office,” Montalbano said when they were just around the corner from headquarters. Galluzzo didn’t dare ask why. In the bathroom of the dark green room, the inspector buried his nose in the towel, breathed deeply, then started riffling through the little cupboard beside the sink. He found a small bottle of perfume, brand-name Volupte, and handed it to Galluzzo.
“Here, put some of this on.”
“Where?”
“Up your ass,” came the inevitable reply.
Galluzzo dabbed a drop of Volupte on his cheek, and Montalbano stuck his nose next to it and inhaled. That was it: the very same scent, the color of burnt straw, that he’d smelled in Lapecora’s study. Wanting to be absolutely certain, he repeated the gesture.
Galluzzo smiled.
“Uh, Chief, if anybody saw us . . . who knows what they’d think?”
The inspector didn’t answer, but walked over to the phone.
“Hello, signora? Sorry to disturb you again. Did your husband use any kind of perfume or cologne? No? Okay, thanks.”
o o o
Galluzzo came into Montalbano’s office.
“Lapecora’s Beretta was registered on the eighth of De-cember of last year. Since he didn’t have a license to carry a gun, he was only allowed to keep it at home.” Something, the inspector thought, must have been troubling him around that time, if he decided to buy a gun.
“What are we going to do with the pistol?”
“We’ll keep it here. Listen, Gallu, here are the keys to the office. I want you to go there early tomorrow morning, let yourself in, and wait there. Try not to let anyone see you.
If the Tunisian girl hasn’t found out what happened, she should show up tomorrow according to schedule, since it’s Friday.”
Galluzzo grimaced.
“It’s unlikely she hasn’t heard.”
“Why? Who would have told her?”
It looked to the inspector as if Galluzzo was desperately trying to back out.
“I don’t know . . . Word gets out . . .”
“Ah, and I don’t suppose you said anything to your brother-in-law the reporter? Because if you did—”
“Inspector, I swear, I haven’t told him anything.” Montalbano believed him. Galluzzo wasn’t the type to tell a boldfaced lie.
“Well, you’re going to Lapecora’s office anyway.”
o o o
“Montalbano? This is Jacomuzzi. I wanted to notify you of our test results.”
“Oh God, Jacomu, wait a second, my heart is racing.
God, what excitement! . . . There, I’m a little calmer now.
Please ‘notify’ me, as you put it in your peerless bureau-cratese.”
“Aside from the fact that you’re an incurable asshole, the cigarette butt was a common stub of Nazionale without filter; there was nothing abnormal in the dust we collected from the floor of the elevator, and as for the little piece of wood—” “It was only a kitchen match.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m speechless, breathless—in fact, I think I’m about to have a heart attack! You’ve delivered the murderer to me!”
“Go fuck yourself, Montalbano.”
“It’d still be better than listening to you. What did he have in his pockets?”
“A handkerchief and a set of keys.”
