his helper had indeed heard that a man who owned an office at number 28
had been murdered, but they didn’t know him and had never seen him. As this was impossible, Montalbano became more insistent in his questioning, acting more and more the cop until he realized that to get to his office from his home, Mr. Lapecora would have come up the opposite end of the street. And in fact, at the grocer’s at number 26, they did know the late lamented Mr. Lapecora, and how! They also knew the Tunisian girl, what’s-her- name, Karima, good-looking woman—and here a few sly glances and grins were exchanged between the grocer and his customers. They couldn’t swear by it, of course, but the inspector could surely understand, a pretty girl like that, all alone indoors with a man like the late Mr. Lapecora, who carried himself awfully well for his age . . . Yes, he did have a nephew, an arrogant punk who sometimes used to park his car right up against the door to the shop, so that one time Signora Micciche, who tipped the scales at a good three hundred pounds, got stuck between the car and the door to the shop . . . No, the license plate, no. If it had been one of the old kinds, with pa for Palermo or mi for Milan, that would have been a different story.
The third and last shop on Salita Granet sold electrical appliances. The proprietor, a certain Angelo Zircone (as the sign said outside), was standing behind the counter, reading the newspaper. Of course he knew the deceased; the shop had been there for ten years. Whenever Mr. Lapecora passed by—in recent years it was only on Mondays,Wednesdays, and Fridays—he always said hello. Such a nice man. Yes, the appliance man also used to see the Tunisian girl, and a fine-looking girl she was. Yes, the nephew, too, now and then. The nephew and his friend.
“What friend?” asked Montalbano, taken by surprise.
It turned out that Mr. Zircone had seen this friend at least three times. He would come with the nephew, and the two of them would go to number 28. About thirty, blondish, sort of fat. That was about all he could tell him. The license plate? Was he kidding? With these license plates nowadays you couldn’t even tell if someone was a Turk or a Christian . . . A metallic gray BMW. If he said any more, he’d be making it up.
The inspector rang the doorbell to Lapecora’s office. No answer. Galluzzo, behind the door, was apparently trying to decide how to react.
“It’s Montalbano.”
The door opened at once.
“The Tunisian girl hasn’t shown up yet,” said Galluzzo.
“And she’s not going to. You were right, Gallu.” The policeman lowered his eyes, confused.
“Who leaked the news?”
“Jacomuzzi.”
To pass the time during his stakeout, Galluzzo had orga-nized himself. Having seized a pile of old issues of
“Do I have to stay here all frigging day?” he asked dejectedly.
“I’m afraid so. You’ll have to make the best of it. Listen, I’m going in back, to take advantage of Mr. Lapecora’s bathroom.”
It wasn’t often that nature called so far off schedule for him. Perhaps the rage he’d felt the previous evening upon seeing Jacomuzzi playing the fool on television had altered his digestive rhythms.
He sat down on the toilet seat, heaving his customary sigh of satisfaction, and at that exact moment his mind brought into focus something he’d seen a few minutes earlier but had paid absolutely no attention to.
He leapt to his feet and raced into the next room, holding his pants and underpants at half-staff in one hand.
“Stop!” he ordered Galluzzo, who, in fright, turned pale as death and instinctively put his hands up.
There it was, right next to Galluzzo’s elbow: a black
“What is going on?” Galluzzo managed to articulate.
“It might be everything and it might be nothing,” replied the inspector, sounding like the Cumaean sibyl.
He pulled up his trousers, fastened his belt, leaving the zipper down, and picked up the telephone.
“Sorry to disturb you, signora. On what date did you say you received the first anonymous letter?”
“On the thirteenth of June of last year.” He thanked her and hung up.
“Gimme a hand, Gallu. We’re going to put all these issues of this magazine in order and see if any pages are missing.” They found what they were looking for: the June 7 issue, the only one from which two pages had been torn out.
“Let’s keep going,” said the inspector.
The July 30 issue was also missing two pages; the same for the September 1 issue.
The three anonymous letters had been composed right there, in the office.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Montalbano said politely.
Galluzzo heard him singing in the bathroom.
5 7
