“Then I’ll go in the kitchen and put the water on,” she said. And she exited, in no way reassured.
“Well, signora, thank you so much . . . ,” the inspector began, standing up.
“Why don’t you stay and eat with me?”
Montalbano felt his stomach blanch. Signora Clementina was sweet and nice, but she probably lived on semolina and boiled potatoes.
“Actually, I have so much to—”
“Pina, the housekeeper, is an excellent cook, believe me.
For today she’s made
“Jesus!” said Montalbano, sitting back down.
“And braised beef for the second course.”
“Jesus!” repeated Montalbano.
“Why are you so surprised?”
“Aren’t those dishes a little heavy for you?”
“Why? I’ve got a stronger stomach than any of these twenty-year-old girls who can happily go a whole day on half an apple and some carrot juice. Or perhaps you’re of the same opinion as my son Giulio?” “I don’t have the pleasure of knowing what that is.”
“He says it’s undignified to eat such things at my age. He considers me a bit shameless. He thinks I should live on por-ridges. So what will it be? Are you staying?”
“I’m staying,” the inspector replied decisively.
o o o
Crossing the street, he climbed three steps and knocked at the door to the office. Gallo came and opened up.
“I relieved Galluzzo,” he explained. Then: “Did you come from the office, Chief ?”
“No, why?”
“Fazio phoned here asking if we’d seen you. He’s looking for you. Says he’s got something important to tell you.” The inspector ran to the phone.
“Sorry to bother you, Inspector, but it seems we have a serious new development. Do you remember, yesterday, you told me to put out an allpoints bulletin for this Karima?
Well, about half an hour ago, Mancuso of the Immigration Bureau called me from Montelusa. He says he’s managed to find out, purely by chance, where the girl lives.”
“Let’s have it.”
“She lives in Villaseta, at 70 Via Garibaldi.”
“I’ll be right over, we’ll go together.”
o o o
At the main entrance to headquarters he was stopped by a well-dressed man of about forty.
“Are you Inspector Montalbano?”
“Yes, but I’m in a rush.”
“I’ve been waiting for you for two hours. Your colleagues didn’t know if you were coming back or not. I’m Antonino Lapecora.”
“The son? The doctor?”
“Yes.”
“My condolences. Come inside. But I can only give you five minutes.”
Fazio appeared.
“Car’s ready.”
“We’ll leave in five minutes. I have to talk to this gentleman first.”
They went into his office. The inspector asked the doctor to sit down, then sat down himself, behind the desk.
“I’m listening.”
“Well, Inspector, I’ve been living in Valledolmo, where I practice my profession, for about fifteen years. I’m a pediatri-cian. I got married in Valledolmo. I mention this merely to let you know that I haven’t had a close relationship with my parents for some time. Actually, we’ve never been very inti-mate. We always spent the obligatory holidays together, of course, and we used to phone each other twice a month.
That was why I was so surprised to receive a letter from my father early last October. Here it is.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, took out the letter, and handed it to the inspector.
