foreign language. Ingrish? Frinch? Dunno. The photograph matched.
And if the gentlemen really, really wanted to know, she’d even filed an official rental statement, as required by law.
“When did he arrive, exactly?” Valente asked.
“Exactly ten days ago.”
And in ten days he’d had enough time to settle in, find work, and get killed.
“Did he tell you how long he planned to stay?” Montalbano asked.
“Another ten days. But . . .”
“But?”
“Well, he wanted to pay me for a whole month in advance.”
“And how much did you ask of him?”
“I asked him straightaway for nine hundred thousand.
But you know what Arabs are like, they bargain and bargain, and so I was ready to come down to, I dunno, six hundred, five hundred thousand . . . But the man didn’t even let me finish. He just put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills as fat as the belly of a bottle, took off the rubber band holding ’em together, and counted out nine one-hundred-thousand-lire bills.” “Give us the key and explain a little better where this place is,” Montalbano cut in. The Tunisian’s good breeding and distinction, in the eyes of the widow Locicero, were con-centrated in that roll of bills as fat as the belly of a bottle.
“Gimme a minute to get ready and I’ll come with you.”
“No, signora, you stay here. We’ll bring the key back to you.”
o o o
A rusty iron bed, a wobbly table, an armoire with a piece of plywood in place of the mirror, three wicker chairs. A small bathroom with toilet and sink, and a dirty towel; and on a shelf, a razor, a can of shaving cream, and a comb.
They went back into the single room. There was a blue canvas suitcase on a chair. They opened it: empty.
Inside the armoire, a new pair of trousers, a dark, very clean jacket, four pairs of socks, four pairs of briefs, six handkerchiefs, two undershirts: all brand new, not yet worn.
In one corner of the armoire was a pair of sandals in good condition; in the opposite corner, a small plastic bag of dirty laundry. They emptied it onto the floor: nothing unusual.
They stayed about an hour, searching everywhere. When they’d lost all hope,Valente got lucky. Not hidden, but clearly dropped and left wedged between the iron headboard and the bed, was a Rome-Palermo plane ticket, issued ten days earlier and made out to Mr. Dhahab. So Ahmed had arrived in Palermo at ten o’clock in the morning, and two hours later, at the most, he was in Mazara. To whom had he turned to find a place to rent?
“Did Montelusa send you the personal effects along with the body?”
“Of course,” replied Valente. “Ten thousand lire.”
“Passport?”
“No.”
“What about all that money he had?”
“If he left it here, I’m sure the signora took care of it. The one who leads a squeaky-clean life.”
“He didn’t even have his house keys in his pocket?”
“Not even. How do I have to say it? Should I sing it? He had ten thousand lire and nothing else.”
o o o
Summoned by Valente, Master Rahman, an elementary-school teacher who looked like a pure Sicilian and served as an unofficial liaison between his people and the Mazarese authorities, arrived in ten minutes.
Montalbano had met him the year before, when involved in the case later dubbed “the terra-cotta dog.”
“Were you in the middle of a lesson?” asked Valente.
In an uncommon show of good sense, a school principal in Mazara, without involving the superintendency, had allowed some classrooms to be used to create a school for the local Tunisian children.
“Yes, but I called in a substitute. Is there a problem?”
“Perhaps you could help clarify something for us.”
“About what?”
“About whom, rather. Ben Dhahab.”
They had decided,Valente and Montalbano, to sing only half the Mass to the schoolteacher. Afterwards, depending on his reactions, they would determine whether or not to tell him the whole story.
Upon hearing that name, Rahman made no effort to hide his uneasiness.
“What would you like to know?”
It was up to Valente to make the first move; Montalbano was only a guest.
