and suckle him. When Montalbano asked Calogero Pipitone, an expert agronomist, what his extras were, the man looked at him, dumbfounded.
“What do you think they were, Inspector? Me on top and her on the bottom.”
Montalbano felt like embracing him.
o o o
Since on Mondays,Wednesdays, and Fridays Karima was employed full-time at Lapecora’s, there wouldn’t be any more clients. Oddly enough, Karima rested on Sundays, not Fridays. Apparently she’d adapted to local customs. Montalbano was curious to know how much she earned per month; but since he was hopeless with numbers, he opened the door to his office and asked in a loud voice: “Anybody got a calculator?”
“Me, Chief.”
Catarella came in and pulled a calculator not much bigger than a calling card out of his pocket.
“What do you calculate on that, Cat?”
“The days,” was his enigmatic reply.
“Come back for it in a little bit.”
“I should warrant you the machine works by
“What do you mean?”
Catarella mistakenly thought his superior didn’t understand the last word. He stepped toward the door and called out:
“How you say
“Shove,” somebody translated.
“And how am I supposed to shove this calculator?”
“Same way you shove a watch when it don’t run.” Anyway, figuring Lapecora separately, Karima earned one million two hundred thousand per month as a housekeeper, to which was added another million two hundred thousand for extras. At the very least, for full-time service, Lapecora slipped her another million. Which comes to three million four hundred thousand lire monthly, tax-free. Forty-four million two hundred thousand annually.
Karima, from what they could gather, had been working in the area for at least four years, so that made one hundred seventy-six million eight hundred thousand lire.
What about the other three hundred twenty-four million that was in the bank book? Where had that come from?
The calculator had worked fine; there was no need of
o o o
A burst of applause rang out from the other rooms. What was going on? He opened his door and discovered that the man of the hour was Mimi Augello. He started foaming at the mouth.
“Knock it off ! Clowns!”
They looked at him in shock and horror. Only Fazio attempted to explain the situation.
“Maybe you don’t know, Chief, but Inspector Augello—”
“I already know! The commissioner called me personally, demanding an explanation. Mr. Augello, of his own initiative, without my authorization—as I made certain to emphasize to the commissioner—went on TV and spoke a pile of bullshit!” “Uh, if I may,” Augello ventured.
“No, you may not! You told a pack of lies!”
“I did it to protect all of us here, who—”
“You can’t defend yourself by lying to someone who spoke the truth!”
And he went back into his office, slamming the door behind him. Montalbano, man of ironclad morals, was in a murderous rage at the sight of Augello basking in applause.
o o o
“May I come in?” asked Fazio, opening the door and cau-tiously sticking his head inside. “Father Jannuzzo’s here and wants to talk to you.”
“Let him in.”
Don Alfio Jannuzzo, who never dressed like a priest, was well known in Vigata for his charitable initiatives. A tall, ro-bust man, he was about forty years old.
“I like to cycle,” he began.
“I don’t,” said Montalbano, terrified at the thought that the priest might want him to participate in some sort of charity race.
“I saw that woman’s photo on television.” The two things seemed in no way connected, and the inspector began to feel uncomfortable. Might this mean that Karima did work on Sundays after all, and that her client was none other than Don Jannuzzo?
“Last Thursday, around nine o’clock in the morning, give or take fifteen minutes, I was near Villaseta, cycling down from Montelusa to Vigata. On the other side of the road, a car was stopped.” “Do you remember the make?”
“Yes, it was a BMW, metallic gray in color.” Montalbano pricked up his ears.