“A man and a woman were inside the car. It looked like they were kissing, but when I passed right beside them, the woman broke free sort of violently, then looked at me and opened her mouth as if to say something. But the man pulled her back by force and embraced her again. I didn’t like the look of it.” “Why?”
“Because it wasn’t just a lovers’ quarrel. The woman’s eyes, when she looked at me, were full of fear. It seemed as if she was asking for help.”
“And what did you do?”
“Nothing, because the car left almost immediately. But when I saw the photograph on television today, I knew it was the woman I’d seen in the car, I could swear to it. I’m very good with faces, Inspector, and when I see a face, even for only a second, it’s forever etched in my memory.” Fahrid, pseudo-nephew of Lapecora, and Karima.
“I’m very grateful to you, Father . . .”
The priest raised a hand to stop him.
“I haven’t finished yet. I took down the license-plate number. As I said, I didn’t like what I’d seen.”
“Do you have the number with you?”
“Of course.”
From his pocket he extracted a notebook page neatly folded in four and held it out to the inspector.
“It’s written down here.”
Montalbano took it between two fingers, delicately, as one does with the wings of a butterfly.
am 237 gw.
o o o
In American movies, the policeman had only to tell somebody the license-plate number, and in less than two minutes, he would know the owner’s name, how many children he had, the color of his hair, and the number of hairs on his ass.
In Italy, things were different. One time they made Montalbano wait twenty-eight days, in the course of which the owner of the vehicle (as they later wrote to him) was goat-tied and burnt to a crisp. By the time the answer arrived, it had all come to nothing.
His only choice was to turn to the commissioner, who by now had perhaps ended his meeting with the prefect.
“Montalbano here, Commissioner.”
“I just got back in the office. What is it?”
“I’m calling about that woman who was kidnapped—”
“What woman who was kidnapped?”
“You know, Karima.”
“Who’s that?”
To his horror he realized he was talking to the wind. He hadn’t yet said an intelligible word to the commissioner about the case.
“Mr. Commissioner, I’m simply mortified—”
“Never mind. What did you want?”
“I need to have a license-plate number traced as quickly as possible, and I want the owner’s name and address.”
“Give me the number.”
“am 237 gw.”
“I’ll have something for you by tomorrow morning.” 1 7 1
13
“I set a place for you in the kitchen. The dining room table is being used. We’ve already eaten.”
He wasn’t blind. He couldn’t help but see that the table was covered by a giant jigsaw puzzle of the Statue of Liberty, practically life-size.
“And you know what, Salvo? It took him only two hours to solve it.”
She didn’t say whom, but it was clear she was talking about Francois, former snack thief, now family genius.
“Did you buy it for him yourself ?”
Livia dodged the question.
“Want to come down to the beach with me?”
“Right now or after I’ve eaten?”
“Right now.”
There was a sliver of moon shedding its light. They walked in silence. In front of a little pile of sand, Livia sighed sadly.
