in charge, for his part, would understand the gambit, the challenge hidden in the message, and be forced to make a countermove. Which was exactly what Montalbano wanted.
2 1 5
16
Montalbano’s office was located at the opposite end of the building from the entrance to police headquarters, and yet he still heard all the shouting that broke out when Fazio’s car arrived with the widow Lapecora inside. Though there were hardly any journalists or photographers around, dozens of idlers and rubberneckers must have joined their modest number.
“Signora, why were you arrested?”
“Look over here, signora!”
“Out of the way! Out of the way!”
Then there was relative calm and someone knocked at his door. It was Fazio.
“How’d it go?”
“She didn’t put up much resistance. But she got upset when she saw the journalists.”
“What about the son?”
“There was a man standing next to her in the cemetery, and everyone was expressing their condolences to him too, so I thought he must be the son. But when I told the widow she had to come with us, he turned his back and walked away. So I guess he wasn’t her son.” “Ah, but he was, Fazio. Too sensitive to witness his mother’s arrest. And terrified that he might have to pay her legal fees. Bring the lady in here.”
“Like a thief, that’s how you’re treating me! Just like a thief !” the widow burst out as soon as she saw the inspector.
Montalbano made a dark face.
“Did you mistreat the lady?”
As if reading from a script, Fazio pretended to be embarrassed.
“Well, since we were arresting her—”
“Who ever said you were arresting her? Please sit down, ma’am, I apologize for the unpleasant misunderstanding. I won’t keep you but a few minutes, only as long as it takes to draw up a report of your answers to a few questions. Then you can go home and that’ll be the end of it.” Fazio went and sat down at the typewriter, while Montalbano sat behind his desk. The widow seemed to have calmed down a little, although the inspector could see her nerves jumping under her skin like fleas on a stray dog.
“Signora, please correct me if I’m wrong. You told me, as you’ll remember, that on the morning of your husband’s murder, you got out of bed, went into the bathroom, got dressed, took your purse from the dining room, and went out. Is that right?” “Absolutely.”
“You didn’t notice anything abnormal in your apartment?”
“What was I supposed to notice?”
“For example, that the door to the study, contrary to custom, was closed?”
He’d taken a wild guess, but was right on the mark. Initially red, the woman’s face blanched. But her voice remained steady.
“I think it was open, since my husband never closed it.”
“No, it was not, signora. When I entered your home with you, upon your return from Fiacca, the door was closed.
I reopened it myself.”
“What does it matter if it was open or closed?”
“You’re right, it’s a meaningless detail.” The widow couldn’t help heaving a long sigh.
“Signora, the morning your husband was murdered, you left for Fiacca to visit your ailing sister. Right?”
“That’s what I did.”
“But you forgot something, and for that reason, at the Cannatello junction, you got off the bus, waited for the next bus coming from the opposite direction, and returned to Vigata. What did you forget?” The widow smiled; apparently she’d prepared herself for such a question.
“I did not get off at Cannatello that morning.”
“Signora, I have statements from the two bus drivers.”
“They’re right, except for one thing. It wasn’t that morning, but two mornings before. The bus drivers got their days wrong.”
She was shrewd and quick. He would have to resort to trickery.
He opened a drawer to his desk and took out the kitchen knife in its cellophane bag.
“This, signora, is the knife that was used to murder your husband. With only one stab wound, in the back.” The widow’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t say a word.
“Have you ever seen it before?”
“You see so many knives like that.”
