The Snack Thief

The woman had been strangled, stuffed into a bag, and thrown into a rather deep, dry well. Beside her they found a small suitcase that led to the victim’s identification. Karima Moussa, aged thirty-four, a native of Tunis who had moved to Vigata a few years earlier.

The photo of Karima and Francois that the inspector had given Nicolo appeared on the screen.

Did the viewing audience remember the Free Channel’s report on the woman’s disappearance? No trace, meanwhile, had turned up of the little boy, her son. According to Inspector Diliberto, who was conducting the investigation, the killer might have been the Tunisian woman’s unknown pro-curer. There nevertheless remained, in the inspector’s opinion, numerous details to be cleared up.

Montalbano whinnied, turned off the TV, and smiled.

Lohengrin Pera had kept his word. He stood up, stretched, sat back down, and immediately fell asleep in the armchair. An animal slumber, probably dreamless, like a sack of potatoes.

o o o

The next morning, from his office, he called the commissioner and invited himself to dinner. Then he called police headquarters in Sommatino.

“Diliberto? Montalbano here. I’m calling from Vigata.”

“Hello, colleague. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to know about that woman you found in the well.”

“Karima Moussa.”

“Yes. Are you absolutely certain about the identification?”

“Without a shadow of a doubt. In her bag, among other things, we found an ATM card from the Banca Agricola di Montelusa.”

“Excuse me for interrupting, but anyone, you see, could have put—”

“Let me finish. Three years ago, this woman had an accident for which she was given twelve stitches in her right arm at Montelusa Hospital. It checks out. The scar was still visible despite the body’s advanced state of decomposition.” “Listen, Diliberto, I just got back to Vigata this morning after a few days off. I’m short on news and found out about the body on a local TV station. They reported you still had some questions.” “Not about the identification. But I’m certain the woman was killed and buried somewhere else, not where we found her after receiving an anonymous tip. So my question is: Why did they dig her up and move the body? What need was there to do that?” “What makes you so sure they did?”

“You see, Karima’s suitcase was soiled with bodily waste from its first period alongside the corpse. And in order to carry the suitcase to the well where it was found, they wrapped it in newspaper.” “So?”

“The newspaper was only three days old. Whereas the woman had been killed at least ten days earlier. The coroner would bet his life on it. So I need to figure out why she was moved. And I have no idea; I just can’t understand it.” Montalbano had an idea, but he couldn’t tell his colleague what it was. If only those fuckheads in the secret services could do something right for once! Like the time when, wanting to make people believe that a certain Libyan airplane had crashed in Sila on a specific day, they staged a show of explosions and flames, and then, in the autopsy, it was determined that the pilot had actually died fifteen days earlier from the impact. The flying cadaver.

o o o

After a simple but elegant dinner, Montalbano and his superior retired to the study. The commissioner’s wife withdrew in turn to watch television.

Montalbano’s story was long and so detailed that he didn’t even leave out his voluntary crushing of Lohengrin Pera’s little gold eyeglasses. At a certain point, the report turned into a confession. But the commissioner’s absolution was slow in coming. He was truly annoyed at having been left out of the game.

“I’m mad at you, Montalbano. You denied me a chance to amuse myself a little before calling it quits.”

o o o

My dear Livia,

This letter will surprise you for at least two reasons. The first is the letter itself, my having written it and sent it. Un-written letters I’ve sent you by the bushel, at least one a day. I realized that in all these years, I’ve only sent you an occa-sional miserly postcard with a few “bureaucratic, inspectorly” greetings, as you called them.

The second reason, which will delight you as much as surprise you, is its content.

Since you left exactly fifty-five days ago (as you can see, I keep track), many things have happened, some of which concern us directly. To say they “happened,” however, is incorrect; it would be more accurate to write that I made them happen.

You reproached me once for a certain tendency I have to play God by altering the course of events (for others) through omissions great and small, and even through more or less damnable falsifications. Maybe it’s true. Actually, it most certainly is. But don’t you think this, too, is part of my job?

Whatever the case, you should know at once that I’m about to tell you of another supposed transgression of mine, one that was aimed, however, at turning a chain of events in our favor, and was therefore not for or against anyone else. But first I want to tell you about Francois.

Neither you nor I have even mentioned his name since the last night you spent in Marinella, when you reproached me for not having realized that the boy could become the son we would never have. What’s more, you were hurt by the way I had the child taken from you. But, you see, I was terrified, and with good reason. He had become a dangerous witness, and I was afraid they would make him disappear (or “neutralize” him, as they say euphemistically).