As soon as she saw him, Ingrid came running and embraced him, kissing him lightly on the lips. She was obviously happy to see him. Montalbano, too, was pleased: Ingrid looked like a gift from God, with her jeans painted on her very long legs, her sandals, her light-blue see-through blouse affording a glimpse of her round breasts, her blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders.
'Sorry,' he said to the canary who was with her. 'See you around.'
They went and sat down at a table. Montalbano didn't feel like drinking anything. The man with the Rolex and ponytail took his whisky out to the seaside terrace. Ingrid and the inspector smiled at each other.
'You're looking well,' she said. 'A lot better than you did on TV today.'
'Yeah,' said Montalbano, then changed the subject: 'You look like you're doing all right yourself.'
'Did you want to see me to exchange compliments?'
'I wanted to ask a favor of you.'
'Here I am.'
The man with the ponytail was eyeing them from the terrace.
'Who's that?'
'Somebody I know. I passed him on my way here. He followed and offered me a drink.'
'In what sense do you know him?'
Ingrid turned serious, a line creasing her forehead.
'Are you jealous?'
'No, you know better than that. Anyway, there'd be no reason, with him. It's just that he got on my nerves from the minute I saw him. What's his name?'
'Come on, Salvo. What do you care?'
'Tell me his name.'
'Beppe . . . Beppe De Vito.'
'And what does he do to earn his Rolex, Porsche, and everything else?'
'Trades in leather goods.'
'Ever slept with him?'
'Yes, about a year ago, only once. And he was just suggesting we do it again. But I don't have a very pleasant memory of it.'
'Some kind of degenerate?'
Ingrid eyed him for a moment, then let out a laugh that made the bartender jump.
'What's so funny?'
'The face you just made: the good cop full of indignation. No, Salvo, he's just the opposite. Totally lacking in imagination. All I can remember is that it seemed suffocating and pointless.'
Montalbano gestured for the man with the ponytail to come over to their table, and as he approached, smiling, Ingrid gave the inspector a worried look.
'Hello. Don't I know you? You're Inspector Montalbano, aren't you?'
'Unfortunately for you, you're going to get to know me even better.'
The other became flustered, his whisky trembling in his glass, ice cubes tinkling.
'Why unfortunately?'
'Your name is Giuseppe De Vito and you deal in leather goods, am I correct?'
'Yes, but...I don't understand.'
'You'll understand in due time. One of these days you're going to be called in to Montelusa police headquarters. I'll be there, too. I think we'll have a lot to talk about.'
The man with the ponytail, face suddenly pale, set his glass down on the table, unable to hold it any longer.
'Couldn't you ...at least give me a hint . . . some explanation ...?'
Montalbano assumed the expression of someone just overcome by an irresistible wave of generosity.
'All right, but only because you're a friend of the lady. Do you know a German man by the name of Kurt Suckert?'
'Never heard of him, I swear,' the man said, digging a canary-colored handkerchief out of his pocket and mopping his brow with it.
'Well, if that's your answer, I have nothing more to say to you,' the inspector said icily. He looked him up and down, then gestured for him to come closer. 'I'll give you my advice: Don't try to be too clever. Good-bye.'
'Good-bye,' De Vito replied mechanically. And without even looking back at Ingrid, he raced out of the bar.
