higgledy-piggledy, an assortment of incunabula, parchment-bound tomes, lampshades, umbrellas, and opera hats. In the middle of it all was a desk with an old man sitting behind it, an art-nouveau lamp shedding light on his labors. He was holding a stamp with a pair of tweezers and examining it under a magnifying glass.
'What is it?' he asked gruffly, without looking up.
Montalbano laid the three coins down in front of him. The old man took his eyes momentarily off the stamp and glanced distractedly at them.
'Worthless,' he said.
Of the various old men he'd been encountering in his investigation of the Crasticeddru deaths, this one was the grumpiest.
'I know they're worthless.'
'So what is it you want to know?'
'When they went out of circulation.'
'Use your brain a little.'
'When the Republic was proclaimed?' Montalbano hesitantly guessed.
He felt like a student who hadn't studied for the exam. The old man laughed, and his laugh sounded like the noise of two empty tin cans rubbing together.
'Am I wrong?'
'Very wrong. The Americans landed here the night of July 910, 1943. In October of that same year, these coins went out of use. They were replaced by Amlire, the paper money printed up by Amgot, the Allied military administration of the occupied territories. And since these bills were for one, five, and ten lire, the centesimo coins disappeared from circulation.'
...
By the time Fazio and Galluzzo returned, it was already dark.
The inspector scolded them.
'Damn you both! You certainly took your time!'
'Who, us?' Fazio shot back. 'You know what the lieu tenants like! Before he could touch the body, he had to wait for Pasquano and the judge to arrive. And they certainly did take their time!'
'And so?'
'A new-laid corpse if I ever saw one, fresh as can be. Pasquano said less than an hour had passed between the killing and the phone calls. The guy had an ID card on him. Pietro Gullo's his name, forty-two years old, blue eyes, blond hair, fair complexion, born in Merfi, resident of Fela, Via Matteotti 32, married, no distinguishing features.'
'You ought to get a job at the Records Office.'
Fazio nobly ignored the provocation and continued.
'I went to Montelusa and checked the archives. This Gullo had an uneventful youth, two robberies and a brawl. Then he straightened himself out, at least apparently. He dealt in grain.'
...
'I really appreciate that you could see me right away,' Montalbano said to Headmaster Burgio, who had answered the door.
'What are you saying? The pleasure's all mine'. He let the inspector in, led him into the living room, and asked him to sit down. 'Angelina!' the headmaster called.
A tiny old woman appeared, curious about the unexpected visit, looking smart and well groomed, her lively, attentive eyes sparkling behind thick glasses.
'Allow me to introduce my wife, Angelina.' Montalbano gave her an admiring bow. He sincerely liked elderly ladies who kept up appearances, even at home.
'Please forgive me for bothering you at suppertime.'
'No bother at all. On the contrary, Inspector, are you busy this evening?'
'Not at all.'
'Why don't you stay and have supper with us? We're just having some old-people fare, since were supposed to eat light: soft vegetables and striped mullet with oil and lemon.'
'Sounds like a feast to me.' Mrs. Burgio exited, content.
'What can I do for you?' asked the headmaster.
'I've managed to situate the period in which the double homicide of the Crasticeddru took place.'
'Oh. So when did it happen?'
'Definitely between early 1943 and October of the same year.'
'How did you come to that conclusion?'
'Easy. The terra-cotta dog, as Mr. Burruano told us, was sold after Christmas of 42, which reasonably means
