hours and always insisted that she call him back. The third caller was also male, Guido by name, and he phoned from Bologna, also late at night; but, unlike Maurizio, he never left a message.
The slips of paper the hotel manager had given to Gallo were twenty in number, all from the time Michela left the hotel on Wednesday afternoon to the moment the police showed up at the hotel. On Wednesday morning, however, during the hours Mrs Licalzi devoted to sleep, the same Maurizio had asked for her at about ten thirty, and Anna had done likewise shortly thereafter. Around nine o’clock that evening, Mrs Vassallo had called looking for Michela, and had rung back an hour later. Anna had phoned back shortly before midnight.
At three o’clock on Thursday morning, Guido had called from Bologna. At ten thirty, Anna, apparently unaware that Michela hadn’t returned to the hotel that night, called again; at eleven, a certain Mr Loconte called to confirm the afternoon appointment. At midday, still on Thursday, a Mr Aurelio Di Blasi phoned and continued to phone back almost every three hours until early Friday evening.
Guido from Bologna had called at two o’clock on Friday morning. As of Thursday morning, Anna had started calling frantically and also didn’t stop until Friday evening.
Something didn’t add up. Montalbano couldn’t put his finger on it, and this made him uncomfortable. He stood up, went out on the veranda, which gave directly onto the beach, took off his shoes, and started walking in the sand until he reached the water’s edge. He rolled up his trouser legs and began wading in the water, which from time to time washed over his feet. The soothing sound of the waves helped him put his thoughts in order. Suddenly he understood what was tormenting him. He went back in the house, grabbed the diary, and opened it up to Wednesday. Michela had written down that she was supposed to go to dinner at the Vassallos’ house at eight. So why had Mrs Vassallo called her at the hotel at nine and again at ten? Hadn’t Michela shown up for dinner? Or did the Mrs Vassallo who phoned have nothing to do with the Vassallos who’d invited her to dinner?
He glanced at his watch: past midnight. He
He tried the first and guessed right.
‘I’m very sorry. This is Inspector Montalbano.’
Inspector! I’m Ernesto Vassallo. I was going to come to your office myself tomorrow morning. My wife is just devastated; I had to call a doctor. Is there any news?’
‘None. I need to ask you something.’
‘Go right ahead, Inspector.
For poor Michela—’
Montalbano cut him off.
‘I read in Mrs Licalzi’s diary that she was supposed to have dinner—’
This time it was Ernesto Vassallo who interrupted.
‘She never showed up, Inspector!
We waited a long time for her. But nothing, not even a phone call. And she was always so punctual’ We got worried, we thought she might be sick, so we rang the hotel a couple of times, then we tried her friend Anna Tropeano, but she said she didn’t know anything. She said she’d seen Michela at about six and they’d been together for roughly half an hour, and that Michela had left saying she was going back to the hotel to change before coming to dinner at our place.’
‘Listen, I really appreciate your help. But don’t come to the station tomorrow morning, I’m full up with appointments. Drop by in the afternoon whenever you want. Goodnight.’
One good turn deserved another. He looked up the number for Aurelio Di Blasi in the phone book and dialled it. The first ring wasn’t even over when someone picked up.
‘Hello? Hello? Is that you?’
The voice of a middle-aged man, breathless, troubled.
‘Inspector Montalbano here.’
‘Oh.’
Montalbano could tell that the man felt profound disappointment. From whom was he so anxiously awaiting a phone call?
‘Mr Di Blasi, I’m sure you’ve heard about the unfortunate Mrs—’
‘I know, I know, I saw it on TV.’
The disappointment had been replaced by undisguised irritation.
‘Anyway, I wanted to know why, from midday on Thursday to Friday evening, you repeatedly tried to reach Mrs Licalzi at her hotel.’
‘What’s so unusual about that? I’m a distant relative of Michela’s. Whenever she came to Vigata to work on the house, she would lean on me for help and advice. I’m a construction engineer. I phoned her on Thursday to invite her here to dinner, but the receptionist said she hadn’t come back that night. The receptionist knows me, we’re friends. And so I started to get worried. Is that so hard to understand?’
Now Mr Di Blasi had turned sarcastic and aggressive. The inspector had the impression the man’s nerves were about to pop.
‘No.’
There was no point in calling Anna Tropeano. He already knew what she would say, since Mr,Vassallo had told him beforehand. He would summon Ms Tropeano to the station for questioning. One thing at this point was certain: Michela Licalzi had disappeared from circulation at approximately seven o’clock on Wednesday evening. She had never returned to the hotel, even though she’d expressed this intention to her friend.
He wasn’t sleepy, so he lay down in bed with a book, a novel by Marco Denevi, an Argentine writer he liked very much.
When his eyes started to droop, he closed the book and turned off the light. As he often did before falling asleep, he thought of Livia. Suddenly he sat up in bed, wide awake.
Jesus, Livia! He hadn’t phoned her back since the night of the storm, when he’d made it seem as if the line had been cut. Livia clearly hadn’t believed this, since in fact she’d never phoned back. He had to set things right at once.
‘Hello? Who is this?’ said Livia’s sleepy voice.
It’s Salvo, darling.’
‘Oh, let me sleep, for Christ’s sake!’
Click. Montalbano sat there for a while holding the receiver,
It was eight thirty in the morning when Montalbano walked into the station carrying Michela Licalzi’s papers. After Livia had refused to speak to him, he’d become agitated and unable to sleep a wink. There was no need to call in Anna Tropeano; Fazio immediately told him the woman had been waiting for him since eight
‘Listen, I want to know everything there is to know about a construction engineer from Vigata named Aurelio Di Blasi’
‘To me, everything everything means rumours and gossip, too.’ ‘Same here.’
‘How much time do I get?’
‘Come on, Fazio, you playing the unionist now? Two hours ought to be more than enough.’
Fazio glared at his boss with an air of indignation and went out without even saying goodbye.
In normal circumstances.
Anna Tropeano must have been an attractive woman of thirty, with jet-black hair, dark complexion, big, sparkling eyes, tall and full-bodied. On this occasion, however, her shoulders were hunched, her eyes swollen and red, her skin turning a shade of grey.
‘May I smoke?’ she asked, sitting down.
‘Of course.’
She lit a cigarette, hands trembling. She attempted a rough imitation of a smile.
‘I quit only a week ago.
But since last night I must have smoked at least three packets.’
‘Thanks for coming in on your own. I really need a lot of information from you.’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
Montalbano secretly breathed a sigh of relief. Anna was a strong woman. There wasn’t going to be any sobbing or fainting. In fact, she had appealed to him from the moment he saw her in the doorway.
‘Even if some of my questions seem odd to you, please try to answer them anyway.’
‘Of course.’
‘Married?’
‘Who?’
‘You.’
‘No, I!m not. Not separated or divorced, either. .And not even engaged. Nothing. I live alone.’ ‘Why?’
Though Montalbano had forewarned her, Anna hesitated a moment before answering so personal a question.
‘I don’t think I’ve had time to think about myself, Inspector. A year before graduating from university, - my father died. Heart attack. He was very young. The year after I graduated, my mother died. I had to look after my little sister, Maria, who’s nineteen now and married and living in Milan, and my brother, Giuseppe, who works at a bank in Rome and is twenty-seven. I’m thirty-one. But aside from all that, I don’t think I’ve ever met the right
