inside him. ‘Thank you,’ said Anna. ‘For what?’
‘For letting me talk about Michela. I don’t have anybody to … Thanks. I feel calmer now.’
SIX
No sooner had Anna Tropeano left than the door to the inspector’s office flew open, slamming into the wall, and Catarella came barrelling into the room
‘The next time you come in here like that, I’m going to shoot you. And you know I mean it,’ Montalbano said calmly.
Catarella, however, was too excited to worry about this.
‘Chief, I just wanna say I got a call from the c’mis-sioner’s office. Remember the concourse in pewters I tof you ‘bout? Well, it starts Monday morning an’ I gotta be there. Whatcha gonna do witout me onna phone?’
‘We’ll survive, Cat.’
‘Oh, Chief, Chief! You said you dint wanna be distroubled when you was talking wit da lady an’ I did what you said! But inna meantime you gotta lotta phone calls! I wrote ‘em all down on dis li’l piece a paper.’
‘Give it to me and get out of here.’
On a poorly torn-out piece of notebook paper was written, ‘Phone calls: Vizzallo Guito, Sarah Valli Losconti yer frend Zito Rotono Totano Ficuccio Cangialosi Sarah Valli of Bolonia agin Cipollina Pinissi Cacamo.’
Montalbano started scratching himself all over. It must have been some mysterious form of allergy, but every time he was forced to read something Catarella had written, an irresistible itch came over him. With the patience of a saint, he deciphered: Vassallo, Guido Serravalle (Michela’s Bolognese lover), Loconte (who sold fabric for curtains), his friend Nicolo Zito, Rotondo (the furniture salesman), Todaro (the plant and garden man), Riguccio (the electrician), Cangelosi (who’d invited Michela to dinner) and Serravalle again. Cipollina, Pinissi and Cacamo, assuming that those were their real names, were unfamiliar to him, but in all likelihood they had phoned because they were friends or acquaintances of the murder victim.
‘May I?’ asked Fazio, sticking his head inside the door.
‘Come on in. Did you get the low-down on the engineer Di Blasi?’
‘Of course. Why else would I be here?’
Fazio was apparently expecting to be praised for having taken such a short time to gather the information.
‘See? You did it in less than an hour,’ the inspector said instead.
Fazio darkened.
Is that the kind of thanks I get?’ ‘Why do you want to be thanked just for doing your duty?’
Inspector, may I say something, with all due respect? This morning you re downright obnoxious.’
‘By the way, why haven’t I yet had the honour and pleasure, so to speak, of seeing Inspector Augello at the office this morning?’
‘He’s out today with Germana and Galluzzo looking into that business at the cement works.’
What’s this about?’
‘You don’t know? Yesterday, about thirty-five workers at the cement factory were given pink slips. This morning they started raising hell, shouting, throwing stones. The manager got scared and called, us up.’
‘And why did Mimi Augello go?’
Tie manager asked him for help!’
Jesus Christ’ If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. I don’t want anyone from my station getting mixed up in these things!’
‘But what was Augello supposed to do?’
‘He should have passed the phone call on to the carabinieri, who get off on that kind of thing! Mr Manager’s always going to find another position when the going gets tough. The ones who get thrown out on their arses are the workers. And we’re supposed to club them over the head?’
‘Chief, excuse me again, but you’re really and truly a communist, a hotheaded communist’
‘Fazio, you’re stuck on this communist crap. I’m not a communist, will you get that in your head once and for all?’
‘OK, but you really do sound like one.’ ‘Are we going to drop the politics?’ ‘Yessir. Anyway: Aurelio Di Blasi, son of Giacomo and Maria Antonietta nee Carlentini, born in Vigata on April‘1937—’
‘You get on my nerves when you talk that way. You sound like a clerk at the records office.’
‘You don’t like it, Chief ?
What do you want me to do, sing it? Recite it like poetry?’
‘You know, as for being obnoxious, you’re doing a pretty good job yourself this morning.’
The telephone rang,
‘At this rate we’ll be here till midnight,’ Fazio sighed.
‘H’lo, Chief? I got that Signor Cacano that called before onna line. Whaddo I do?’ ‘Let me talk to him.’
Inspector Montalbano? This is Gillo Jacono. I had the pleasure of meeting you at Mrs Vasile Cozzo’s house once. I’m a former student of hers.’
Over the receiver, in the background, Montalbano heard a female voice announcing the last call for the flight to Rome.
‘I remember very well. What can I do for you?’ ‘Excuse me for being so brief, but I’m at the airport and have only a few seconds.’
Brevity was something the inspector was always ready to excuse, at any time and under any circumstance.
‘I’m calling about the woman who was murdered.’ ‘Did you know her?’
‘No, but on Wednesday evening, about midnight, I was on my way from Montelusa to Vigata in my car when the motor started acting up, and so I began driving very slowly. When I was in the Tre Fontane district, a dark Twingo passed me and then stopped in front of a house a short distance ahead. A man and a woman got out and walked up the drive. I didn’t see anything else, but I’m sure about what I saw.’
‘When will you be back in Vigita?’
‘Next Thursday.’
‘Come in and see me.
Thanks.’
Montalbano drifted off.
That is, his body remained seated, but his mind was elsewhere.
‘What should I do, come back in a little bit?’ Fazio asked in resignation.
‘No, no. Go ahead and talk.’
‘Where was I? Ah, yes.
Construction engineer, but not a builder himself. Resides in Vigata, Via Laporta number eight, married to Teresa Dalli Cardillo, housewife, but a well-to-do housewife. Husband owns a large plot of farmland at Raffadali in Montelusa province, complete with farmhouse, which he refurbished. He’s got two cars, a Mercedes and a Tempra, two children, male and female. The female’s name is Manuela, thirty years old, married to a businessman and living in Holland.
They’ve got two children, Giuliano, age three, and Domenico, age one. They live —*’
‘Now I’m going to break your head,’ said Montalbano.
‘Why? What did I do?’ Fazio asked disingenuously. ‘I thought you said you wanted to know everything about everything!’
The phone rang. Fazio could only groan and look up at the ceiling.
Inspector. This is Emanuele Licalzi. I’m calling from Rome. My flight was two hours late leaving Bologna and so I missed the connection to Palermo. I’ll be there at about three this afternoon.’
‘No problem, I’ll be expecting you.’
He looked at Fazio and Fazio looked at him.
‘How much more of this bullshit have you got?’
‘I’m almost done. The son’s name is Maurizio.’
Montalbano sat up in his chair and pricked up his ears.
‘He’s thirty-one years old.
and a university student,’ ‘At thirty-one?’
‘At thirty-one. Seems he’s a little slow in the head. He lives with his parents. End of story.’
‘No, I’m sure that is not the end of the story. Go on.’ ‘Well, they’re only rumours ‘Doesn’t matter.’
Fazio was obviously having a great time playing this game with his boss, since he held all the cards.
‘Well, Engineer Di Blasi is the second cousin of Dr Emanuele Licalzi. Michela became like one of the Di Blasi family. And Maurizio lost his head over her. For everyone in town, it turned into a farce: whenever Mrs Licalzi went walking around Vigata, there he was, following behind her, with his tongue hanging out.’
So it was Maurizio’s name Anna didn’t want to give him.
‘Everyone I spoke to,’
Fazio continued, ‘told me he’s a gentle soul, and a little dense.’ ‘All right, thanks.’
