Chin up, old boy.
The Caffe-Lattes had warmed up dangerously. Montalbano began to feel worried.
‘I’ll go and inform the commissioner at once.’
He vanished, then reappeared.
‘The commissioner’s momentarily unavailable. Come, let me show you into the waiting room. Would you like a coffee or something else to drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
Dr Lattes, after flashing him a broad, paternal smile, disappeared. Montalbano felt certain the commissioner had condemned him to a slow and painful death. The garrotte, perhaps.
On the table in the dismal little waiting room there was a magazine,
A hand was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw a uniformed policeman.
‘The commissioner is waiting for you.’
Jesus! He’d fallen into a deep sleep. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was eight o’clock. The fucker had made him wait two hours.
‘Good evening, Mr Commissioner.’
The noble Luca Bonetri-Alderighi didn’t answer, didn’t even say ‘Shoo’ or ‘Get out of here’, but only continued staring at a computer screen. The inspector contemplated his superior’s disturbing hairdo, which was very full with a great big tuft in the middle that curled back like certain turds deposited in the open country. An exact replica of the coif of that criminally insane psychiatrist who’d triggered all the butchery in Bosnia.
‘What was his name?’
It was too late when he realized that, still dazed from sleep, he’d spoken aloud.
‘What was whose name?’
asked the commissioner, finally looking up at him.
‘Never mind,’ said Montalbano.
The commissioner kept looking at him with an expression that combined contempt and commiseration, apparently discerning unmistakable signs of senile dementia in the inspector.
I’m going to speak very frankly, Montalbano. I don’t have a very high opinion of you.’
‘Nor I of you,’ the inspector replied bluntly.
‘Good. At least things are clear between us. I called you here to tell you that I’m taking you off the Licalzi murder case.
I’ve handed it over to Panzacchi, captain of the Flying Squad, to whom the investigation should have fallen by rights in the first place.’
Ernesto Panzacchi was a loyal follower whom Bonetti-Alderighi had brought, with him to Montelusa.
‘May I ask you why, though I couldn’t care less?’
‘You committed a foolish act that created a serious impediment for Dr Arqua.’
‘Did he write that in his report?’
‘No, he didn’t write it in his report. He very generously didn’t want to damage your career. But then he repented and told me the whole story.’
‘Ah, these repenters!’
commented the inspector.
‘Do you have something against repenters?’
‘Let’s drop it.’
He left without even saying goodbye. I’m going to take disciplinary measures!’ Bonetti-Alderighi shouted at his back.
The forensics laboratory was located in the building’s basement.
Is Dr Arqua in?’
‘He’s in his office.’
Montalbano barged in without knocking.
‘Hello, Arqua. I’m on my way to the commissioner’s, he wants to see me. Thought I’d drop in and see if you have any news for me.’
Vanni Arqua was obviously embarrassed. But since Montalbano had led him to believe he hadn’t yet seen the commissioner, he decided to answer as if he didn’t know the inspector was no longer in charge of the investigation.
‘The murderer cleaned everything very carefully. We found a lot of fingerprints, but they clearly had nothing to do with the homicide.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they were all yours, Inspector. You continue to be very, very careless.’
‘Oh, listen, Arqua. Did you know that it’s a sin to rat on someone? Ask Dr Lattes. You’ll have to repent all over again.’
‘Hey, Chief! Mr Cacano called another time again! Said as how he ‘membered somethin s might be maybe impor’ant. I wrote ‘is number down on dis here piece a paper.’
Eyeing the little square of paper, Montalbano felt his body start to itch all over. Catarella had written the numbers down in such a way that a three might be a five or a nine, the two a four, the five a six, and so on.
‘Hey, Cat! What kind of number is this, anyway?’
‘That’s the number, Chief.
Cacano’s number. What’s written down.’
Before reaching Gillo Jacono, he spoke to a bar, the Jacopetti family and one Dr Balzani.
By the fourth attempt, he was very discouraged.
‘Hello? Whom I speaking with? This is Inspector Montalbano.’
‘Ah, Inspector, it’s very good you called. I was on my way out.’
‘You were looking for me?’
‘A certain detail came back to me, I’m not sure if it’ll be of any use to you. The man I saw getting out of the Twingo and walk towards the house with a woman had a suitcase in his hand.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘An overnight bag?’
‘No, Inspector, it was pretty big. But..’
Yes?’
‘I had the impression the man was carrying it without effort, as if there wasn’t much in it.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jacono.
Please call me when you get
back.’
He looked up the Vassallos’
number in the phone book and dialled it.
“Inspector. I came to your office as we’d agreed, but you weren’t there. I waited a while, and then I had to go.’
‘Please forgive me. Listen, Mr Vassallo, last Wednesday evening, when you were waiting for Mrs Licalzi to come to dinner, did anybody call you?’
‘Well, a friend of mine from Venice did, and so did our daughter, who lives in Catania — I’m sure that’s of no interest to you. But, in fact, what I wanted to tell you this afternoon was that Maurizio Di Blasi did call twice that evening. Just after nine o’clock, and again just after ten. He was looking for Michela.’
The unpleasantness of his meeting with the commissioner needed to be blotted out with a solemn feast. The Trattoria San Calogero was dosed, but he remembered a friend telling him that right at the gates to Joppolo Giancaxio, a little town about twenty kilometres inland from Vigata, there was an
‘Bring me whatever you like.’
The Gentleman King smiled, appreciating the vote of confidence.
As a first course, he served him a large dish of macaroni in a light sauce dubbed Foco vivo or ‘live fire’ (olive oil, garlic, lots of hot red pepper, salt), which the inspector was forced to wash down with half a bottle of wine. For the second course, he ate a substantial portion of lamb alia cacciatora that had a pleasant fragrance of onion and oregano. He closed with a ricotta cheesecake and small glass of anisette as a viaticum and boost for his digestive system. He paid the bill, a pittance, and exchanged a handshake and smile with the Gentleman King.
‘Excuse me, who’s the cook?’
‘My wife.’
‘Please give her my compliments.’ ‘I will’
On the drive back, instead of heading towards Montelusa, he turned onto the road for Fiacca, which brought him home to Marinella from the direction opposite the one he usually took when coming from Vigata. It took him half an hour longer, but in compensation he avoided passing in front of Anna Tropeano’s house. He was certain he would have stopped, there
