Voice of the Violin

the right foot?’

Dr Pasquano narrowed his beady eyes.

‘Why are you asking me about the right foot?’

‘Because I don’t find the left one very interesting.’

‘Right. He hurt himself, a sprain or something, couldn’t get his shoe back on. But he’d hurt himself a few days before he was killed His face was all swollen from some kind of blow.’

Montalbano gave a start.

‘Had he been beaten?’

‘I don’t know. He was either hit hard in the face with a stick or club or ran into something. But it wasn’t the policemen. The contusion dated from some time before that.’

‘From when he hurt his foot?’ ‘More or less, I suppose.’

Montalbano stood up and held out his hand to the doctor.

‘Thank you. I’ll be on my way. One last tiling. Did they inform you immediately?’

Inform me of what?’

‘Of the fact they’d shot Di Blasi.’ Dr Pasquano squinted his eyes so

far that he looked as if he’d suddenly fallen asleep. He didn’t answer immediately.

‘Do you dream these things up at night? Do the crows whisper them in your ear? Do you talk to ghosts? No, they shot the kid at six in the morning. They didn’t inform me until around ten. Said they wanted to finish searching the house first,’

‘One final question.’

With all your final questions, you’re going to keep me here till nightfall’

‘After they turned Di Blasi’s body over to you, did anyone from the Flying Squad ask for your permission to examine it alone?’

Dr Pasquano looked surprised.

‘No. Why would they do that?’

Montalbano returned to the Free Channel. He had to bring Nicolo Zito up to date on the latest developments. He was sure Guttadauro the lawyer would be gone by now.

‘Why’d you come back?’

‘Tell you in a second, Nicolo. How’d it go with the lawyer?’

‘I did what you told me to do. I suggested he go and talk to the judge. He said he’d think about it. Then he added something curious, that had nothing to do with anything. Or so it seemed. You never know with these people. He said, “Lucky you, who live among images! Nowadays only images matter, not words.” That’s what he said. What’s it mean?’

‘I don’t know. You know, Nicolo, they’ve got the grenade.’

‘God! So what Guttadauro told us is untrue!’

‘No, it’s true. Panzacchi’s a shrewd one, he’s covered himself very cleverly. The crime lab’s examining a grenade that Panzacchi gave them, and it’s got Di Blasi’s fingerprints on it’

‘Jesus, what a mess!

Panzacchi’s covered himself from every angle! What am I going to tell Tommaseo?’

‘Exactly what we agreed on.

Except you shouldn’t appear too sceptical about the existence of the grenade.

Understood?’

To get to Vigata from Montelusa there was, aside from the usual route, a little abandoned road the inspector was very fond of. He turned onto it, and when he’d reached a small bridge spanning a torrent that had ceased being a torrent centuries ago and was now merely a depression of stones and pebbles, he stopped the car, got out, and wended his way into a thicket at the centre of which stood a gigantic Saracen olive tree, one of those twisted, gnarled ones that creep along the ground like snakes before ascending to the sky. He sat down on a branch, lit a cigarette, and started meditating on the events of the morning.

Mimi, come in, close the door, and have a seat, I need some information from you.’ ‘Ready.’

If I seize a weapon from someone, say, a revolver or a submachine gun, what do I do with it?’

‘Usually, you give it to whoever’s standing closest to you.’

‘Did we wake up this morning with a sense of humour?’

‘You want to know the regulations on the subject? Weapons seized must be turned immediately over to the appointed office at Montelusa Central Police Station, where they are registered and then put away under lock and key in a small depository at the opposite end of the building from the forensics lab of, in this case, Montelusa. Good enough?’

‘Yes. Now, Mimi, I’m going to venture a reconstruction. If I say anything stupid, interrupt me. Here goes:

Panzacchi and his men search Engineer Di Blast’s country house. The front door, mind you, is bolted with an enormous padlock.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Mimi, don’t take advantage of the permission I just gave you. A padlock is not something stupid. I know it was there, period. They, however, think it might be a ruse — that is, they think Di Blasi senior, after supplying his son with provisions, locked him up inside so the house would appear uninhabited. He would go and free him after things cooled down a little. Suddenly, one of the men spots Maurizio on a nearby hillside going into the cave. They go and surround the entrance, Maurizio comes out holding something in his hand, and one of the more nervous policemen shoots and kills him. When they realize the poor bastard was holding his right shoe in his hand because he could no longer fit it on his injured foot —’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Mimi, if you don’t knock it off, I’m going to stop telling you the story. When they see it’s only a shoe, they realize they’re in shit up to their necks. The brilliant operation of Ernesto Panzacchi and his dirty half dozen is in danger of creating a terrible stink. After thinking long and hard, they realize the only way out is to claim that Maurizio actually was armed. OK, but with what?

And that’s where our Flying Squad captain has a brainstorm: a hand grenade.’

‘Why not a gun, which is more likely?’

‘Face it, Mimi, you’re just not on Panzacchi’s level. The captain of the Flying Squad knows that Engineer Di Blasi doesn’t have a licence to carry a gun, nor has he ever reported owning any weapons. But a war memento, which you’ve got before your eyes each day, is no longer considered a weapon. Or else it’s packed away in an attic and forgotten.’

‘May I say something? In 1940 Engineer Di Blasi was about five years old, and if he was doing any fighting, it was with a popgun.’

‘What about his father, Mimi?

An uncle, perhaps? A cousin? His grandfather? His great-grandfather? His—’

‘OK, OK.’

‘The problem is, where does one find a war-surplus hand grenade?’

In the Montelusa police depository,’ Mimi Augello said calmly.

‘Right you are. And the timing fits, because they didn’t notify Dr Pasquano until four hours after Maurizio’s death.’

‘How do you know that? OK, sorry.’

‘Do you know who’s in charge of the depository?’

‘Yes, and you know him, too: Nene Lofaro. He worked here with us for a while.’

‘Lofaro? If I remember him correctly, he’s not the kind of person to whom you can say, “Give me the key, I need a hand grenade.’”

‘We’ll have to look into how it was done.’ ‘You go to Montelusa, Mimi. I can’t, since I’m under fire.’

‘All right. Oh, Salvo, could I have the day off tomorrow?’

‘You got some whore on your hands?’ ‘Not a whore, a lady friend.’

‘But can’t you spend the evening with her, after you’ve finished here?’

‘She said she’s leaving tomorrow afternoon.’

‘A foreigner, eh? All right, good luck. But first you have to unravel this story of the hand grenade.’,

‘Not to worry. I’ll go to Montelusa today, after I eat.’

He felt like spending a little time with Anna, but once over the bridge, he shot past and went straight home.

In his letter box he found a large brown envelope that the postman had folded in two to make it fit. There was no return address. Feeling hungry, Montalbano opened the fridge: baby octopus alla luciana and a very simple fresh tomato sauce.

Apparently Adelina hadn’t had the time or the desire to make more. While waiting for the spaghetti water to boil, he opened the envelope. Inside was a colour catalogue for ‘Eroservice’, featuring pornographic videos for every single, or singular, taste. He tore it in half and tossed it into the rubbish bin. He ate and went into the bathroom, then came racing out, trousers unzipped, like a character in a silent film. How had he not thought of it sooner? Had it taken the porno catalogue? He looked up a number in the Montelusa phone book.

‘Hello,