“Trying to pick the winning numbers?” asked Fazio.
“As sure as one and one makes two, there should be twenty apartments in this building, since it has four floors. But in fact there are only eighteen, if we exclude the Griffo and Sanfilippo flats. Which means we’ve got no less than eighteen families to interrogate, and two questions to ask each family. What do you know about the Griffos? And what do you know about Nenè Sanfilippo? If that little son of a bitch Mimì were here to give us a hand—”
Speak of the devil. At that moment, Fazio’s cell phone rang.
“It’s Inspector Augello. Wants to know if we need his help.”
Montalbano’s face turned red with rage.
“Tell him to get here immediately, and if he’s not here in five minutes, I’ll break his legs.”
Fazio gave him the message.
“While we’re waiting,” the inspector suggested, “let’s go have ourselves a cup of coffee.”
When they returned to Via Cavour, Mimi was already there waiting for them. Fazio walked discreetly away.
“Mimi,” the inspector began, “I’m really at my wit’s end with you. I’m speechless. What on earth is going through your head? Do you or don’t you know that—”
“I know,” Augello interrupted him.
“What the hell do you know?”
“What I’m supposed to know. That I fucked up.The fact is, I feel weird, confused.”
The inspector’s rage subsided. Mimi was standing before him with a look he’d never had before. Not the usual devil-may-care attitude. On the contrary, there was something resigned about him, something humble.
“Mimi, would you tell me what’s up with you?”
“I’ll tell you later, Salvo.”
Montalbano was about to place a consoling hand on his subordinate’s shoulder when a sudden suspicion stopped him. What if this son of a bitch Mimi was playacting the same way he himself had done with Bonetti-Alderighi, pretending to be servile when in fact he was taking his ass for a ride? Augello, who had a poker face worthy of a tragedian, was capable of this and more. In doubt, the inspector refrained from the affectionate gesture. Instead he filled him in on the disappearance of the Griffos.
“You’ll handle the tenants on the first and second floors, Fazio will take the fifth and ground floors, and I’ll do the third and fourth floors.”
Third floor, Apartment 12. The fiftyish widow Concetta Lo Mascolo, née Burgio, launched into the most impassioned of monologues.
“Don’t talk to me about this Nenè Sanfilippo, Inspector! Don’t mention that name! The poor boy was murdered, may he rest in peace! But he damned my soul, he did! During the day he was never at home, but at night, oh yes, he certainly was. And that, for me, was when the hell began! Every other night! Hell! You see, Mr. Inspector, my bedroom shares a wall with Sanfilippo’s bedroom. And the walls in this building are paper-thin! You can hear everything, every last little thing! And after they’d been playing music loud enough to break my eardrums, they would start in with another kind of music! A symphony! Clunkety clunkety clunkety clunk! And the bed would knock against the wall and play percussion! And the slut of the hour would go ah ah ah ah! And then clunkety clunkety clunkety clunk all over again, from the top! And I would start to think wicked thoughts. So I would say ten Hail Marys. Twenty Hail Marys. Thirty Hail Marys. But it was hopeless! I couldn’t get the thoughts out of my head. I’m still a young woman, Inspector! He was damning my soul! Anyway, no, sir, I know nothing about the Griffos.They never said a word to anyone. If nobody tells me anything, why should I tell you anything? Am I right?”
Third floor, Apartment 14. The Crucillà family. Husband: Stefano Crucillà, retired, former accountant at the fish market. Wife: Antonietta née De Carlo. Elder son: Calogero, mining engineer, working in Bolivia.Younger daughter: Samanta with no h between the t and the a, math teacher, unmarried, living at home with her parents. Samanta spoke for them all.
“You see, Inspector, just to give you an idea of how unsociable the Griffos were, one day I ran into Mrs. Griffo as she was coming through the front door of the building with her grocery cart filled to bursting and two plastic shopping bags in each hand. Since you have to climb three steps to get to the elevator, I asked if I could help her. She rudely said no. And the husband was no better.
“As for Nenè Sanfilippo, good-looking guy, full of life, very nice. What did he do? What young people always do at his age, when they’re free.”
With this, she shot a glance at her parents, sighing. She, alas, was not free. Otherwise she could have shown a thing or two to Nenè Sanfilippo, rest his soul.
Third floor, Apartment 15. Dr. Ernesto Assunto, dentist.
“This is only my office, Inspector. I live in Montelusa and only come here during the day. All I can tell you is that I ran into Mr. Griffo once when his left cheek was swollen with an abscess. When I asked him if he had a dentist, he said no. So I suggested he drop in at the office. For my trouble I was given only a firm ‘no’. As for Sanfilippo, you know what, Inspector? I never met him and don’t even know what he looked like.”
Montalbano began climbing the flight of stairs that led to the floor above when he happened to look at his watch. It was one-thirty and, seeing what time it was, he felt, by conditioned reflex, a tremendous hunger pang. The elevator passed him on its way up. He heroically decided to suffer the hunger and continue his questioning, since at that hour he was more likely to find people at home. In front of Apartment 16 stood a fat, bald man holding a black, misshapen tote bag in one hand and trying with the other to insert his key in the door. He saw the inspector stop behind him.
“You looking for me?”
“Yes, Mr ... ”
“Mistretta. Who are you?”
“I’m Inspector Montalbano.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to ask you a few questions about the young man who was murdered last night—”
“Yeah, I heard. The concierge told me everything when I was leaving for the office this morning. I work at the cement plant.”
“—and about the Griffos.”
“Why, what did the Griffos do?”
“They’re missing.”
Mr. Mistretta opened the door and stood aside.
“Please come in.”
Montalbano took one step inside and found himself in an apartment in utter disorder. Two mismatched, threadbare socks adorned a shelf near the entrance. He was shown into a room that must have once been a living room. Newspapers, dirty dishes, grimy glasses, clean and unwashed laundry, ashtrays overflowing with butts and ashes.
“It’s a little messy” Mr. Mistretta admitted, “but my wife’s been away for two months in Caltanissetta, with her ailing mother.”
From the black tote bag he extracted a can of tuna, a lemon, and a loaf of bread. He opened the can and emptied its contents onto the first plate within reach. Pushing aside a pair of underpants, he grabbed a fork and a knife. He cut the lemon and squeezed it onto the tuna.
“Care to join me? Look, Inspector, I don’t want to waste your time. I was thinking of filling your ear with bullshit just to keep you here awhile and have a little company But then I realized it wouldn’t be right. I probably met the Griffos a couple of times. But we didn’t even say hello. And I never even saw the young man who was killed.”
“Thanks. Good day,” said the inspector, standing up.
Even amidst all the filth, seeing somebody eat had redoubled his appetite.
Fourth floor. Beside the door to Apartment 18, under the doorbell, was a plaque that said: Guido and Gina De Dominicis. He rang the bell.