“Gimme a hand, Gallù. We’re going to put all these issues of this magazine in order and see if any pages are missing.” They found what they were looking for: the June 7 issue, the only one from which two pages had been torn out.
“Let’s keep going,” said the inspector.
The July 30 issue was also missing two pages; the same for the September 1 issue.
The three anonymous letters had been composed right there, in the office.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Montalbano said politely.
Galluzzo heard him singing in the bathroom.
5 7
h2> “Mr. Commissioner? Montalbano here. I’m calling to say I’m very sorry, but I can’t make it to dinner at your house tomorrow evening.”
“Are you sorry because you won’t be able to see us, or because you’ll miss the pasta in squid ink?”
“Both.”
“Well, if it’s something to do with work, I can’t really—”
“No, it’s got nothing to do with work . . . It’s that I’m about to receive an impromptu twenty-four-hour visit from my . . .” Fiancée? That sounded downright nineteenth-century to the inspector’s ear. Girlfriend? At their age?
“Companion?” the commissioner suggested.
“Right.”
“Miss Livia Burlando must be very fond of you to un-dertake such a long and tedious journey to see you for just twenty-four hours.”
Never had he so much as mentioned Livia to his superior, who—officially, at least—should have been unaware of her existence. Not even when he was in the hospital, that time he’d been shot, had the two ever met.
“Listen,” said the commissioner, “why don’t you introduce her to us? My wife would love that. Bring her along with you tomorrow evening.”
Saturday’s feast was safe.
o o o
“Is this the inspector I’m speaking to? In person?”
“Yes, ma’am, this is he.”
“I wanted to tell you something about the gentleman who was murdered yesterday morning.”
“Did you know him?”
“Yes and no. I never spoke to him. Actually, I only found out his name yesterday, on the TV news.”
“Tell me, ma’am, do you consider what you have to tell me truly important?”
“I think so.”
“All right. Come by my office this afternoon, around five.”
“I can’t.”
“Well, tomorrow, then.”
“I can’t tomorrow, either. I’m paralyzed.”
“I see. Then I’ll come to you, right away, if you wish.”
“I’m always at home.”
“Where do you live, signora?”
“Salita Granet 23. My name is ClementinaVasile Cozzo.”
o o o
Walking down the Corso on his way to the appointment, he heard someone call him. It was Major Marniti, sitting at the Caffè Albanese with a younger officer.
“Let me introduce to you Lieutenant Piovesan, commander of the Fulmine, the patrol boat that—”
“Montalbano’s the name, pleased to meet you,” said the inspector. But he wasn’t pleased at all. He had managed to dump that case. Why did they keep dragging him back in?
“Have a coffee with us.”
“Actually, I’m busy.”
“Just five minutes.”
“All right, but no coffee.”
He sat down.
“You tell him,” Marniti said to Piovesan.
“In my opinion, none of it’s true.”
“What’s not true?”
“I find the whole story of the fishing boat hard to swallow. We received the Santopadre’s Mayday signal at one in the morning; they gave us their position and said they were being pursued by the patrol boat Rameh.” “What was their position?” the inspector inquired in spite of himself.
“Just outside our territorial waters.”
“And you raced to the scene.”
“Actually it should have been up to the Lampo patrol boat, which was closer.”
“So why didn’t the Lampo go?”
“Because an hour earlier, an SOS was sent out by a fishing boat that was taking in water from a leak. The Lampo radioed the Tuono for backup, and so a big stretch of sea was left unguarded.” Fulmine, Lampo, Tuono: lightning, flash, thunder. It’s always bad weather for the coast guard, thought Montalbano. But he said:
“Naturally, they didn’t find any fishing boat in trouble.”
“Naturally. And me, too, when I arrived at the scene, I found no trace of the Santopadre or the Rameh, which, by the way, was certainly not on duty that night. I don’t know what to think, but the whole thing stinks to me.” “Of what?”
“Of smuggling.”
The inspector stood up, threw up his hands, and shrugged:
“Well, what can we do? The people in Trapani and Mazàra have taken over the investigation.” A consummate actor, Montalbano.
o o o
“Inspector! Inspector Montalbano!” Somebody was calling him again. Was he ever going to get to see Signora, or Signorina, Clementina before nightfall? He turned around; it was Gallo who was chasing after him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I saw you walking by so I called you.”
“Where are you going?”
“Galluzzo phoned me from Lapècora’s office. I’m going to buy some sandwiches and keep him company.” Number 23, Salita Granet, was directly opposite number 28. The two buildings were identical.
o o o
Clementina Vasile Cozzo was a very well-dressed seventy-year-old lady. She was in a wheelchair. Her apartment was so clean it glistened. With Montalbano following behind, she rolled herself over to a curtained window. She gestured to the inspector to pull up a chair and sit down in front of her.
“I’m a widow,” she began, “but my son Giulio sees to all my needs. I’m retired; I used to teach elementary school. My son pays for a housekeeper to look after me and my flat. She comes three times a day, in the morning, at midday, and in the evening, when I go to bed. My daughter-in-law, who loves me like a daughter, drops by at least once a day, as does Giulio. I can’t complain, except for this one misfortune, which befell me six years ago. I listen to the radio, watch television, but most of the time I read. You see?” She waved her hand toward two bookcases full of books.
So when was the signora—not signorina, that much was clear—going to get to the point?
“I’ve just given you this preamble to let you know I’m not some old gossip who spends all her time spying on what others are up to. Still, now and then I do see things I would rather not have seen.” A cordless phone rang on the shelf below the woman’s armrest.
“Giulio? Yes, the inspector’s here. No, I don’t need anything. See you later. Bye.”
She looked at Montalbano and smiled.
“Giulio was against our meeting. He didn’t want me getting mixed up in things that, in his opinion, were no concern of mine. For decades the respectable people here did nothing but repeat that the Mafia was no concern of theirs but only involved the people involved in it. But I used to teach my pupils that the ‘see-nothing, know-nothing’ attitude is the most mortal of sins. So now that it’s my turn to tell what I saw, I’m supposed to take a step back?” She fell silent, sighing. Montalbano was starting to like Clementina Vasile Cozzo more and more.
“You’ll have to forgive me for rambling. In my forty years as a schoolteacher, I did nothing but talk and talk. I never lost the habit. Please stand.”
Montalbano obeyed, like a good schoolboy.
“Come here behind me and lean forward; bring your head next to mine.”
When the inspector was close enough to whisper in her ear, the signora raised the curtain.
They were practically inside the front room of Mr.
Lapècora’s office, since the white muslin lying directly against the windowpanes was too light to act as a screen.