“That will never happen, I promise you,” said the inspector. And he held out his hand. François shook it, looking him in the eye.
o o o
When he emerged from the bathroom, all ready to go to work, he saw that François had taken the puzzle apart and was cutting the pieces into different shapes with a pair of scissors. He was trying, in his naïve way, to avoid following the set pattern. All of a sudden Montalbano staggered, as if struck by an electrical charge.
“Jesus!” he whispered.
Livia looked over at him and saw him trembling, eyes popping out of his head. She became alarmed.
“My God, Salvo, what is it?”
His only answer was to pick up the boy, lift him over his head, look at him from below, put him back down, and kiss him.
“François, you’re a genius!” he said.
o o o
Entering the office, he nearly slammed into Mimì Augello, who was on his way out.
“Ah, Mimì. Thanks for the puzzle.”
Mimì only gaped at him, dumbfounded.
“Fazio, on the double!”
“At your service, Chief !”
Montalbano explained to him in great detail what he was supposed to do.
“Galluzzo, in my office!”
“Yes, sir.”
He explained to him in great detail what he was supposed to do.
“Can I come in?”
It was Tortorella, pushing the door open with his foot since his hands were busy carrying a stack of papers three feet high.
“What is it?”
“Didìo’s complaining.”
Didìo was the administrative manager of the Police Commissioner’s Office of Montelusa. He was nicknamed “The Scourge of God” and “The Wrath of God” for his punctil-iousness.
“What’s he complaining about?”
“Says you’re behind. Says you gotta sign some papers.” And he dropped the stack of papers on the desk. “Better take a deep breath and get started.”
o o o
After an hour of signing, with his hand already beginning to ache, Fazio came in.
“You’re right, Chief. The Vigàta-Fiacca bus makes a stop just outside of town, in the Cannatello district. And five minutes later, the bus coming from the other direction, the Fiacca-Vigàta, also stops at Cannatello.” “So somebody could, in theory, get on the bus for Fiacca in Vigàta, get off at Cannatello, and, five minutes later, get on the Fiacca-Vigàta bus and return to town.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Fazio. Well done.”
“Wait a minute, Chief. I brought back the ticket man from the morning line, the Fiacca-Vigàta. His name is Lopipàro. Should I have him come in?”
“By all means.”
Lopipàro, a reed-thin, surly man of about fifty, was keen to point out at once that he was not a ticket man, but a driver whose duties included collecting tickets. As the tickets were bought in tobacco shops, he did nothing more than collect them once the passengers had boarded the bus.
“Mr. Lopipàro, everything that’s said in this room must remain confidential.”
The driver/ticket man brought his right hand to his heart, as if taking a solemn oath.
“Silent as the grave,” he said.
“Mr. Lopìparo —”
“Lopipàro,” he corrected, stressing the penultimate syllable.
“Mr. Lopipàro, do you know Mrs. Lapècora, the lady whose husband was murdered?”
“I sure do. She’s got a season ticket for that line. She goes back and forth to Fiacca at least three times a week. She goes to visit her sister who’s sick; she’s always talking about her on the bus.” “I’m going to ask you to make an effort to remember something.”
“I’ll give it my best, since you ask.”
“Last Thursday, did you see Mrs. Lapècora?”
“No need to make any effort. I certainly did see her. We even had a little run-in.”
“You quarreled with Mrs. Lapècora?”
“Yessir, I sure did! Mrs. Lapècora, as everybody knows, is a little tight. She’s cheap. Well, on Thursday morning she caught the six-thirty bus for Fiacca. But when we stopped at Cannatello, she got off and told Cannizzaro, the driver, that she had to go back because she forgot something she was supposed to take to her sister. Cannizzaro, who told me all this that same evening, let her out. Five minutes later, on my way to Vigàta, I stopped at Cannatello, and the lady got on my bus.” “What did you argue about?”
“She didn’t want to give me a ticket for going from Cannatello to Vigàta. She claimed she shouldn’t have to use up two tickets for a little mistake. But I gotta have a ticket for every person on the bus. I couldn’t just look the other way, like Mrs. Lapècora wanted me to.” “It’s only right,” said Montalbano. “But tell me something. Let’s say the lady manages in half an hour to get what she forgot at home. How’s she going to get to Fiacca that same morning?” “She catches the Montelusa-Trapani bus, which stops in Vigàta at exactly seven-thirty. Which means she would arrive in Fiacca only an hour late.”
o o o
“Ingenious,” Fazio commented after Lopipàro had left.
“How did you figure it out?”
“The little kid, François, tipped me off when he was working on a jigsaw puzzle.”
“But why did she do it? Was she jealous of the Tunisian maid?”
“No. Mrs. Lapècora’s a cheapskate, as the man said. She was afraid her husband would spend everything he had on that woman. But there was something else that triggered the whole thing.” “What was that?”
“I’ll tell you later. As Catarella says, ‘Aravice is a nasty vice.’ It was greed, you see, that brought her to Lopipàro’s attention, when she should have been making every effort to remain unnoticed.”
o o o
“First it took me half an hour to find out where she lived, then I wasted another half hour trying to persuade the old lady, who didn’t trust me. She was afraid of me, but she calmed down when I asked her to come out of the house and she saw the police car. She made a small bundle of her things and then got in the car. You should have heard how the kid cried with delight when, to his surprise, she appeared out of nowhere! They gave each other a big hug. And your lady friend was also very moved.” “Thanks, Gallù.”
“When do you want me to come by to drive her back to Montelusa?”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it.” Their little family was growing without mercy. Now Grandma Aisha was also at Marinella.
o o o
He let the phone ring a long time, but nobody answered. The widow Lapècora wasn’t home. She must certainly be out shopping. There might, however, be another explanation. He dialed the number to the Cosentino household. The security guard’s likable, mustachioed wife answered, speaking in a soft voice.
“Is your husband asleep?”
“Yes, Inspector. Do you want me to call him?”
“There’s no need. You can give him my regards. Listen, signora: I tried calling Mrs. Lapècora, but there was no answer. Do you know by any chance if she—”
“You won’t find her in this morning, Inspector. She went to Fiacca to see her sister. She went today because tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock, she’s got the funeral of the dear—” “Thanks, signora.”
He hung up. Maybe this would simplify what needed to be done.
“Fazio!”
“At your orders, Chief.”
“Here are the keys to Lapècora’s office, Salita Granet 28.
Go inside and take the set of keys that are in the middle drawer of the desk. There’s a little tag attached to them that says ‘home.’ It must be an extra set that he used to keep at the office. Then go to Mrs. Lapècora’s house and let yourself in with those keys.” “Wait a second. What if she’s there?”