“When?”
“When you discovered your husband had withdrawn a large sum from his bank account.”
This time, too, the inspector was bluffing. It worked.
“Two hundred million lire!” the widow said in rage and despair. “Two hundred million for that disgusting whore!” That explained part of the money in Karima’s bank book.
“If I didn’t stop him, he was liable to eat up the office, our home, and our savings!”
“Shall we put this all in a statement, signora? But first tell me one thing. What did your husband say when you appeared before him?”
“He said: ‘Get the hell out of my way. I have to go to the office.’ He’d probably had a spat with the slut, she’d left, and he was running after her.”
o o o
“Mr. Commissioner? Montalbano here. I’m calling to let you know that I’ve just now managed to get Mrs. Lapècora to confess to her husband’s murder.”
“Congratulations. Why did she do it?”
“Self-interest, which she’s trying to disguise as jealousy. I need to ask a favor of you. Could I hold a press conference?” There was no answer.
“Commissioner? I asked if I could—”
“I heard you perfectly well, Montalbano. It’s just that I was speechless with amazement. You want to hold a press conference? I don’t believe it!”
“And yet it’s true.”
“All right, go ahead. But later you must explain to me what’s behind it.”
o o o
“Are you saying that Mrs. Lapècora had long known about her husband’s relations with Karima?” asked Galluzzo’s brother-in-law in his capacity as a reporter for TeleVigàta.
“Yes. Thanks to no less than three anonymous letters that her husband had sent to her.”
At first they didn’t understand.
“Do you mean to say that Mr. Lapècora actually denounced himself to his wife?” asked a bewildered journalist.
“Yes. Because Karima had started blackmailing him. He was hoping his wife’s reaction would free him from his predicament. But Mrs. Lapècora did not intervene. Nor did their son.” “Excuse me, but why didn’t he turn to the police?”
“Because he thought it would create a big scandal.
Whereas, with his wife’s help, he was hoping matters would stay within the, uh, family circle.”
“But where is this Karima now?”
“We don’t know. She escaped with her son, a little boy.
Actually one of her friends, who was worried about their disappearance, asked the Free Channel to air a photo of the mother and her son. But so far nobody has come forward.” They thanked him and left. Montalbano smiled in satisfaction. The first puzzle had been solved, perfectly, within its specific outline. Fahrid, Ahmed, and even Aisha had been left out of it. With them in it, had they been properly used, the puzzle’s design would have been entirely different.
o o o
He was early for his appointment with Valente. He stopped in front of the restaurant where he’d gone the last time he was in Mazàra. He gobbled up a sauté of clams in breadcrumbs, a heaping dish of spaghetti with white clam sauce, a roast turbot with oregano and caramelized lemon, and he topped it all off with a bitter chocolate timbale in orange sauce. When it was all over he stood up, went into the kitchen, and shook the chef ’s hand without saying a word, deeply moved. In the car, on his way to Valente’s office, he sang at the top of his lungs: “Guarda come dondolo, guarda come dondolo, col twist . . .”
o o o
Valente showed Montalbano into a room next to his own.
“It’s something we’ve done before,” he said. “We leave the door ajar, and you, by manipulating this little mirror, can see what’s happening in my office, if hearing’s not enough.” “Be careful,Valente. It’s a matter of seconds.”
“Leave it to us.”
o o o
Commendatore Spadaccia walked into Valente’s office. It was immediately clear he was nervous.
“I’m sorry, Commissioner Valente, I don’t understand.
You could have easily come to the prefecture yourself and saved me some time. I’m a very busy man, you know.”
“Please forgive me, Commendatore,” Valente said with abject humility. “You’re absolutely right. But we’ll make up for that at once; I won’t keep you more than five minutes. I just need a simple clarification.” “All right.”
“The last time we met, you told me the prefect had been asked in some way—”
The commendatore raised an imperious hand, and Valente immediately fell silent.
“If that’s what I said, I was wrong. His Excellency knows nothing about all this. Anyway, it’s the sort of bullshit we see every day. The ministry, in Rome, phoned me; they don’t bother His Excellency with this kind of crap.” Obviously the prefect, after getting the phone call from the bogus Corriere reporter, had asked the chief of his cabinet for an explanation. And it must have been a rather lively discussion, the echoes of which could still be heard in the strong words the commendatore was using.
“Go on,” Spadaccia urged.
Valente threw up his hands, a halo hovering over his head.
“That’s all,” he said.
Spadaccia, dumbstruck, looked all around as if to verify the reality of what was happening.
“Are you telling me you have nothing more to ask me?”
“That’s right.”
Spadaccia slammed his hand down on the desk with such force that even Montalbano jumped in the next room.
“You think you’ve made an ass of me, but you’ll pay for this, just wait and see!”
He stormed out, fuming. Montalbano ran to the window, nerves taut. He saw the commendatore shoot out the front door like a bullet towards his car, whose driver was getting out to open the door for him. At that exact moment, the door of a squad car that had just pulled up opened, and out came Angelo Prestìa, who was immediately taken by the arm by a policeman. Spadaccia and the captain of the fishing boat stood almost face-to-face. They said nothing to each other, and each continued on his way.
The whinny of joy that Montalbano let out now and then when things went right for him terrified Valente, who came running from the next room.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“It worked!”
“Sit down here,” they heard a policeman say. Prestìa had been brought into the office.
Valente and Montalbano stayed where they were; each lit a cigarette and smoked it without saying a word to the other.
Meanwhile the captain of the Santopadre was simmering on a low flame.
o o o
They entered with faces like the bearers of black clouds and bitter cargoes. Valente went and sat behind his desk; Montalbano pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.
“When’s this aggravation gonna end?” the captain began.
He didn’t realize that with his aggressive attitude, he had just revealed what he was thinking to Valente and Montalbano: that is, he believed that Commendator Spadaccia had come to vouch for the truth of his testimony. He felt at peace, and could therefore play indignant.
On the desk was a voluminous folder on which Angelo Prestìa’s name was written in large block letters—voluminous because it was filled with old memos, but the captain didn’t know this. Valente opened it and took out Spadaccia’s calling card.
“You gave this to us, correct?”
Valente’s switch from the politeness of last time to a more coplike bluntness worried Prestìa.
“Of course it’s correct. The commendatore gave it to me and said if I had any trouble after taking the Tunisian aboard I could turn to him. Which I did.”
“Wrong,” said Montalbano, fresh as a spring chicken.
“But that’s what he told me to do!”
“Of course that’s what he told you to do, but as soon as you smelled a rat, you gave that calling card to us instead.
And in doing so, you put that good man in a pickle.”