Since the murderer had run the risk of being surprised with the corpse in the elevator by a tenant, this meant the crime had not been premeditated, but committed on im-pulse.
It wasn’t much to go on. Back at headquarters, the inspector thought about this a little, then glanced at his watch.
Two o’clock! No wonder he felt so famished. He called Fazio.
“I’m going to Calogero’s for some lunch. If Augello arrives in the meantime, send him to me. And one more thing: post a guard in front of the deceased’s apartment. Don’t let her in before I get there.” “Don’t let who in?”
“The victim’s wife, Mrs. Lapècora. Are the Piccirillos still here?”
“Yessir.”
“Send ’em home.”
“What’ll I tell them?”
“Tell ’em the investigation is continuing. Let those honest people shit their pants a little.”
2 8
h2> “What can I serve you today?”
“What’ve you got?”
“For the first course, whatever you like.”
“No first course for me today, I’d rather keep it light.”
“For the main course, I’ve prepared alalonga all’agrodolce, and hake in a sauce of anchovies.”
“Going in for haute cuisine, eh, Calò?”
“Now and then I get the urge.”
“Bring me a generous serving of the hake. Ah, and, while I’m waiting, make me a nice plate of seafood antipasto.” He was overcome by doubt. Was that a light meal? He left the question unanswered and opened the newspaper. It turned out that the little economic measure the government had promised would not be for fifteen billion lire, but twenty.
There were sure to be price increases, gasoline and cigarettes among them. The unemployment rate in the South had reached a figure that was better left unmentioned. The Northern League, after their tax revolt, had decided to expel the local prefects, a first step towards secession. Thirty youths in a town near Naples had gang-raped an Ethiopian girl. The town was defending them: the black girl was not only black, but a whore. An eight-year-old boy had hung himself. Three pushers were arrested, average age twelve. A twenty-year-old man had blown his brains out playing Russian roulette. A jealous old man of eighty—“Here’s your appetizer.”
And a good thing too. A few more news items and his appetite would have been gone. Then eight pieces of hake arrived, enough to feed four people. They were crying out their joy—the pieces of hake, that is—at having been cooked the way God had meant them to be. One whiff was enough to convey the dish’s perfection, achieved by the right amount of breadcrumbs and the delicate balance between the anchovies and the whisked egg.
He brought the first bite to his mouth, but did not swallow it immediately. He let the flavor spread sweetly and uniformly over his tongue and palate, allowing both to fully appreciate the gift they’d just been given. Then he swallowed, and Mimì Augello appeared in front of the table.
“Sit down.”
Mimì Augello sat down.
“I wouldn’t mind a bite myself,” he said.
“Do whatever you want, but don’t talk. I’m telling you as a brother, for your own good. Don’t talk for any reason in the world. If you interrupt me while I’m eating this hake, I’m liable to wring your neck.” “Could I have some spaghetti with clams?” Mimì, unfazed, asked Calogero as he was passing by.
“White sauce or red?”
“White.”
While waiting, Augello appropriated the inspector’s newspaper and started reading. When the spaghetti arrived, Montalbano had fortunately finished his hake. Fortunately, because Mimì proceeded to sprinkle a generous helping of Parmesan cheese over his plate. Christ! Even a hyena, which, being a hyena, feeds on carrion, would have been sickened to see a dish of pasta with clam sauce covered with Parmesan!
“How did you act with the commissioner?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just want to know if you licked his ass or his balls.”
“What on earth are you thinking?”
“C’mon, Mimì, I know you. You pounced on the case of the machine-gunned Tunisian just to make a good impression.”
“I merely did my duty, since you were nowhere to be found.”
Apparently the Parmesan was not enough, as he added two more spoonfuls, then ground a bit of pepper on top.
“And how did you enter the prefect’s office, on your hands and knees?”
“Knock it off, Salvo.”
“Why should I? Since you never miss a single opportu-nity to stab me in the back!”
“I? Stab you in the back? Listen, Salvo, if after working for four years with you I had really wanted to stab you in the back, you’d now be running the most godforsaken police station in the most godforsaken backwater in Sardinia, while I would be vice-commissioner at the very least. You know what you are, Salvo? You’re a colander that leaks water out of a thousand holes, and all I’m ever doing is trying to plug as many holes as possible.” He was absolutely right, and Montalbano, having let off some steam, changed his tone:
“Tell me at least what happened.”
“I wrote a report, it’s all in there. A large motor trawler from Mazàra del Vallo, the Santopadre, with a crew of six including one Tunisian. It was his first time on board, poor guy.
The usual scenario, what can I say? A Tunisian patrol boat orders them to stop, the fishing boat refuses, the patrol boat fires. Except that things went a bit differently this time. This time, somebody got killed, and I’m sure the Tunisians are sorrier than anybody about it. Because all they care about is seizing the boat and squeezing a ton of money out of the owner, who then has to negotiate with the Tunisian government.” “What about ours?”
“Our what?”
“Our government. Don’t they come into the picture somewhere?”
“God forbid! They’d make everybody waste an endless amount of time trying to resolve the problem through diplomatic channels. You see, the longer the fishing boat is de-tained, the less the owner earns.” “But what do the Tunisian coast guards get out of it?”
“They get a cut, just like the municipal cops in some of our towns. Not officially, of course. The captain of the Santopadre, who’s also the owner, says it was the Rameh that attacked them.” “And what’s that?”
“That’s the name of a Tunisian motor patrol boat whose commanding officer is notorious for behaving exactly like a pirate. But since somebody got killed this time, our government will be forced to intervene. The prefect asked for a very detailed report.” “So why did they come and bust our balls instead of dealing directly with Mazàra?”
“The Tunisian didn’t die immediately, and Vigàta was the nearest port. At any rate, the poor bastard didn’t make it.”
“Did they radio for help?”
“Yes, they hailed the Fulmine, a patrol boat that’s always riding at anchor in our port.”
“How did you put that?”
“Why, what did I say?”
“You said: ‘riding at anchor.’ And you probably wrote that in your report to the prefect. A nitpicker like that, I can already imagine his reaction! You’re fucked, Mimì, by your very own hand.” “And what should I have written?”
“ ‘Moored,’ Mimì, or ‘docked.’ ‘Riding at anchor’ means anchored on the open sea. There’s a fundamental difference.”
“Oh, God!”
It was well known that the prefect, who went by the name of Dieterich and hailed from Bolzano, didn’t know a caïque from a cruiser, but Augello had swallowed the bait and Montalbano relished his small victory.
“Don’t worry about it. So what was the upshot?”