“The Fulmine arrived at the scene in less than half an hour, but once there, they didn’t find anything. They cruised around a bit in the area, with no results. This is what the Harbor Office learned by radio. When our patrol boat comes back in we’ll know a few more details.” “Bah!” said the inspector, doubtful.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t see why it should be of any concern to us or our government if some Tunisians kill a Tunisian.” Mimì, mouth agape, just stared at him.
“You know, Salvo, I’m sure I say my share of stupid things, but when you come out with one, it’s always a whopper.”
“Bah!” repeated Montalbano, unconvinced he’d said anything stupid.
“So, what about our dead man, the one in the elevator?
What can you tell me about him?”
“I’m not going to tell you anything. That dead man’s mine. You took the Tunisian, I’m taking the guy from Vigàta.”
Let’s hope the weather improves, thought Augello. Otherwise, how’s anyone going to put up with this guy?
o o o
“Hello, Inspector Montalbano? This is Marniti.”
“What can I do for you, Major?”
“I wanted to let you know that our command has decided—and I agree with them—that the fishing-boat incident should be handled by the Harbor Office of Mazàra. The Santopadre should therefore weigh anchor at once. Do your people need to do any further searches on the vessel?” “I don’t think so. But I’m thinking that we, too, ought to abide by the wise decision of your command.”
“I didn’t dare ask.”
o o o
“Montalbano here, Mr. Commissioner. Please excuse me if—”
“Any news?”
“No, nothing. I was just having some, uh, procedural doubts. Major Marniti of the Harbor Office phoned me just now to tell me their command has decided that the investigation of the Tunisian who was machine-gunned should be transferred to Mazàra. So I was wondering if we, too—” “Yes, I see, Montalbano. I think you’re right. I’ll call my counterpart in Trapani at once and tell him we’re quitting the investigation. They’ve got a vice-commissioner in Mazàra who’s really on the ball, if I remember correctly.
We’ll let them take over everything. Were you handling the case directly yourself ?”
“No, my deputy, Inspector Augello, was taking care of it.”
“Tell him we’ll be sending the autopsy and ballistics reports to Mazàra. We’ll have copies sent to Inspector Augello to keep him informed.”
o o o
He kicked open the door to Mimì Augello’s office, held out his right arm, clenching the fist and grabbing the forearm with his left hand.
“Here, Mimì.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the investigation of the killing on the fishing boat has been transferred to Mazàra.You’re left empty-handed, while I’ve still got my elevator murder. One to nothing.” He felt in a better mood now. In fact, the wind had dropped and the sky was clearing.
o o o
Around three in the afternoon, Officer Gallo, guarding the late Lapècora’s apartment and awaiting his widow’s return, saw the door to the Culicchia flat open up. The accountant approached the policeman and said in a whisper: “My wife has fallen asleep.”
Informed of this, Gallo didn’t know what to say.
“The name’s Culicchia, the inspector knows me. Have you eaten?”
Gallo, whose insides were tied in knots from hunger, shook his head “no.”
Culicchia went back into his apartment and soon returned with a platter on which there was a bread roll, a sizable slice of caciocavallo cheese, five slices of salami, and a glass of wine.
“That’s Corvo white. The inspector bought it for me.” He returned again half an hour later.
“I brought you the newspaper, to help you pass the time.”
o o o
At seven-thirty that evening, as if on cue, every single balcony or window on the same side of the building as the main entrance was full of people looking out for the return of Signora Antonietta, who still didn’t know she’d become a widow. The show was going to be in two parts.
Part one: Signora Antonietta, stepping off the bus from Fiacca, the seven twenty-five, would appear at the top of the street five minutes later, with her usual unsociability and self-possession in full view, and with no idea whatsoever that a bomb was about to explode over her head. This first part was indispensable to a full appreciation of the second (for which the spectators would move quickly away from balconies and windows and onto landings and stairwells): upon hearing from the officer on duty why she couldn’t enter her apartment, the widow, now apprised of her widowhood, would begin behaving like the Virgin Mary, tearing out her hair, crying out, beating her breast while being ineffectually re-strained by fellow mourners who in the meantime would have promptly come to her aid.
The show never took place.
It wasn’t right, the security guard and his wife decided, for Signora Antonietta to learn of her husband’s murder from a stranger’s mouth. Dressed for the occasion—he in a charcoal-gray suit, she completely in black—they lay in wait for her near the bus stop. When Signora Antonietta got off, they came forward, their faces now matching the colors of their clothing: he gray, she black.
“What’s wrong?” Signora Antonietta asked in alarm.
There is no Sicilian woman alive, of any class, aristocrat or peasant, who, after her fiftieth birthday, isn’t always expecting the worst. What kind of worst? Any, so long as it’s the worst.
Signora Antonietta conformed to the rule:
“Did something happen to my husband?” she asked.
Since she was doing it all herself, the only thing left for Cosentino and his wife was to play supporting roles. They spread their hands apart, looking sorrowful.
And here Signora Antonietta said something that, logi-cally speaking, she shouldn’t have said.
“Was he murdered?”
The Cosentinos spread their hands apart again. The widow teetered, but kept her footing.
The people at their windows and balconies therefore witnessed a scene that could only have been a disappointment: Mrs. Lapècora walking between Mr. and Mrs. Cosentino and speaking calmly. She was explaining in great detail the operation that her sister had just undergone in Fiacca.
In the dark as to these developments, Officer Gallo, upon hearing the elevator stop at his floor at seven thirty-five, stood up from the stair on which he’d been sitting, reviewing what he was supposed to say to the unhappy woman, and took a step forward. The elevator door opened and a man got out.
“Giuseppe Cosentino’s the name. Seeing as how Mrs.
Lapècora is going to have to wait, I’m putting her up at my place. Please inform the inspector. I live on the sixth floor.”
o o o
The Lapècora apartment was in perfect order. Living–dining room, bedroom, study, kitchen, and bath, nothing out of place. On the desk in the study lay the wallet of the deceased, with all his documents and one hundred thousand lire. Therefore—Montalbano said to himself—Aurelio Lapècora had got dressed to go somewhere he wouldn’t need identification, credit, or money. He sat down in the chair behind the desk and opened the drawers, one after the other. In the first drawer on the left he found stamps, old envelopes with aurelio lapècora inc. importazione-esportazione printed on the back, pencils, ballpoint pens, erasers, outdated stamps, and two sets of keys. The widow explained that one set was for the house and the other for the office. In the drawer below this one, there were only some yellowed letters bound together with string. The first drawer on the right held a surprise: a brand-new Beretta with two reserve car-tridge clips and five boxes of ammunition. Mr. Lapècora, if he’d wanted to, could have carried out a massacre. The last drawer contained lightbulbs, razor blades, rolls of string, and rubber bands.p>