"I'm told you know the manager of this open-air whorehouse," the lieutenant inquired with some disdain.
"Yes, he's a friend of mine," Montalbano replied in a tone of obvious defiance.
"Do you know where I could find him?"
"At home, I would imagine."
"He's not there."
"Excuse me, but why do you think I can tell you where he is?"
"You're his friend, you said so yourself."
"Oh, and I suppose you can tell me, at this exact moment, where all your friends from Bergamo are and what they're doing?"
Cars were continually arriving from the main road, turning onto the Pastures small byways, noticing the swarm of carabinieri squad cars, shifting into reverse, and quickly returning to the road they'd come from. The blondes from the East, Brazilian viados, Nigerian nymphs, and the rest of the gang were coming to work, smelling something fishy, and scattering in every direction. It promised to be a miserable night for Gege business.
The lieutenant walked back towards the green car. Montalbano turned his back to him and without saying a word returned to his own vehicle. He said to Fazio:
"You and Galluzzo stay here. See what they're doing and what they find out. I'm going to the station."
...
Montalbano stopped in front of Sarcutos Stationery and Book Shop, the only one in Vig that was true to its sign; the other two sold not books but satchels, notebooks, and pens. He remembered he'd finished the Vasquez Montalb novel and had nothing else to read.
"We've got the new book on Falcone and Borsellino!"
Signora Sarcuto announced as soon as she saw him enter.
She still hadn't understood that Montalbano hated books that talked about the Mafia, murder, and Mafia victims. He didn't know why she couldn't grasp this, since he never bought them and didn't even read their jacket copy. He bought a book by Luigi Consolo, who'd won an important literary prize some time before. After he'd taken a few steps outside, the book slid out from under his arm and fell onto the sidewalk. He bent down to pick it up, then got back in his car.
At headquarters Catarella told him there was no news. Montalbano obsessively wrote his name in every book he bought. As he reached for one of the pens on his desk, his eye fell on the coins that Jacomuzzi had left him. The first one, a copper coin dated 1934, had the kings profile and the words Victor Emmanuel III, King of Italy on one side, and a spike of wheat and C. 5, five centesimi, on the other. The second coin, dated 1936 and also copper, was a little bigger and had the same kings head with the same words on one side, and a bee resting on a flower with the letter C and the number 10, ten centesimi, on the other. The third was made of a light metal alloy, with the inevitable kings head and accompanying words on one side, on the other an eagle displayed, with a Roman fasces partially visible behind it. This side also had four inscriptions: L. 1, which meant one lira; ITALIA, which meant Italy; 1942, which was the date of minting; and XX, which meant year twenty of the Fascist era. As he was staring at this last coin, Montalbano remembered what it was he had seen when bending down to pick up the book he'd dropped in front of the bookshop. He'd seen the front window of the store next door, which featured a display of antique coins.
He got up from his desk, informed Catarella he was going out and would be back in half an hour at the most, and headed off to the shop on foot. It was called Things, and things were what it sold: desert roses, stamps, candlesticks, rings, brooches, coins, semiprecious stones. He went inside, and a neat, pretty girl welcomed him with a smile. Sorry to disappoint her, the inspector explained that he wasn't there to buy anything, but since he'd seen some ancient coins displayed in the window, he wanted to know if there was anyone, there in the store or in Vig, with expertise in numismatics.
"Of course there is," said the girl, still smiling delightfully. "There's my grandfather."
"Where might I disturb him?"
"You wouldn't be disturbing him at all. Actually, he'd be happy to help you. He's in the back room. Just wait a moment while I go tell him."
He hadn't even had time to look at a hammerless late-nineteenth-century pistol when the girl reappeared.
"You can go inside."
The back room was a glorious jumble of old phonographs with horns, prehistoric sewing machines, copying presses, paintings, prints, chamber pots, and pipes. And it was entirely lined with bookshelves on which sat, higgledy-piggledy, an assortment of incunabula, parchment-bound tomes, lampshades, umbrellas, and opera hats. In the middle of it all was a desk with an old man sitting behind it, an art-nouveau lamp shedding light on his labors. He was holding a stamp with a pair of tweezers and examining it under a magnifying glass.
"What is it?" he asked gruffly, without looking up.
Montalbano laid the three coins down in front of him. The old man took his eyes momentarily off the stamp and glanced distractedly at them.
"Worthless," he said.
Of the various old men he'd been encountering in his investigation of the Crasticeddru deaths, this one was the grumpiest.
I ought to gather them all together at an old folks home, the inspector thought. That'd make it easier to question them.
"I know they're worthless."
"So what is it you want to know?"
"When they went out of circulation."
"Use your brain a little."
"When the Republic was proclaimed?" Montalbano hesitantly guessed.
He felt like a student who hadn't studied for the exam. The old man laughed, and his laugh sounded like the noise of two empty tin cans rubbing together.
"Am I wrong?"
"Very wrong. The Americans landed here the night of July 910, 1943. In October of that same year, these coins went out of use. They were replaced by Amlire, the paper money printed up by Amgot, the Allied military administration of the occupied territories. And since these bills were for one, five, and ten lire, the centesimo coins disappeared from circulation."
...
By the time Fazio and Galluzzo returned, it was already dark.
The inspector scolded them.
"Damn you both! You certainly took your time!"
"Who, us?" Fazio shot back. "You know what the lieu tenants like! Before he could touch the body, he had to wait for Pasquano and the judge to arrive. And they certainly did take their time!"
"And so?"
"A new-laid corpse if I ever saw one, fresh as can be. Pasquano said less than an hour had passed between the killing and the phone calls. The guy had an ID card on him. Pietro Gullo's his name, forty-two years old, blue eyes, blond hair, fair complexion, born in Merfi, resident of Fela, Via Matteotti 32, married, no distinguishing features."
"You ought to get a job at the Records Office."
Fazio nobly ignored the provocation and continued.
"I went to Montelusa and checked the archives. This Gullo had an uneventful youth, two robberies and a brawl. Then he straightened himself out, at least apparently. He dealt in grain."
...
"I really appreciate that you could see me right away," Montalbano said to Headmaster Burgio, who had answered the door.
"What are you saying? The pleasure's all mine". He let the inspector in, led him into the living room, and asked him to sit down. "Angelina!" the headmaster called.
A tiny old woman appeared, curious about the unexpected visit, looking smart and well groomed, her lively, attentive eyes sparkling behind thick glasses. The old folks home! thought Montalbano.
"Allow me to introduce my wife, Angelina." Montalbano gave her an admiring bow. He sincerely liked elderly ladies who kept up appearances, even at home.
"Please forgive me for bothering you at suppertime."
"No bother at all. On the contrary, Inspector, are you busy this evening?"