The Snack Thief

8 5

h2> Apparently, in his sleep, one part of his brain had kept working on the Lapècora case. Around four o’clock in the morning, in fact, a memory came back to him, and he got up and started searching frantically among his books. Suddenly he remembered that he’d lent the book he was looking for to Augello, after his deputy had seen the film made from it on television. He’d now had it for six months and still hadn’t given it back. Montalbano got upset.

“Hello, Mimì? Montalbano here.”

“Ohmygod! What’s going on? What happened?”

“Do you still have that novel by Le Carré entitled Call for the Dead? I’m sure I lent it to you.”

“What the fuck?! It’s four in the morning!”

“So what? I want it back.”

“Salvo, I’m telling you this as a loving brother: why don’t you have yourself committed?”

“I want it back immediately.”

“But I was asleep! Calm down. I’ll bring it to the office in the morning. Otherwise I would have to put on my underwear, start looking, get dressed—”

“I don’t give a shit.You’re going to look for it, find it, get in your car, even in your underwear, and bring it to me.” He dragged himself about the house for half an hour, doing pointless things like trying to understand the phone bill or reading the label on a bottle of mineral water. Then he heard a car screech to a halt, a dull thud against the door, and the car leaving. He opened the door: the book was on the ground, the lights of Augello’s car already far away. He had a mind to make an anonymous phone call to the carabinieri.

Hello, this is a concerned citizen. There’s some madman driving around in his underwear . . .

He let it drop. He started leafing through the novel.

The story went exactly as he’d remembered it. Page 8:

“Smiley, Maston speaking. You interviewed Samuel Arthur Fennan at the Foreign Office on Monday, am I right?”

“Yes . . . yes I did.”

“What was the case?”

“Anonymous letter alleging Party membership at Ox-ford . . .”

And there, on page 139, was the beginning of the conclusion that Smiley would arrive at in his report:

“It was, however, possible that he had lost his heart for his work, and that his luncheon invitation to me was a first step to confession. With this in mind he might also have written the anonymous letter which could have been designed to put him in touch with the Department.” Following Smiley’s logic, it was therefore possible that Lapècora himself had written the anonymous letters exposing him. But if he was their author, why hadn’t he sent them to the police or carabinieri under some other pretext?

No sooner had he formulated this question than he smiled at himself for being so naïve. In the hands of the police or carabinieri, an anonymous letter might have triggered an investigation and have led to far graver consequences for Lapècora. By sending them to his wife, Lapècora was hoping to provoke a reaction of the more domestic variety, but one that would nevertheless rescue him from a situation that was becoming either too dangerous or unbearable. He wanted to pull out, and those were cries for help. But his wife had taken them at face value, that is, as anonymous letters denouncing a tawdry, common liaison. Offended, she had not reacted, but only withdrawn into a scornful silence. And so Lapècora, in despair, had written to his son, this time without hiding behind a veil of anonymity. But the son, blinded by egotism and the fear of losing a few lire, fled to New York.

Thanks to Smiley, it all made sense. He went back to sleep.

o o o

Commendatore Baldassare Marzachì, director of the Vigàta post office, was notorious for being a presumptuous imbecile.

And he didn’t fail to live up to his reputation this time, either.

“I cannot grant your request.”

“And why not, if I may ask?”

“Because you don’t have a judge’s authorization.”

“And why should I need that? Any other employee of your office would have given me the information I asked for.

It’s of no consequence whatsoever.”

“That’s your opinion. Had they given you this information, my employees would have committed a punishable in-fraction.”

“Commendatore, let’s be reasonable. I am merely asking you for the name of the postman who services the neighborhood in which Salita Granet is located. Nothing more.”

“And I’m not going to tell you, okay? Supposing I did tell you, what would you do?”

“I would ask the postman a few questions.”

“See? You want to violate the postal code of secrecy.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

An utter nitwit. Which isn’t so easy to find these days, now that nitwits disguise themselves as intelligent people.

The inspector decided to resort to a bit of high drama that would annihilate his adversary. Without warning, he let his body fall backwards, shoulders planted firmly against the back of the chair, and began shaking his hands and legs, trying desperately to open his shirt collar.

“Oh God,” he gasped.

“Oh God!” echoed Commendator Marzachì, standing up and rushing to the inspector. “Are you ill?”

“Please help me,” wheezed Montalbano.

The post office manager bent down, tried to loosen the inspector’s collar, and at that moment Montalbano started shouting.

“Let me go! For God’s sake, let me go!”

All at once he grabbed Marzachì’s hands, and as the commendatore was instinctively struggling to break free, he held them up around his own neck.

“What are you doing?” muttered Marzachì, totally confused, not understanding what was happening. Montalbano yelled again.

“Let me go! How dare you!” he bawled, still clutching the commendatore’s hands.

The door flew open, and two terrorized postal employees appeared, a man and a woman, who unmistakably saw their boss trying to strangle the inspector.

“Get out of here!” Montalbano yelled at the two. “Out!

It’s nothing! Everything’s fine!”

The employees withdrew, closing the door behind them.

Montalbano calmly readjusted his collar and glared at Marzachì, who, as soon as he’d released him, had backed up against a wall.

“You’re fucked, Marzachì. They saw you, those two. And since they hate you like the rest of your staff, I’m sure they’d be happy to testify. Assaulting a police officer. What shall we do? Do you want to be reported or not?” “Why do you want to ruin me?”

“Because I hold you responsible.”

“For what, for God’s sake?”

“For the worst things imaginable. For letters that take two months to go from one part of Vigàta to another, for packages that arrive torn apart with half the contents missing—and you talk to me of the postal code of secrecy, which you can stick straight up your ass—for books that I wait and wait for and that never come . . . You’re a piece of shit that dresses up in dignity to cover this cesspool. Is that enough?” “Yes,” said Marzachì, shattered.

o o o

“Yes, of course he used to receive mail. Not a lot, but some.

There was one company outside of Italy that used to write to him, but nobody else, really.”

“Where were they from?”

“I never noticed. But the stamps were foreign. I can tell you what the company was called, though, because its name was on the envelope. Aslanidis was the name. I remember it because my dad, rest his soul, who’d fought in Greece, met a girl from those parts whose name was Galatea Aslanidis. Used to talk about her all the time.” “Did the envelopes say what this company sold?”

“Yes. Dattes, they said. Dates.”

o o o

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” said Signora Antonietta Palmisano, lately become the widow Lapècora, as soon as she opened the door for Montalbano.

“Why? Did you want to see me?”

“Yes. Didn’t they tell you I called your office?”

“I haven’t been there yet today. I came here on my own.”

“Then it’s a case of kleptomania,” the woman concluded.

For a moment the inspector felt confused; then he understood that she’d intended to say “clairvoyance.” One of these days I’ll introduce her to Catarella, he thought, then I’ll transcribe the dialogue. Better than Ionesco!

“What did you want to see me about, signora?” Antonietta Palmisano Lapècora mischievously wagged a small forefinger.

“No, no, no. You have to talk first, since you thought to come on your own.”

“Signora, I would like you to show me exactly what you did the other morning when you were getting ready to go out to see your sister.”

The widow was dumbfounded, opening and closing her mouth.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Hardly.”

“Are you asking me to put on my nightgown?” said Signora Antonietta, blushing.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Well, let me think. I got out of bed as soon as the alarm went off. Then I took—”

“No, signora, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough.

I don’t want you to tell me what you did, I want you to show me. Let’s go in the other room.”

They went into the bedroom. The armoire was wide open, a suitcase full of women’s dresses on the bed. On one of the bedside tables was a red alarm clock.

“Do you sleep on this side of the bed?” asked Montalbano.

“Yes. What should I do, lie down?”

“No need. Just sit on the edge.”

The widow obeyed, but then:

“What’s any of this got to do with Arelio’s murder?” she asked.

“Please do as I say, it’s important. Just five minutes and I’ll be out of your hair. Tell me: did your husband also wake up when the alarm went off ?”

“Normally he slept lightly. His eyes would pop open if I made the slightest noise. But now that you’ve made me think back on it, that morning he didn’t hear the alarm. In fact, he must have had a bit of a cold, a stuffed-up nose, because he started snoring, which he hardly ever did.” A terrible actor, poor old Lapècora. But it worked, at least that time.

“Go on.”

“I got up, picked up the clothes I’d put on that chair over there, and went into the bathroom.”

“Let’s move.”

Embarrassed, the woman led the way. When they were in the bathroom, Signora Antonietta, looking at the floor, asked:

“Do I have to do everything?”

“Of course not. You were dressed when you came out of the bathroom, correct?”

“Yes, fully dressed, that’s how I always do it.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I went into the dining room.”

Having learned her lesson by now, she walked towards the dining room, followed by the inspector.

“I picked up my purse, which I’d prepared on this couch the night before, then I opened the door and went out on the landing.”

“Are you sure you locked the door behind you when you went out?”

“Absolutely certain. I called the elevator—”

“That’ll be enough, thank you. What time was it, do you remember?”

“Six twenty-five. I was late, actually, so late that I started running.”

“What was the snag?”

The woman gave him a questioning look.

“For what reason were you running late? Let me put it another way. If someone knows he has to go somewhere the next morning, he usually sets the alarm clock, calculating the amount of time it will take to—” Signora Antonietta smiled.

“A callus on my foot was hurting,” she said. “I put on some ointment, wrapped it up, and lost some time I hadn’t figured on.”

“Thanks again, and sorry for the disturbance. Good-bye.”

“Wait! Where are you going? Are you leaving?”

“Oh, yes, of course. You had something to tell me.”

“Sit down a minute.”

Montalbano did as she said. In any case, he’d found out what he wanted to know: that is, the widow Lapècora had not entered the study, where Karima almost certainly had been hiding.

“As you can see,” the woman began, “I’m getting ready to leave. As soon as I can give Arelio a proper funeral, I’m going away.”

“Where will you go, signora?”

“To stay with my sister. She has a big house, and she’s sick, as you know. I’ll never set foot inVigàta again, even after I’m dead.”

“Why not go live with your son?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience him. And I don’t get along with his wife, who spends money like water while my poor son is always complaining that he can’t make ends meet. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was that, when I was going through some old stuff I don’t need anymore and want to throw away, I found the envelope the first anonymous letter came in. I thought I’d burned it, but I must have destroyed only the letter. And since you seemed particularly interested . . .” The address had been typed.

“May I keep this?”

“Of course. Well, that’s all.”

She stood up, as did the inspector, but then she went over to the sideboard, picked up a letter that was lying on it, and shook it at Montalbano.

“Look at this, Inspector. Arelio’s been dead barely two days and already I have to start paying the debts he ran up with his filthy little arrangements. Just yesterday I received—apparently the post office already knows he was killed—I received two bills from the office. One for electricity: two hundred twenty thousand lire! And one for the phone: three hundred eighty thousand! But he wasn’t the one using the phone, you know. Who would he ever call anyway? It was that Tunisian whore who was phoning, that’s for sure, probably calling her family in Tunisia. Then this morning, this came. God only knows what kinds of ideas that dirty slut put into my idiot husband’s head!” So compassionate, the widow Antonietta Lapècora, née Palmisano. The envelope had no stamp on it; it had been hand-delivered. Montalbano decided not to show too much curiosity, only as much as was necessary.

“When was this brought here?”

“This morning, as I said. A bill for one hundred seventy-seven thousand lire, from the Mulone printing works. Incidentally, Inspector, could you give me back the keys to the office?” “Do you need them right away?”

“Right this instant, I guess not. But I’d like to start showing it to people who might be interested in buying it. I want to sell the apartment too. I’ve already figured that the funeral alone is going to cost me over five million lire between one thing and the next.” Like mother, like son.

“With the proceeds from the office and the apartment,” said Montalbano in a fit of malice, “you could pay for twenty funerals.”

o o o

Empedocle Mulone, owner of the print shop, said yes, the late Mr. Lapècora had indeed ordered some stationery with slightly different letterhead from the old one. Signor Arelio had been coming to him for twenty years, and they were friends.

“How was it different?”

“It said ‘Import-Export’ instead of ‘Importazione-Esportazione.’ But I advised him against it.”

“He shouldn’t have made the change?”

“I didn’t mean the letterhead, but the idea of restarting the business. He’d already been retired about five years, but things are different now. Businesses are failing. It’s a bad time.

And you know what he did, instead of thanking me for the advice? He got pissed off. He said he read the newspapers and watched TV, and so he knew what the situation was.”

“Did you send the package with the printed matter to his home or his office?”

“He asked me to send it to the office, and that’s what I did, on one of the weekdays when he was there. I don’t remember the exact date, but if you want—”

“Never mind.”

“The bill, on the other hand, I sent to the missus, since I guess Mr. Lapècora can’t very well make it to the office now, can he?”

And he laughed.

o o o

“Here’s your espresso, Inspector,” said the barman at the Caffè Albanese.

“Totò, listen. Did Mr. Lapècora sometimes come here with his friends?”

“Sure! Every Tuesday. They’d talk and play cards. Always the same group.”

“Give me their names.”

“All right. Let’s see: Pandolfo, the accountant—”

“Wait. Give me the phone book.”

“No need to call him on the phone. He’s the elderly gentleman sitting at that table over there, eating an ice.” Montalbano took his demitasse and went over to the accountant.

“May I sit down?”

“Absolutely, Inspector.”

“Thanks. Do we know each other?”

“You don’t know me, sir, but I know you.”

“Mr. Pandolfo, did you play cards with the deceased very often?”

“Often? We played every Tuesday. Because, you see, every Monday,Wednesday, and—”

“—Friday he was at the office,” said Montalbano, completing the now familiar refrain.

“What would you like to know?”

“Why did Mr. Lapècora decide to go back into business?”

Pandolfo looked sincerely surprised.

“Go back into business? When did he ever do that? He never talked about it with us. But we all knew he went to the office out of habit, just to pass the time.”

“Did he ever mention the maid, a certain Karima, who used to come and clean the office?”

There was a darting of the eyes, an imperceptible hesitation that would have gone unnoticed had Montalbano not been keeping the man squarely in his sights.

“The man had no reason to tell me about his cleaning woman.”

“Did you know Lapècora well?”

“Whom can you say you know well? Some thirty years ago when I lived in Montelusa, I had a friend, a smart man, bright, witty, sharp, sensible. He had it all. And he was generous, too, a real angel. If anyone was in need, they could have anything he owned. Then one evening his sister left her baby boy with him, not six months old. He was supposed to look after him for two hours or so, maximum. As soon as the sister left, the guy picked up a knife, chopped the baby up and boiled him in a pot with a sprig of parsley and a clove of garlic. I’m not kidding, you know. I’d been with the man that same day, and he’d been the same as always, smart, polite. So, to get back to poor old Lapècora, yeah, I knew him, all right, enough to see that he’d really changed over the last two years.”

“In what way?”

“Well, he became nervous, never laughed. In fact, he’d pick a fight and make a big to-do over the smallest things.”

“Any idea what might have been the cause?”

“One day I asked him about it. It was a health problem, he said. The first stages of arteriosclerosis, that’s what his doctor told him.”

o o o

The first thing he did in Lapècora’s office was sit down at the typewriter. He opened the drawer to the little secretarial table and found some stationery printed with the old letterhead and yellowed with age. He took out a sheet, reached into his coat pocket, and removed the envelope that Signora Antonietta had given him. He copied its address on the typewriter. A foolproof test if there ever was one. The r’s jumped above the line, the a’s dropped below, and the o was a little black ball. The address on the anonymous letter’s envelope had been written by this same typewriter.

He looked outside. Signora Vasile Cozzo’s housekeeper, standing on a stepladder, was cleaning the windows. He opened the window and called out.

“Hello! Is the signora there?”

“Wait,” said the girl, giving him a dirty look. Clearly she wasn’t very fond of the inspector.

She stepped down from the ladder, disappeared, and a short while later Signora Clementina’s head appeared just above the sill. There was no need for them to raise their voices so much, as they were less than ten yards away from each other.

“Excuse me, signora, but if I’m not mistaken, you told me that, sometimes, the young man, do you remember . . . ?”

“Yes, the young man.”

“You said he used to type sometimes. Is that right?”

“Yes, but he didn’t use the office typewriter. He would bring his own portable.”

“Are you sure? Might it have been a computer?”

“No, it was a portable typewriter.”

What kind of cockamamie way to conduct an investigation was this? He suddenly realized the two of them must look like a couple of old housewives gossiping across their balconies.

After saying good-bye to Clementina, to regain some semblance of dignity in his own eyes he began a detailed search of the office like a true professional, looking for the package the printer had sent. But he never found it; nor did he find a single envelope or sheet of paper with the new letterhead in English.

They’d removed everything.

As for the portable typewriter Lapècora’s bogus nephew used to bring along instead of using the office machine, he thought he’d come up with a plausible explanation for this.

The young man had no use for the keyboard of the old Olivetti. Apparently, he needed one with a different alphabet.