The Snack Thief

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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?”

“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>

The inspector told Galluzzo, who had replaced Gallo, to bring the weapon and ammunition to headquarters.

“Then check to see if the pistol was registered.” A smell of stale perfume, burnt straw in color, hung aggressively in the air of the study, even though the inspector, upon entering, had thrown the window wide open.

The widow had gone and sat in an armchair in the living room. She seemed utterly indifferent, as if sitting in a railway station waiting room, awaiting her train.

Montalbano also sat down in an armchair, and at that moment the doorbell rang. Signora Antonietta instinctively started to get up, but the inspector stopped her with a gesture.

“Galluzzo, go see who it is.”

The door was opened, they heard some whispering, and the policeman returned.

“There’s somebody who lives on the sixth floor says he wants to talk to you. Says he’s a security guard.” Cosentino had put on his uniform; he was on his way to work.

“Sorry to disturb you, but seeing as how something just occurred to me—”

“What is it?”

“You see, after she got off the bus, Signora Antonietta, when she found out her husband was dead, asked us if he’d been murdered. Now, if somebody came to me and told me my wife was dead, I might think of the different ways she could have died, but I would never imagine she’d been murdered. Unless I’d considered the possibility beforehand. I’m not sure if that’s clear . . .” “It’s perfectly clear. Thank you,” said Montalbano.

He went back in the living room. Mrs. Lapècora looked as if she’d been embalmed.

“Do you have any children, signora?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“One son.”

“Does he live here?”

“No.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-two.”

“He should be informed.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Gong. End of the first round. When they resumed, the widow took the initiative.

“Was he shot?”

“No.”

“Strangled?”

“No.”

“Then how did they manage to kill him in an elevator?”

“With a knife.”

“A kitchen knife?”

“Probably.”

The woman got up and went into the kitchen. The inspector heard her open and close a drawer. She returned and sat back down.

“Nothing missing here.”

The inspector went on the counterattack.

“Why did you think the knife might be yours?”

“Just a thought.”

“What did your husband do yesterday?”

“He did what he did every Wednesday. He went to his office. He used to go there Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

“What was his schedule?”

“He’d go from ten in the morning to one in the afternoon, then he’d come home for lunch, take a little nap, go back to work at three-thirty and stay there till six-thirty.” “What would he do at home?”

“He’d sit down in front of the television and not move.”

“And on the days when he didn’t go to the office?”

“Same thing, he’d sit in front of the TV.”

“So this morning, today being a Thursday, your husband should have stayed home.”

“That’s right.”

“Instead he got dressed to go out.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you have any idea where he was going?”

“He didn’t tell me anything.”

“When you left the house, was your husband awake or asleep?”

“Asleep.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that, as soon as you went out, your husband suddenly woke up, got dressed in a hurry, and—”

“He might have got a phone call.”

A clear point in the widow’s favor.

“Did your husband still have many business relationships?”

“Business? He shut down the business years ago.”

“So why did he keep going regularly to the office?”

“Whenever I asked him, he’d say he went to watch the flies. That’s what he’d say.”

“Would you say that after your husband came home from the office yesterday, nothing out of the ordinary happened?”

“Nothing. At least till nine o’clock in the evening.”

“What happened at nine o’clock in the evening?”

“I took two Tavors. And I slept so soundly that the building could have collapsed on top of me and I still wouldn’t have woken up.”

“So if Mr. Lapècora had received a phone call or visitor after nine o’clock, you wouldn’t have known.”

“Of course not.”

“Did your husband have any enemies?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Any friends?”

“One. Cavaliere Pandolfo. They used to phone each other on Tuesdays and then go and chat at the Caffè Albanese.”

“Have you any suspicions as to who might have—” She interrupted him.

“Suspicions, no. Certainty, yes.”

Montalbano leapt out of the armchair. Galluzzo said

“Shit!” but in a soft voice.

“And who would that be?”

“Who would that be, Inspector? His mistress, that’s who.

Her name’s Karima, with a K. She’s Tunisian. They used to meet at the office, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The slut would go there pretending she was the cleaning woman.”