Voice of the Violin

Montalbano sensed the judge’s silent confusion. The exchange they’d just had was entirely meaningless. As he’d expected, the judge didn’t linger on the subject.

‘I wanted to tell you I tracked down the widower, Dr Licalzi, in Bologna, and, tactfully, of course, gave him the terrible news.’

‘How did he react?’

‘Well, how shall I put it?

Strangely. He didn’t even ask what his wife died of. She was very young, after alL He must be a cold one; he hardly got upset at all’

Dr Licalzi had denied the raven Tommaseo his jollies. The judge’s disappointment at not having been able to relish a fine display of cries and sobs — however long distance — was palpable.

‘At any rate he said he absolutely could not absent himself from the hospital today. He had some operations to perform and his replacement was sick. He’s going to take the 7.05 flight for Palermo tomorrow morning. I assume, therefore, he’ll be at your office around midday. I just wanted to bring you up to date on this.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

As Gallo was driving the inspector to work in a squad car, he informed Montalbano that, on Fazio’s orders, patrolman Germana had picked up the damaged Twingo and put it in the police station’s garage. ‘Good idea.’

The first person to enter his office was Mimi Augello.

I’m not here to talk to you about work. The day after tomorrow, that is, early Sunday morning, I’m going to visit my sister. D’you want to come, too, so you can see Francois? Well drive back in the evening.’

‘I’ll do my best to make it.’

‘Try to come. My sister made it clear she wants to talk to you.’

‘About Francois?’ ‘Yes.’

Montalbano became anxious.

He’d be in quite a fix if Augello’s sister and her husband said they couldn’t keep the kid with them any longer.

‘I’ll do what I can, Mimi.

Thanks.’

‘Hello, Inspector Montalbano? This is Clementina Vasile Cozzo.’

‘What a pleasure, signora.’

‘Answer me yes or no. Was I good?’

‘You were great, yes.’

‘Answer me yes or no again.

Are you coming to dinner tonight at nine?’ ‘Yes.’

Fazio walked into his office with a triumphant air.

‘Know what, Chief? I asked myself a question: with the house looking the way it did, like it was only occasionally lived in, where did Mrs Licalzi sleep when she came here from Bologna? So I called a colleague at Montelusa Central Police, the guy assigned to the hotel beat, and I got my answer. Every time she came, Michela Licalzi stayed at the Hotel Jolly in Montelusa. Turns out she last checked in seven days ago.’

Fazio caught him off balance. He’d intended to call Dr Licalzi in Bologna as soon as he got into work, but had been distracted. Mimi’s mention of Francois had flustered him a little.

‘Shall we go there now?’

asked Fazio.

‘Wait.’

An idea had flashed into his brain utterly unprovoked, leaving behind an ever-so-slight scent of sulphur, the kind the devil usually likes to wear. He asked Fazio for Licalzi’s telephone number, wrote it down on a piece of paper which he put in his pocket, then dialled it.

‘Hello, Central Hospital?

Inspector Montalbano here, from Vigata police, in Sicily. I’d like to speak to Dr Emanuele Licalzi.’

‘Please hold.’

He waited, all patience and self-controL When he appeared to be running out of both, the operator came back on the line.

‘Dr Licalzi is in the operating theatre. You’ll have to try again in half an hour.’

‘I’ll call him from the car’

he said to Fazio. ‘Bring along your mobile phone, don’t forget.’

He rang Judge Tommaseo and informed him of Fazio’s discovery.

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’

Tommaseo interjected. ‘When I asked him to give me his wife’s number here, he said he didn’t know it He said it was always she who called him.’

The inspector asked the judge to prepare him a search warrant. He would send Gallo over at once to pick it up. ‘Fazio, did they tell you what Dr Licalzi’s speciality

is?’

‘Yes, he’s an orthopedic surgeon.’

Halfway between Vigata and Montelusa, the inspector called Bologna Central Hospital again. After not too long a wait, Montalbano heard a firm, polite voice.

‘This is Licalzi. With whom am I speaking?’

‘Excuse me for disturbing you, Doctor. I’m Inspector Salvo Montalbano of the Vigata police. I’m handling the case. Please allow me to express my sincerest condolences.’

‘Thank you.’

Not one word more or less.

The inspector realized it was still up to him to talk.

‘Well, Doctor, you told the judge today that you didn’t know your wife’s phone number here in Vigata.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘We’ve been unable to track down this number ourselves.’

“There could hardly be thousands of hotels in Montelusa and Vigata.’

Ready to cooperate, this Dr Licalzi.

‘Forgiye me for insisting.

But hadn’t you arranged, in case of dire need—’

‘I don’t think such a need could have ever arisen. In any case, there’s a distant relative of mine who lives in Vigata and with whom my poor Michela had been in contact.’

‘Could you tell me—’

‘His name is Aurelio Di Blasi. And now you must excuse me, I have to return to the operating theatre.

I’ll be at your office tomorrow, around midday.’

‘One last question. Have you told this relative what happened?’

‘No. Why? Should I have?’

_FOUR

‘Such an exquisite, elegant lady, and so beautiful!’ said Claudio Pizzotta, the distinguished, sixtyish manager of the Hotel Jolly in Montelusa. ‘Has something happened to her?’

‘We don’t really know yet.

We got a phone call from her husband in Bologna, who was worried.’

‘Right. As far as I know, Signora Licalzi left the hotel on Wednesday evening, and we haven’t seen her since.’

‘Weren’t you worried? It’s already Friday evening, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Right’

‘Did she let you know she wouldn’t be returning?’

‘No. But, you see, Inspector, the lady has been staying with us regularly for at least two years, so we’ve had a lot of time to become acquainted with her habits. Which are, well, unusual. Signora Michela is not the sort of woman to go unnoticed, you know what I mean? And then, I’ve always had my own worries about her.’

‘You have? And what would they be?’

‘Well, the lady owns a lot of valuable jewellery. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings … I’ve asked her many times to deposit them in our safe, but she always refuses. She keeps them in a kind of bag; she doesn’t carry a handbag. She always tells me not to worry, says she doesn’t leave the jewels in her room, but carries them around with her. I’ve also been afraid she’ll get robbed on the street. But she always smiles and says no. She just. won’t be persuaded.’

‘You mentioned her unusual habits. Could you be more precise?’

‘Certainly. The lady likes to stay up late. She often comes home at the first light of dawn.’

‘Alone?’

‘Always.’

‘Drunk? High?’

‘Never. Or at least, so says the night porter.’

‘Mind telling me why you were talking about Mrs Licalzi with the night porter?’

Claudio Pizzotta turned bright red. Apparently he’d had ideas about dunking his doughnut with Signora Michela.

Inspector, surely you understand … A beautiful woman like that, alone … One’s curiosity is bound to be aroused, it’s only natural’

‘Go on. Tell me about her habits.’

‘The lady sleeps in till about midday, and doesn’t want to be disturbed in any way. When she wakes up, she orders breakfast in her room and starts making and receiving phone calls’

‘A lot of phone calls?’

‘I’ve got an itemized list that never ends.’

‘Do you know who she was calling?’

‘One could find out. But it’s a bit complicated. From your room you need only dial zero and you can phone New Zealand if you want,’

‘What about the incoming calls?’

‘Well, there’s not much to say about that. The switchboard operator takes the call and passes it on to the room. There’s only one way to know.’

‘And that is?’

‘When somebody calls and leaves his name when the client is out. In that case, the porter is given a message that he puts in the client’s key box.’

‘Does the lady lunch at the hotel?’

‘Rarely. After eating a hearty breakfast so late, you can imagine … But it has happened.

Actually, the head waiter once told me how self-possessed she is at table when eating lunch.’

Tm sorry, I don’t follow.’

‘Our hotel is very popular, with businessmen, politicians, entrepreneurs. In one way or another, they all end up trying their luck. A beckoning glance, a smile, more or less explicit invitations. The amazing thing about Signora Michela, the head waiter said, is that she never plays the prude, never takes offence, but actually returns the glances and smiles. But when it comes to the nitty-gritty, nothing doing.

They’re left high and dry.’

‘And at what time in the afternoon does she usually go out?’

‘About four. Then returns in the dead of night’ ‘She must have a pretty broad circle of friends in Montelusa and Vigata.’ ‘I’d say so.’

‘Has she ever stayed out for more than one night before?’

‘I don’t think so. The porter would have told me.’ Gallo and Galluzzo arrived, flourishing the search warrant

‘What room is Mrs Licalzi staying in?’

‘Number one-eighteen.’

‘I’ve got a warrant’

The hotel manager looked offended.

Inspector! There was no need for that formality! You had only to ask and I … Let me show you the way.’

‘No, thanks,’Montalbano said curtly.

The manager’s face went from looking offended to looking mortally offended.

‘I’ll go and get the key,’

he said aloofly.

He returned a moment later with the key and a little stack of papers, all notes of mcoming phone calls.

‘Here,’ he said, giving, for no apparent reason, the key to Fazio and the message slips to Gallo. Then he bowed his head abruptly, German-style, in front of Montalbano, turned around and walked stiffly away, looking like a wooden puppet in motion.

Room 118 was eternally imbued with the scent of Chanel No. 5. On the luggage rack sat two suitcases and a shoulder bag, all Louis Vuitton. Montalbano opened the armoire: five very classy dresses, three pairs of artfully worn-out jeans; in the shoe section, five pairs of Bruno Maglis with spike heels and three pairs of casual fiats. The blouses, also very costly, were folded with extreme care; the underwear, divided by colour in its assigned drawer, consisted only of airy panties.

‘Nothing in here’ said Fazio, who in the meantime had examined the two suitcases and shoulder bag.

Gallo and Galluzzo, who had upended the bed and mattress, shook their heads no and began putting everything back in place, impressed by the order that reigned in the room.

On the small desk were some letters, notes, a diary, and a stack of telephone messages considerably taller than the one the manager had given to Gallo.

‘We’ll take these things away with us’ the inspector said to Fazio. ‘Look in the drawers, too. Take all the papers.’

From his pocket Fazio withdrew a plastic bag that he always carried with him, and began to fill it.

Montalbano went into the bathroom. Sparkling clean,

in perfect order. On the shelf, Rouge Idole lipstick, Shiseido foundation, a magnum of Chanel No. 5, and so on. A pink bathrobe, obviously softer and more expensive than the one in the house, hung placidly on a hook.

He went back into the bedroom and rang for the floor attendant. A moment later there was a knock and Montalbano told her to come in. The door opened and a gaunt, fortyish woman appeared. As soon as she saw the four men, she stiffened, blanched, and in a faint voice said, ‘Are you police?’

The inspector laughed. How many centuries of police tyranny had it taken to hone this Sicilian woman’s ability to detect law-enforcement officers at a moment’s glance?

‘Yes, we are,’ he said, smiling.

The chambermaid blushed and lowered her eyes.

‘Please excuse me.’

‘Do you know Mrs Licalzi?’

‘Why, what’s happened to her?’

‘She hasn’t been heard from for a couple of days. We’re looking for her.’

‘And to look for her you have to take all her papers away?’

This woman was not to be underestimated. Montalbano decided to admit a few things to her.

‘We’re afraid something bad may have happened to her.’

‘I always told her to be careful,’ said the maid. ‘She goes around with half a billion in her bag!’

‘She went around with that much money?’ Montalbano asked in astonishment

‘I wasn’t talking about money, but the jewels she owns. And with the kind of life she leads! Comes home late, gets up late…’

‘We already know that Do you know her well?’ ‘Sure. Since she came here the first time with her husband.’

‘Can you tell me anything about what she’s like?’

‘Look, she never made any trouble. She was just a maniac for order. Whenever we did her room, she would stand there making sure that everything was put back in its place. The girls on the morning shift always ask for the good Lord’s help before working on one-eighteen.’

‘A final question: did your colleagues on the morning shift ever mention if the lady’d had men in her room at night?’

‘Never. And we’ve got an eye for that kind of thing.’

The whole way back to Vigata one question tormented Montalbano: if the lady was a maniac for order, why was the bathroom at the house in Tre Fontane such a mess, with the pink bathrobe thrown haphazardly on the floor to boot?

During the dinner (super-fresh cod poached with a couple of bay leaves and dressed directly on the plate with salt, pepper and Pantelleria olive oil, with a side dish of gentle tinnirume to cheer the stomach and intestines), the inspector told Mrs Vasile Cozzo of the day’s developments.

‘As far as I can tell’ said Clementina, ‘the real question is: why did the murderer make off with the poor woman’s clothes, underwear, shoes and handbag?’

‘Yes’ Montalbano commented, saying nothing more. She’d hit the nail on the head as soon as she opened her mouth, and he didn’t want to interrupt her thought processes.

‘But I can only talk about these things’ the elderly woman continued, ‘based on what I see on television.’

‘Don’t you read mystery novels?’

‘Not very often. Anyway, what does that mean, “mystery novel”? What is a “detective novel”?’

‘Well, it’s a whole body of literature that—’

‘Of course, but I don’t like labels. Want me to tell you a good mystery story? All right, there’s a man who, after many adventures, becomes the leader of a city. Little by little, however, his subjects begin to fall ill with ah unknown sickness, a kind of plague. And so this man sets about to discover the cause of the illness, and in the course of his investigations he discovers that he himself is the root of it all. And so he punishes himself.’

‘Oedipus’ Montalbano said, as if to himself.

‘Now isn’t that a good detective story? But, to return to our discussion: why would a killer make off with the victim’s clothes? The first answer is: so she couldn’t be identified’

‘That’s not the case here,’

the inspector said. ‘Right. And I get the feeling that, by reasoning this way, we’re following the path the killer wants us to take.’ ‘I don’t understand.’

‘What I mean is, whoever made off with all those things wants us to believe that every one of them is of equal importance to him. He wants us to tliink of that stuff as a single whole.

Whereas that is not the case.’

‘Yes,’ Montalbano said again, ever more impressed, and ever more reluctant to break the thread of her argument with some untimely observation.

Tor one thing, the handbag alone is worth half a billion because of the jewellery inside it. To a common thief, robbing the bag would itself constitute a good day’s earnings. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘But what reason would a common thief have for taking her clothes? None whatsoever. Therefore, if he made off with her clothes, underwear and shoes, we should conclude that we’re not dealing with a common thief. But, in fact, he is a common thief who has done this only to make us think he’s uncommon, different. Why? He might have done it to shuffle the cards. He wanted to steal the handbag with all its valuables, but since he committed murder, he wanted to mask his real purpose.’

‘Right,’ said Montalbano, unsolicited.

‘To continue. Maybe the thief made off with other things of value that we’re unaware of.’

‘May I make a phone call?’

asked the inspector, who had suddenly had an idea.

He called up the Hotel Jolly in Montelusa and asked to speak with Claudio Pizzotta, the manager.

‘Oh, Inspector, how atrocious! How terrible! We found out just now from the Free Channel that poor Mrs Licalzi…’

Nicolo Zito had reported the news and Montalbano had forgotten to tune in and see how the newsman presented the story.

‘Tele Vigata also did a report,’ added the hotel manager, torn between genuine satisfaction and feigned grief.

Galluzzo had done his job with his brother-in-law.

‘What should I do, Inspector?’ the manager asked, distressed.

‘What do you mean?’

‘About these journalists.

They’re besieging me. They want to interview me. They found out the poor woman was staying with us…’

From whom could they have learned this if not from the manager himself? The inspector imagined Pizzotta on the phone, summoning reporters with the promise of shocking revelations on the young, attractive, and, most importantly, naked murder victim …

‘Do whatever the hell you want. Listen, did Mrs Licalzi normally wear any of the jewellery she had? Did she own a watch?’

‘Of course she wore it.

Discreetly, though. Otherwise, why would she bring it all here from Bologna? As for the watch, she always wore a splendid, paper-thin Piaget on her wrist.’

Montalbano thanked him, hung up, and told Signora Clementina what he’d just learned. She thought about it a minute.

‘We must now establish whether we are dealing with a thief who became a murderer out of necessity, or with a murderer who is pretending to be a thief

‘For no real reason — by instinct, I guess — I don’t believe in this thief.’

‘You’re wrong to trust your instinct,’

‘But, Signora Clementina, Michela Licalzi was naked, she’d just finished taking a shower. A thief would have heard the noise and waited before coming inside.’

‘And what makes you think the thief wasn’t already inside when the lady came home? She comes in, and the burglar hides. When she goes into the shower, he decides the time is right. He comes out of his hiding place, steals whatever he’s supposed to steal, but then she catches him in the act, and he reacts in the manner he does. He may not even have intended to kill her.’

‘But how would this burglar have entered?’

‘The same way you did, Inspector.’ A direct hit, and down he went. Montalbano said nothing.’

‘Now for the clothes,’

Signora Clementina continued. If they were stolen just for show, that’s one thing. But if the murderer needed to get rid of them, that’s another kettle of fish. What could have been so important about them?’

‘They might have represented a danger to him, a way of identifying him,’ said Montalbano.

‘Yes, you’re right, Inspector. But they clearly weren’t a danger when the woman put them on. They must have become so afterwards. How?’

‘Maybe they got stained,’

Montalbano said, unconvinced. ‘Maybe even with the killer’s blood. Even though …’

‘Even though?’

‘Even though there was no blood around the bedroom. There was a little on the sheet, which had come out of Mrs Licalzi’s mouth. But maybe it was another kind of stain. Like vomit, for example.’

‘Or semen,’ said Mrs Vasile Cozzo, blushing.

It was too early to go home to Marinella, so Montalbano decided to put in an appearance at the station to see if there were any new developments.

‘Oh, Chief, Chief!’ said Catarella as soon as he saw him. ‘You’re here? At least ten people called, and they all wanted a talk to you in poisson! I didn’t know you was comin’ so I says to all of ‘em to call back tomorrow morning. Did I do right, Chief?’

‘You did right, Cat, don’t worry about it. Do you know what they wanted?’

‘They all said as how they all knew the lady who was murdered.’

On the desk in his office, Fazio had left the plastic bag with the papers they’d seized from room 118. Next to it were the notices of incoming calls that the manager Pizzotta had turned over to Gallo. The inspector sat down, took the diary out_;of^xthe bag, and glanced through it. Michela Licalzi’s diary was as orderly as her hotel room: appointments, telephone calls to make, places to go. Everything was carefully and clearly written down.

Dr Pasquano had said the woman was killed sometime between late Wednesday night and early Thursday morning, and Montalbano agreed with this. He looked up the page for Wednesday, the last day of Michela Licalzi’s life — 4 pm., Rotondo’s Furniture; 4.30 p.m., phone Emanuele; 5 p.m., appt with Todaro gardeners; 6 p.m., Anna; 8 p.m., dinner with the Vassallos.

The woman, however, had made other engagements for Thursday, Friday and Saturday, unaware that someone would prevent her from attending them. On Thursday, again in the afternoon, she was to have met with Anna, with whom she was to go to Loconte’s (in parentheses: ‘curtains’) before ending her evening by dining with a certain Maurizio. On Friday she was supposed to see Riguccio the electrician, meet Anna again, then go out to dinner at the Cangelosi home. On the page for Saturday, all that was written down was: ‘4.30 pm, flight from Punta Raisi to Bologna.’

It was a large-format diary. The telephone index allowed three pages for each letter of the alphabet, but she’d copied down so many phone numbers that in certain cases she’d had to write the numbers of two different people on the same line.

Montalbano set the diary aside and took the other papers out of the bag. Nothing of interest. Just invoices and receipts. Every penny spent on the construction and furnishing of the house was fastidiously accounted for. In a square-lined notebook Michela had copied down every expense in neat columns, as if preparing herself for a visit from the revenue officers. There was a cheque book from the Banca Popolare di Bologna with only the stubs remaining. Montalbano also found a boarding pass for Bologna—Rome—Palermo from six days earlier, and a return ticket, Palermo—Rome—Bologna, for Saturday at 4.30 pm.

No sign whatsoever of any personal letter or note. He decided to continue working at home.

_FIVE

The only things left to examine were the notices of incoming calls. The Inspector began with the ones Michela had collected in the little desk in her hotel room. There were about forty of them, and Montalbano arranged them according to the name of the person calling. In the end he was left with three small piles somewhat taller than the rest. A woman. Anna, would call during the day and usually leave word that Michela should call her back as soon as she woke up or when she got back in. A man, Maurizio, had rung two or three times in the morning, but normally preferred the late-night hours and always insisted that she call him back. The third caller was also male, Guido by name, and he phoned from Bologna, also late at night; but, unlike Maurizio, he never left a message.

The slips of paper the hotel manager had given to Gallo were twenty in number, all from the time Michela left the hotel on Wednesday afternoon to the moment the police showed up at the hotel. On Wednesday morning, however, during the hours Mrs Licalzi devoted to sleep, the same Maurizio had asked for her at about ten thirty, and Anna had done likewise shortly thereafter. Around nine o’clock that evening, Mrs Vassallo had called looking for Michela, and had rung back an hour later. Anna had phoned back shortly before midnight.

At three o’clock on Thursday morning, Guido had called from Bologna. At ten thirty, Anna, apparently unaware that Michela hadn’t returned to the hotel that night, called again; at eleven, a certain Mr Loconte called to confirm the afternoon appointment. At midday, still on Thursday, a Mr Aurelio Di Blasi phoned and continued to phone back almost every three hours until early Friday evening.

Guido from Bologna had called at two o’clock on Friday morning. As of Thursday morning, Anna had started calling frantically and also didn’t stop until Friday evening.

Something didn’t add up. Montalbano couldn’t put his finger on it, and this made him uncomfortable. He stood up, went out on the veranda, which gave directly onto the beach, took off his shoes, and started walking in the sand until he reached the water’s edge. He rolled up his trouser legs and began wading in the water, which from time to time washed over his feet. The soothing sound of the waves helped him put his thoughts in order. Suddenly he understood what was tormenting him. He went back in the house, grabbed the diary, and opened it up to Wednesday. Michela had written down that she was supposed to go to dinner at the Vassallos’ house at eight. So why had Mrs Vassallo called her at the hotel at nine and again at ten? Hadn’t Michela shown up for dinner? Or did the Mrs Vassallo who phoned have nothing to do with the Vassallos who’d invited her to dinner?

He glanced at his watch: past midnight. He decided the matter was too important to be worrying about etiquette. There turned out to be three listings under Vassallo in the phone book.

He tried the first and guessed right.

‘I’m very sorry. This is Inspector Montalbano.’

Inspector! I’m Ernesto Vassallo. I was going to come to your office myself tomorrow morning. My wife is just devastated; I had to call a doctor. Is there any news?’

‘None. I need to ask you something.’

‘Go right ahead, Inspector.

For poor Michela—’

Montalbano cut him off.

‘I read in Mrs Licalzi’s diary that she was supposed to have dinner—’

This time it was Ernesto Vassallo who interrupted.

‘She never showed up, Inspector!

We waited a long time for her. But nothing, not even a phone call. And she was always so punctual’ We got worried, we thought she might be sick, so we rang the hotel a couple of times, then we tried her friend Anna Tropeano, but she said she didn’t know anything. She said she’d seen Michela at about six and they’d been together for roughly half an hour, and that Michela had left saying she was going back to the hotel to change before coming to dinner at our place.’

‘Listen, I really appreciate your help. But don’t come to the station tomorrow morning, I’m full up with appointments. Drop by in the afternoon whenever you want. Goodnight.’

One good turn deserved another. He looked up the number for Aurelio Di Blasi in the phone book and dialled it. The first ring wasn’t even over when someone picked up.

‘Hello? Hello? Is that you?’

The voice of a middle-aged man, breathless, troubled.

‘Inspector Montalbano here.’

‘Oh.’

Montalbano could tell that the man felt profound disappointment. From whom was he so anxiously awaiting a phone call?

‘Mr Di Blasi, I’m sure you’ve heard about the unfortunate Mrs—’

‘I know, I know, I saw it on TV.’

The disappointment had been replaced by undisguised irritation.

‘Anyway, I wanted to know why, from midday on Thursday to Friday evening, you repeatedly tried to reach Mrs Licalzi at her hotel.’

‘What’s so unusual about that? I’m a distant relative of Michela’s. Whenever she came to Vigata to work on the house, she would lean on me for help and advice. I’m a construction engineer. I phoned her on Thursday to invite her here to dinner, but the receptionist said she hadn’t come back that night. The receptionist knows me, we’re friends. And so I started to get worried. Is that so hard to understand?’

Now Mr Di Blasi had turned sarcastic and aggressive. The inspector had the impression the man’s nerves were about to pop.

‘No.’

There was no point in calling Anna Tropeano. He already knew what she would say, since Mr,Vassallo had told him beforehand. He would summon Ms Tropeano to the station for questioning. One thing at this point was certain: Michela Licalzi had disappeared from circulation at approximately seven o’clock on Wednesday evening. She had never returned to the hotel, even though she’d expressed this intention to her friend.

He wasn’t sleepy, so he lay down in bed with a book, a novel by Marco Denevi, an Argentine writer he liked very much.

When his eyes started to droop, he closed the book and turned off the light. As he often did before falling asleep, he thought of Livia. Suddenly he sat up in bed, wide awake.

Jesus, Livia! He hadn’t phoned her back since the night of the storm, when he’d made it seem as if the line had been cut. Livia clearly hadn’t believed this, since in fact she’d never phoned back. He had to set things right at once.

‘Hello? Who is this?’ said Livia’s sleepy voice.

It’s Salvo, darling.’

‘Oh, let me sleep, for Christ’s sake!’

Click. Montalbano sat there for a while holding the receiver,

It was eight thirty in the morning when Montalbano walked into the station carrying Michela Licalzi’s papers. After Livia had refused to speak to him, he’d become agitated and unable to sleep a wink. There was no need to call in Anna Tropeano; Fazio immediately told him the woman had been waiting for him since eight

‘Listen, I want to know everything there is to know about a construction engineer from Vigata named Aurelio Di Blasi’

r ‘Everything eveiything?’ asked Fazio. ‘Eveiything everything.’

‘To me, everything everything means rumours and gossip, too.’ ‘Same here.’

‘How much time do I get?’

‘Come on, Fazio, you playing the unionist now? Two hours ought to be more than enough.’

Fazio glared at his boss with an air of indignation and went out without even saying goodbye.

In normal circumstances.

Anna Tropeano must have been an attractive woman of thirty, with jet-black hair, dark complexion, big, sparkling eyes, tall and full-bodied. On this occasion, however, her shoulders were hunched, her eyes swollen and red, her skin turning a shade of grey.

‘May I smoke?’ she asked, sitting down.

‘Of course.’

She lit a cigarette, hands trembling. She attempted a rough imitation of a smile.

‘I quit only a week ago.

But since last night I must have smoked at least three packets.’

‘Thanks for coming in on your own. I really need a lot of information from you.’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’

Montalbano secretly breathed a sigh of relief. Anna was a strong woman. There wasn’t going to be any sobbing or fainting. In fact, she had appealed to him from the moment he saw her in the doorway.

‘Even if some of my questions seem odd to you, please try to answer them anyway.’

‘Of course.’

‘Married?’

‘Who?’

‘You.’

‘No, I!m not. Not separated or divorced, either. .And not even engaged. Nothing. I live alone.’ ‘Why?’

Though Montalbano had forewarned her, Anna hesitated a moment before answering so personal a question.

‘I don’t think I’ve had time to think about myself, Inspector. A year before graduating from university, - my father died. Heart attack. He was very young. The year after I graduated, my mother died. I had to look after my little sister, Maria, who’s nineteen now and married and living in Milan, and my brother, Giuseppe, who works at a bank in Rome and is twenty-seven. I’m thirty-one. But aside from all that, I don’t think I’ve ever met the right person.’

There was no resentment. On the contrary, she seemed slightly calmer now. The fact that the inspector hadn’t launched immediately into the matter at hand had allowed her in a sense to catch her breath. Montalbano thought it best to steer clear for a while.

‘Do you live in your parents’ house here in Vigata?’

‘Yes, Papa bought it. It’s sort of a small villa, right where Marinella begins. It’s become too big for me.’

‘The one on the right, just after the bridge?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I pass by it at least twice a day. I live in Marinella myself.’

Anna Tropeano eyed him with mild amazement What a strange sort of policeman! ‘Do you work?’

‘Yes, I teach at the liceo scientifico of Montelusa.’

‘What do you teach?’

‘Physics.’

Montalbano looked at her with admiration. In physics, at school, he’d always been between a D and an F.

If he’d had a teacher like her in his day, he might have become another Einstein.

‘Do you know who killed her?’

Anna Tropeano jumped in her chair and looked at him imploringly: we were getting along so well, why do you want to play policeman, which is worse than playing hunting dog?

Don’t you ever let go? she seemed to be asking.

Montalbano, who understood what the woman’s eyes were saying to him, smiled and threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation, as if to say: It’s my job.

‘No,’ replied a firm, decisive Anna Tropeano.

‘Any suspicion?’

‘No’

‘Mrs Licalzi customarily returned to her hotel in the wee hours of the morning. I’d like to know—’

‘She was at my house. We had dinner together almost every night And if she was invited out she would come along afterwards.’

‘What did you do together?’

‘What do two women friends usually do when they see each other? We talked, we watched television, we listened to music Sometimes we did nothing at all. It was a pleasure just to know the other one was there.’

‘Did she have any male friends?’

‘Yes, a few. But things were not what they seemed. Michela was a very serious person. Seeing her so free and easy, men got the wrong impression. And they were always disappointed, without fail’

‘Was there anyone in particular who bothered her a lot?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘I’m not going to tell you.

You’ll find out soon enough.’

‘So, in short, Mrs Licalzi was faithful to her husband.’ ‘I didn’t say that.’ ‘What does that mean?’ It means what I said.’

‘Had you known each other a long time?’ ‘No.’

Montalbano looked at her, stood up, and walked over to the window. Anna, almost angrily, lit up another cigarette.

‘I don’t like the tone you’ve assumed in the last part of our dialogue,’ the inspector said with his back to her. ‘I don’t either.’

‘Peace?’ ‘Peace.’

Montalbano turned around and smiled at her. Anna smiled back. But only for an instant. Then she raised a finger like a schoolgirl, wanting to ask a question.

‘Can you tell me, if it’s not a secret, how she was killed?’

“They didn’t say so on TV?’

‘No. Neither the Free Channel nor Tele Vigata said anything. They only said the body had been found.’

‘I shouldn’t be telling you. But I’ll make an exception. She was suffocated.’

‘With a pillow?’

‘No, with her face pressed down against the mattress.’

Anna began to sway, the way treetops sway in strong wind. The inspector left the room and returned a moment later with a bottle of water and a glass. Anna drank as if she had just come out of the desert.

‘But what was she doing there at the house, for God’s sake?’ she asked, as if to herself.

‘Have you ever been to that house?’

‘Of course. Almost daily, with her.’

‘Did she ever sleep there?’

‘No, not that I know of.’

‘But there was a bathrobe in the bathroom, and towels and creams—’

‘I know. Michela put those things there on purpose. Whenever she went to work on the house, she ended up all covered in dust and cement. So, before leaving, she would take a shower’

Montalbano decided it was time to hit below the belt. But he felt reluctant; he didn’t want to injure her too badly.

‘She was completely naked.’

Anna looked as if a high-voltage charge had passed through her. Eyes popping out of her head, she tried to say something but couldn’t. Montalbano refilled her glass.

‘Was she … was she raped?’

‘I don’t know. The pathologist hasn’t told me yet.’

‘But why didn’t she go back to her hotel instead of going to that goddamned house?’ Anna asked herself again in despair.

‘Whoever killed her also took all her clothes, underwear and shoes.’

Anna looked at him in disbelief, as though the inspector had just told her a big lie.

‘For what reason?’

Montalbano didn’t answer.

He continued, ‘He even made off with her handbag and everything that was in it’

‘That’s a little more understandable. Michela used to keep all her jewellery in it, and she had a lot, all very valuable. If the person who suffocated her was a thief—’

‘Wait Mr Vassallo told me that when Michela didn’t show up to dinner at his place, they got worried and phoned you.’

‘That’s true. I thought she was at their house. When Michela left me, she’d said she was stopping off at the hotel to change her clothes.’

‘Speaking of which, how was she dressed?’

‘Entirely in denim — jeans and jacket — and casual shoes.’

‘She never went back to the hotel. Somebody or something made her change her mind. Did she have a mobile phone?’

‘Yes, she kept it in her bag.’

‘So it’s possible that someone phoned Mrs Licalzi as she was going back to the hotel. And that as a result of this phone call, she went out to the house.’

‘Maybe it was a trap.’

‘Set by whom? Certainly not by a thief. Have you ever heard of a burglar summoning the owner of the house he’s about to rob?’

‘Did you notice if anything was missing from the house?’

‘Her Piaget, for certain.

As for everything else, I’m not sure. I don’t know what things of value she had in the house. Everything looked to be in order, except for the bathroom, which was a mess.’

‘A mess?’

‘Yes. The pink bathrobe was thrown on the floor. She’d just finished taking a shower.’

Inspector, I find the picture you’re presenting totally unconvincing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, the idea that Michela would go to the house to meet a man and be in such a rush to go to bed with him that she would throw off her bathrobe and let it fall wherever it happened to fall.’

‘That’s plausible, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe for other women, but not Michela.’

‘Do you know somebody named Guido who called her every night from Bologna?’

He’d fired blindly, but hit the mark. Anna Tropeano looked away, embarrassed.

‘You said a few minutes ago that Mrs Licalzi was faithful,’ he continued.

‘Yes.’

‘Faithful to her one infidelity?’ Anna nodded yes.

‘Could you tell me his name? You see, you’ll be doing me a favour. It’ll save me time. Because, don’t worry, I’ll find out eventually anyway. Well?’

‘His name is Guido Serravalle. He’s an antique dealer. I don’t know his telephone number or address.’

‘Thanks, that’s good enough. Her husband will be here around midday. Would you like to see him?’

‘Me? Why? I don’t even know him.’

The inspector didn’t need to ask any more questions. Anna went on talking of her own accord.

‘Michela married Dr Licalzi two and a half years ago. It was her idea to come to Sicily for their honeymoon. But that’s not when we met. That happened later, when she returned by herself with the intention of having a house built. I was on my way to Montelusa one day and a Twingo was coming from the opposite direction, we were both distracted, and we narrowly avoided a head-on collision. We both pulled over and got out to apologize, and took an immediate liking to each other.

Every time Michela came down after that, she always came alone.’

She was tired. Montalbano took pity on her.

‘You ve been very helpful to me. Thank you.’

‘Can I go?’

‘Of course.’

He extended his hand to her. Anna Tropeano took it and held it between both of hers.

The inspector felt a wave of heat rise up inside him. ‘Thank you,’ said Anna. ‘For what?’

‘For letting me talk about Michela. I don’t have anybody to … Thanks. I feel calmer now.’

_SIX

No sooner had Anna Tropeano left than the door to the inspector’s office flew open, slamming into the wall, and Catarella came barrelling into the room

‘The next time you come in here like that, I’m going to shoot you. And you know I mean it,’ Montalbano said calmly.

Catarella, however, was too excited to worry about this.

‘Chief, I just wanna say I got a call from the c’mis-sioner’s office. Remember the concourse in pewters I tof you ‘bout? Well, it starts Monday morning an’ I gotta be there. Whatcha gonna do witout me onna phone?’

‘We’ll survive, Cat.’

‘Oh, Chief, Chief! You said you dint wanna be distroubled when you was talking wit da lady an’ I did what you said! But inna meantime you gotta lotta phone calls! I wrote ‘em all down on dis li’l piece a paper.’

‘Give it to me and get out of here.’

On a poorly torn-out piece of notebook paper was written, ‘Phone calls: Vizzallo Guito, Sarah Valli Losconti yer frend Zito Rotono Totano Ficuccio Cangialosi Sarah Valli of Bolonia agin Cipollina Pinissi Cacamo.’

Montalbano started scratching himself all over. It must have been some mysterious form of allergy, but every time he was forced to read something Catarella had written, an irresistible itch came over him. With the patience of a saint, he deciphered: Vassallo, Guido Serravalle (Michela’s Bolognese lover), Loconte (who sold fabric for curtains), his friend Nicolo Zito, Rotondo (the furniture salesman), Todaro (the plant and garden man), Riguccio (the electrician), Cangelosi (who’d invited Michela to dinner) and Serravalle again. Cipollina, Pinissi and Cacamo, assuming that those were their real names, were unfamiliar to him, but in all likelihood they had phoned because they were friends or acquaintances of the murder victim.

‘May I?’ asked Fazio, sticking his head inside the door.

‘Come on in. Did you get the low-down on the engineer Di Blasi?’

‘Of course. Why else would I be here?’

Fazio was apparently expecting to be praised for having taken such a short time to gather the information.

‘See? You did it in less than an hour,’ the inspector said instead.

Fazio darkened.

Is that the kind of thanks I get?’ ‘Why do you want to be thanked just for doing your duty?’

Inspector, may I say something, with all due respect? This morning you re downright obnoxious.’

‘By the way, why haven’t I yet had the honour and pleasure, so to speak, of seeing Inspector Augello at the office this morning?’

‘He’s out today with Germana and Galluzzo looking into that business at the cement works.’

What’s this about?’

‘You don’t know? Yesterday, about thirty-five workers at the cement factory were given pink slips. This morning they started raising hell, shouting, throwing stones. The manager got scared and called, us up.’

‘And why did Mimi Augello go?’

Tie manager asked him for help!’

Jesus Christ’ If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. I don’t want anyone from my station getting mixed up in these things!’

‘But what was Augello supposed to do?’

‘He should have passed the phone call on to the carabinieri, who get off on that kind of thing! Mr Manager’s always going to find another position when the going gets tough. The ones who get thrown out on their arses are the workers. And we’re supposed to club them over the head?’

‘Chief, excuse me again, but you’re really and truly a communist, a hotheaded communist’

‘Fazio, you’re stuck on this communist crap. I’m not a communist, will you get that in your head once and for all?’

‘OK, but you really do sound like one.’ ‘Are we going to drop the politics?’ ‘Yessir. Anyway: Aurelio Di Blasi, son of Giacomo and Maria Antonietta nee Carlentini, born in Vigata on April‘1937—’

‘You get on my nerves when you talk that way. You sound like a clerk at the records office.’

‘You don’t like it, Chief ?

What do you want me to do, sing it? Recite it like poetry?’

‘You know, as for being obnoxious, you’re doing a pretty good job yourself this morning.’

The telephone rang,

‘At this rate we’ll be here till midnight,’ Fazio sighed.

‘H’lo, Chief? I got that Signor Cacano that called before onna line. Whaddo I do?’ ‘Let me talk to him.’

Inspector Montalbano? This is Gillo Jacono. I had the pleasure of meeting you at Mrs Vasile Cozzo’s house once. I’m a former student of hers.’

Over the receiver, in the background, Montalbano heard a female voice announcing the last call for the flight to Rome.

‘I remember very well. What can I do for you?’ ‘Excuse me for being so brief, but I’m at the airport and have only a few seconds.’

Brevity was something the inspector was always ready to excuse, at any time and under any circumstance.

‘I’m calling about the woman who was murdered.’ ‘Did you know her?’

‘No, but on Wednesday evening, about midnight, I was on my way from Montelusa to Vigata in my car when the motor started acting up, and so I began driving very slowly. When I was in the Tre Fontane district, a dark Twingo passed me and then stopped in front of a house a short distance ahead. A man and a woman got out and walked up the drive. I didn’t see anything else, but I’m sure about what I saw.’

‘When will you be back in Vigita?’

‘Next Thursday.’

‘Come in and see me.

Thanks.’

Montalbano drifted off.

That is, his body remained seated, but his mind was elsewhere.

‘What should I do, come back in a little bit?’ Fazio asked in resignation.

‘No, no. Go ahead and talk.’

‘Where was I? Ah, yes.

Construction engineer, but not a builder himself. Resides in Vigata, Via Laporta number eight, married to Teresa Dalli Cardillo, housewife, but a well-to-do housewife. Husband owns a large plot of farmland at Raffadali in Montelusa province, complete with farmhouse, which he refurbished. He’s got two cars, a Mercedes and a Tempra, two children, male and female. The female’s name is Manuela, thirty years old, married to a businessman and living in Holland.

They’ve got two children, Giuliano, age three, and Domenico, age one. They live —*’

‘Now I’m going to break your head,’ said Montalbano.

‘Why? What did I do?’ Fazio asked disingenuously. ‘I thought you said you wanted to know everything about everything!’

The phone rang. Fazio could only groan and look up at the ceiling.

Inspector. This is Emanuele Licalzi. I’m calling from Rome. My flight was two hours late leaving Bologna and so I missed the connection to Palermo. I’ll be there at about three this afternoon.’

‘No problem, I’ll be expecting you.’

He looked at Fazio and Fazio looked at him.

‘How much more of this bullshit have you got?’

‘I’m almost done. The son’s name is Maurizio.’

Montalbano sat up in his chair and pricked up his ears.

‘He’s thirty-one years old.

and a university student,’ ‘At thirty-one?’

‘At thirty-one. Seems he’s a little slow in the head. He lives with his parents. End of story.’

‘No, I’m sure that is not the end of the story. Go on.’ ‘Well, they’re only rumours ‘Doesn’t matter.’

Fazio was obviously having a great time playing this game with his boss, since he held all the cards.