Voice of the Violin

‘Well, Engineer Di Blasi is the second cousin of Dr Emanuele Licalzi. Michela became like one of the Di Blasi family. And Maurizio lost his head over her. For everyone in town, it turned into a farce: whenever Mrs Licalzi went walking around Vigata, there he was, following behind her, with his tongue hanging out.’

So it was Maurizio’s name Anna didn’t want to give him.

‘Everyone I spoke to,’

Fazio continued, ‘told me he’s a gentle soul, and a little dense.’ ‘All right, thanks.’

‘There’s one more thing,’

said Fazio, and it was clear he was about to fire the final blast, the biggest in the fireworks display. ‘Apparently the kid has been missing since Wednesday evening. Got that?’

‘Hello, Pasquano?

Montalbano here. Got any news for me?’

‘A few things. I was about to call you myself.’ ‘Tell me everything.’

‘The victim hadn’t eaten dinner. Or very little, at least, maybe a sandwich. She had a gorgeous body, inside and out. In perfect health, a splendid machine. She hadn’t drunk anything or taken any drugs. Death was caused by asphyxiation.’

Is that it?’

‘No. She’d clearly had sexual intercourse.’

‘Was she raped?’

‘I don’t think so. She’d had very rough vaginal intercourse, intense, I suppose you could say. But there was no trace of seminal fluid there. Then she’d had anal intercourse, also very rough, and again no seminal fluid.’

‘But how can you know she wasn’t raped?’

‘Quite simple. To prepare for anal penetration an emollient cream was used, probably one of those moisturizing creams women keep in the bathroom. Have you ever heard of a rapist worried about minimizing his victim’s pain? No, trust me: the lady consented. And now I have to let you go. I’ll give you more details as soon as possible.’

The inspector had an exceptional photographic memory. Closing his eyes, he put his head in his hands and concentrated. A moment later he could clearly see the little jar of moisturizing cream with the lid lying beside it, the last item on the right-hand side of the messy bathroom’s shelf.

The nameplate next to the intercom outside Via Laporta 8 said only, ‘Eng. Aurelio Di Blasi’. He rang, and a woman’s voice answered. ‘Who is it?’

Better not put her on her guard. They were probably already on pins and needles. Is Engineer Di Blasi there?’ ‘No, but he’ll be back soon. Who is this?’

‘I’m a friend of Maurizio’s. Could I come in?’ For a moment he felt like a piece of shit, but it was his job.

‘Top floor,’ said the voice.

The lift door was opened by a woman of about sixty, dishevelled and looking very upset.

‘You’re a friend of Maurizio’s?’ the woman asked anxiously.

‘Sort of,’ replied Montalbano, feeling the shit spill out over his collar. ‘Please come in’

She led him into a large, tastefully furnished living room, pointed him towards an armchair, while she herself sat down in a plain chair, rocking her upper body back and forth, silent and desperate. The shutters were dosed, some miserly shafts of light filtering through the slats. Montalbano felt as if he were attending a wake. He even thought the deceased was there, though invisible, and that his name was Maurizio. Scattered on the coffee table were a dozen or so photos that all showed the same face, but in the shadowy room one couldn’t make out the features. The inspector heaved a long sigh, the way one does before holding one’s breath to go underwater, for he was about to dive into the abyss of sorrow that was the mind of Mrs Di Blasi.

‘Have you heard from your son?’

It was clear as day that things were exactly as Fazio had said.

‘No. Everyone’s been looking for him over land and sea. My husband, his friends … Everyone.’

She started weeping quietly, tears running down her face, falling onto her skirt.

‘Did he have much money on him?’

‘Half a million lire, for certain. He also had a card, how’s it called? An ATM card.’

‘Let me get you a glass of water,’ said Montalbano, standing up.

‘Please don’t bother, I’ll get it myself,’ the woman said, standing up in turn and leaving the room. In a flash Montalbano seized one of the photos, glanced at it — a horse-faced kid with expressionless eyes — and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Apparently Mr Di Blasi had had them made to be passed around. Mrs Di Blasi returned, but instead of sitting back down, she remained standing in the arch of the doorway. She’d become suspicious.

‘You’re quite a bit older than my son. What did you say your name was?’

‘Actually, Maurizio is friends with my younger brother, Giuseppe.’

He’d chosen one of the most common names in Sicily. But the signora’s thoughts were already elsewhere. She sat down and resumed rocking back and forth.

‘So you’ve, had no news of him since Wednesday evening?’

‘None whatsoever. He didn’t come home that night.

He’d never done that before. He’s a simple boy, good-hearted. If you tell him dogs can fly, he’ll believe you. At some point that morning, my husband got worried and started making phone calls. A friend of his had seen him walking by in the direction of the Bar Italia. It was probably nine in the evening.’

‘Did he have a mobile phone?’

‘Yes. But who are you, anyway?’

‘Well,’ the inspector said.

‘I think I’ll go now.’

He headed quickly for the door, opened it, then turned round.

‘When was the last time Michela came here?’ Mrs Di Blasi turned red in the face. ‘Don’t you mention that slut’s name to me!’ And she slammed the door behind him.

The Bar Italia was practically next door to police headquarters. Everyone, Montalbano included, was family there. The owner was sitting at the cash register. He was a big man with ferocious eyes that contrasted with his innate kind-heartedness. His name was Gelsomino Patti. ‘What‘11 it be, Inspector?’

‘Nothing, Gelso. I need some information. Do you know this Maurizio Di Blasi?’ ‘Did they find him?’ ‘Not yet.’

‘His dad, poor guy, has come by here at least ten times to ask if there’s any news. But what kind of news could there be? If he comes back, he’s going to go home, he ain’t going to come and sit down at the bar.’

‘Listen, Pasquale Corso—’

Inspector, the father told me the same thing, that Maurizio came here round nine that night. But the fact is, he stopped on the street, right here in front, and I seen him real good from the register. He was about to come in, and then he stopped, pulled out his mobile phone, and started talking. A little while later he was gone. On Wednesday evening, he didn’t come in here, that much I know for sure. What reason would I have for savin’ something that wasn’t true?’

‘Thanks, Gelso. So long.’

‘Chief! Dr Latte called from Montelusa.’

‘Lattes, Cat, with an s at the end.’

‘Chief, one s more or less don’ make no difference. He said as how you should call ‘im ‘mediately. And then Guito Sarah Valli called after ‘im. Left me ‘is number in Bolonia. I wrote it on this here piece a paper.’

It was time, to eat, but he could squeeze in one call.

‘Hello? Who’s this?’

‘Inspector Montalbano. I’m calling from Vigata. Are you Mr Guido Serravalle?’

‘Yes. Inspector. IVe been trying to reach you all morning, because when I called the Jolly to talk to Michela I found out…’

A warm, mature voice, like a crooner’s.

‘Are you a relative?’

He’d always found it to be a good tactic to pretend, during an investigation, that he knew nothing about the relationships between the various persons involved.

‘No. Actually, I…’

‘Friend?’

‘Yes, a friend.’

‘How much?’

I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’ ‘How much of a friend?’

Guido Serravalle hesitated before answering. Montalbano came to his aid. ‘An intimate friend?’ ‘Well, yes.’

‘So, what can I do for you?’

More hesitation. Apparently the inspector’s manner was throwing him off.

‘Uh, I just wanted to tell you … to make myself available. I own an antique shop in Bologna that I can close whenever I want. If you need me for anything, ‘I’ll get on a plane and come down. I wanted … I was very close to Michela.’

‘I understand. If I need you for anything, I’ll have someone ring you.’

He hung up. He hated people who made useless phone calls. What could Guido Serravalle tell him that he didn’t already know?

He headed out on foot to have lunch at the Trattoria San Calogero, where the fish was always the freshest. All of a sudden he stopped, cursing the saints. He’d forgotten that the trattoria was closed for six days for kitchen renovations. He went back, got in his car, and drove towards Marinella. Just past the bridge, he noticed the house that he now knew belonged to Anna Tropeano. The urge got the better of him and he pulled up, stopped the car and got out.

It was a two-storey house, very well maintained, with a little garden all around. He approached the gate and pressed the button on the intercom.

‘Who is it?’

‘Inspector Montalbano. Am I disturbing you?’ ‘No, please come in.’

The gate opened, and at the same time, so did the front door of the house. Anna had changed her clothes and recovered her normal skin tone.

‘You know something, Inspector? I was sure I would see you again before the day was over.’

_SEVEN

‘Were you eating lunch?’

‘No, I’m not hungry. And anyway, all alone like this … Michela used to come and eat here almost every day. She hardly ever had lunch at the hotel’

‘May I make a suggestion?’

‘Come inside, in the meantime.’

‘Would you like to come to my house? It’s right here, just a stone’s throw away.’

‘Maybe your wife doesn’t like surprise visitors…’ ‘I live alone.’

Anna Tropeano didn’t have to think twice about it. ‘I’ll meet you in your car.’

They rode in silence: Montalbano still surprised at having invited her, Anna clearly amazed with herself for having accepted.

Saturday was the day Adelina, the. housekeeper, customarily devoted to a fastidious clean-up.of the whole house. Seeing it so spick and span, Montalbano took comfort. Once on a Saturday he’d invited a married couple over, before Adelina had been. In the end, his friend’s wife, just to set the table, had to clear away the mountain of dirty socks and underwear he’d left there for the housekeeper to wash.

As if she were already long familiar with the house, Anna went directly to the veranda, sat down on the bench, and looked out at the sea a short distance away. Montalbano set a folding table and an ashtray in front of her and went into the kitchen. Adelina had left him a large serving of haddock; in the refrigerator he found a sauce of anchovies and vinegar to add to it

He went back out on the veranda. Anna was smoking and seemed more and more relaxed with each passing minute.

It’s so beautiful here.’

‘Listen, would you like a little baked haddock?’

Inspector, please don’t be offended, but my stomach’s in a knot Let’s do this: while you’re eating, I’ll have a glass of wine.’

Half an hour later, the inspector had gobbled up the “triple serving of haddock and Anna had knocked back two glasses of wine.

‘This is really good,’ said Anna, refilling her glass.

‘My father makes it … used to make it Would you like some coffee?’

‘I won’t turn down a coffee.’

Hie inspector opened a can of Yaucono, prepared the napoletona, and put it on the gas burner. He returned to the veranda.

‘Please take this bottle away from me or I’ll drink the whole thing.’ said Anna.

Montalbano complied. The coffee was ready. He served it. Anna drank, savouring it in little sips.

‘This is delicious. So strong. Where do you buy it?’

‘I don’t. A friend sends me a tin now and then from Puerto Rico.’

Anna pushed the cup away and lit her twentieth cigarette.

‘What do you have to tell me?’ ‘There are some new developments.’ ‘What?’

‘Maurizio Di Blasi.’

‘You see? I didn’t give you his name this morning because I knew you’d find it out with ease. He was the laughing stock of the whole town.’

Tell head over heels for her?’

‘Worse. Michela had become an obsession for him. I don’t know if anyone told you, but Maurizio isn’t right in the head. He’s on the borderline between normal and mentally unstable. You know, there were two episodes where…’

‘Tell me about them.’

‘Once Michela and I went but to eat at a restaurant. A little while later Maurizio arrived He said hi and sat down at the table next to ours. But he ate very little and just stared at Michela the whole time. Then he suddenly started drooling and I nearly threw up. He was really drooling, believe me; he had a string of saliva hanging out of the side of his mouth. We had to leave.’ ‘And the other episode?’

‘I’d gone up to the house to give Michela a hand. At the end of the day, she went to take a shower and afterwards came downstairs into the living room naked. It was very hot. She liked to go around the house with nothing on. Then she sat down in an armchair and we started talking. At a certain point, I heard a kind of moan coming from outside. I turned around to look. There was Maurizio, his face practically pasted against the window. Before I could say a word, he took a few steps back, bending over. And that’s when I realized he was masturbating.’

She paused a moment, looked at the sea, and sighed.

‘Poor kid,’ she said under her breath.

Montalbano, for a moment, felt moved. That astonishing, wholly feminine capacity for deep understanding, for penetrating one’s feelings, for being at once mother and lover, daughter and wife. He placed his hand on top of Anna’s and she did not pull it away.

‘Do you know he’s disappeared?’

‘Yes, I know. The same night as Michela. But…’

‘But?’

Inspector, can I speak to you frankly?’ ‘Why, what have we been doing up to now? But do me a favour, please call me Salvo’ If you call me Anna.’ ‘OK’

‘You know, you’re wrong if you think Maurizio could ever have murdered Michela.’ ‘Give me one good reason.’

‘Reason’s got nothing to do with it. You know, people don’t talk very willingly to the police. But if you, Salvo, were to conduct a poll, all of Vigata would tell you Maurizio’s not a murderer.’

‘Anna, there’s another development I haven’t mentioned.’

Anna closed her eyes. She’d intuited that what the inspector was about to tell her would be hard to say and hard to hear.

He told her, without looking her in the face, gazing out at the sea. He didn’t spare her any details.

Anna listened with her face in her hands, her elbows on the folding table. When the inspector had finished, she stood up, pale as a ghost.

‘I need a bathroom.’

‘I’ll show you where it is.’

‘I can find it myself.’

A few moments later, Montalbano heard her vomiting. He glanced at his watch,’ he still had an hour before

Emanuele Licalzi’s visit And, anyway, Mr Orthopedist from Bologna could certainly wait

She returned with an air of determination and sat back down beside Montalbano.

‘Salvo, what does the word “consent” mean to this pathologist?’

‘The same thing it means to you or me: to agree to something.’

‘But in certain cases one might appear to consent to something because there’s no chance of resistance.’

‘I know.’

‘So I ask you: couldn’t the murderer have done what he did to Michela without her wanting him to?’ ‘But there are certain details—’

‘Forget them. First of all, we don’t even know whether the killer abused a living woman or a corpse.

Anyway, he had all the time in the world to arrange things in such a way that the police would lose their heads over it’

Neither of them seemed to notice how familiar they’d become with each other.

‘You’re thinking something but not saying it’ said Anna.

‘No, I have no problem saying it’ said Montalbano. ‘At the moment everything points to Maurizio. He was last seen at nine pm. in front of the Bar Italia. Calling someone on his mobile phone.’

‘Me,’ said Anna.

The inspector literally jumped up from the bench. ‘What did he want?’

‘He was asking about Michela. I told him we’d parted shortly after seven, and that she would be stopping at the hotel before going to dinner at the Vassallos.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He hung up without even saying goodbye.’

‘That could be another point against him. He must have phoned the Vassallos next. Not finding her there, he guessed where she might be and caught up with her.’

‘At the house.’

‘No. They didn’t arrive at the house until just after midnight.’

This time it was Anna’s turn to jump.

‘A witness told me,’

Montalbano continued.

‘He recognized Maurizio?’

‘It was dark. He only saw a man and a woman get out of the Twingo and walk towards the house. Once inside, Maurizio and Michela make love. At a certain point Maurizio, who you say is a bit psycho, has an attack.’

‘Never in a million years would Michela—’

‘How did your friend react to Maurizio’s stalking?’

‘It bothered her. Sometimes she felt deeply sorry for…’

She stopped, realizing what Montalbano meant. Suddenly her face lost its freshness, and wrinkles appeared at the corners of her mouth.

‘There are, however, a few things that don’t make sense’ said Montalbano, who suffered seeing her suffer.

‘For example: would Maurizio have been capable, immediately after killing her, of coolly conceiving of stealing her clothes and bag to throw the police off the scent?’ ‘Are you kidding?’

‘The real problem isn’t finding out the details of the murder, but knowing where Michela was and what she did between the moment you left her and when the witness saw her. That’s almost five hours, a pretty long time. And now we have to go because Dr Emanuele Licalzi is coming.’

As they were getting in the car, Montalbano, like a squid, squirted a black cloud over the whole picture.

‘I’m not so sure your public opinion poll would be so unanimous on Maurizio’s innocence. One person, at least, would have serious doubts.’

‘Who?’

‘His father, Engineer Di Blasi. Otherwise he would have had us out searching for his son.’

It’s natural for you to follow every lead. Oh, I just remembered something. When Maurizio rang me to ask about Michela, I told him to call her directly on her mobile phone. He said he’d already tried, but her phone was turned off.’

In the doorway to headquarters, he practically ran into Galluzzo, who was coming out.’Back from your heroic exploit?’ ‘Yessir,’ Galluzzo said uneasily. Fazio must have told him about his morning outburst. Is Inspector Augello in his office?’ ‘No sir.’

Galluzzo’s uneasiness visibly increased.

‘And where is he? Out clubbing other strikers?’

‘He’s in the hospital’

‘Eh? What happened?’

Montalbano asked, worried.

‘Hit on the head with a stone. They gave him three stitches. But they wanted to keep him there for observation and told me to come back at eight tonight. If everything’s all right, ‘I’ll drive him home.’

The inspector’s string of curses was interrupted by Catarella.

‘Chief, Chief! First of all, Dr Latte with an s at the end called two times. He says as how you’re asposta call him poissonally back straightaway.

Then there was tree other phone calls I wrote down on dis little piece a paper.’

‘Wipe your arse with it.’

Dr Emanuele Licalzi was a diminutive man in his sixties, with gold-rimmed glasses and dressed all in grey. He looked as if he’d just been pressed, shaved and manicured. Impeccable.

‘How did you get here?’

‘You mean from the airport?

I rented a car and it took me almost three hours’

‘Have you already been to your hotel?’

‘No. I’ve got my suitcase in the car. I’ll go there afterwards’

How could he be so wrinkle-free?

‘Shall we go to the house?

We can talk in the car, that way you’ll save time’

‘As you wish, Inspector’

They took the doctor’s rented car.

‘Did one of her lovers kill her?’

He didn’t beat around the bush, this Emanuele Licalzi.

‘We can’t say yet. One thing is certain: she had repeated sexual intercourse’

The doctor didn’t flinch, but kept on driving, calm and untroubled, as if it wasn’t his wife who’d just been killed.

‘What makes you think she had a lover here?’

‘Because she had one in Bologna.’

‘Ah’

‘Yes, Michela even told me his name. Serravalle, I think. An antiquarian.’ ‘That’s rather unusual’

‘She used to tell me everything.

She really trusted me.’ ‘And did you also tell your wife everything?’ ‘Of course.’

‘An exemplary marriage’ the inspector commented ironically.

Montalbano sometimes felt irretrievably left behind by the new lifestyles. He was a traditionalist. For him, an ‘open relationship’ meant nothing more than a husband and wife who cheated on each other and even had the gall to tell each other what they did under or on top of the covers.

‘Not an exemplary marriage,’ the unflappable Dr Licalzi corrected him, ‘but a marriage of convenience.’ ‘For Michela or you?’ ‘For both of us.’ ‘Could you explain?’

‘Certainly.’ He turned right

‘Where are you going?’ the inspector asked. ‘This road won’t take you to Tre Fontane.’

‘Sorry,’ said the doctor, beginning a complex manoeuvre to turn the car round. ‘But I haven’t been down here for a year and a half, ever since I got married. Michela saw to all the construction herself; I’ve only seen photographs. Speaking of photographs, I packed a few of Michela in my suitcase. I thought they might be of some use to you.’

‘You know what? The murder victim might not even be your wife.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes. Nobody has officially identified the body, and none of the people who’ve seen it actually knew her when she was alive. When we’ve finished here, I’ll talk to the pathologist about identifying her. How long do you plan on staying?’

‘Two, three days at the most. I want to take Michela back to Bologna.’

‘Doctor, I’m going to ask you a question, and I won’t ask you again. Where were you Wednesday evening, and what were you doing?’

‘Wednesday? I was at the hospital, operating late into the night’

‘You were telling me about your marriage.’

‘Yes. Well, I met Michela three years ago. Her brother, who lives in New York now, had a rather severe compound fracture in his foot and she brought him to the hospital. I liked her at once. She was very beautiful, but what struck me most was her character. She was always ready to see the bright side of things. She lost both her parents before the age of fifteen and was brought up by an uncle who one day saw fit to rape her. To make a long story short she was desperate to find a place to live.

For years she was the mistress of an industrialist but he eventually disposed of her with a tidy sum of money that helped her get along for .a while. Michela could have had any man she wanted, but basically, it humiliated her to be a kept woman.’

‘Did you ask Michela to become your mistress, and she refused?’

For the first time, a hint of a smile appeared on Emanuele Licalzi’s impassive face.

‘You re on the wrong track entirely. Inspector. Oh, by the way, Michela told me she’d bought a bottle-green Twingo to get around town. Do you know what’s become of it?’

It had an accident.’

‘Michela never did know how to drive.’

‘Your wife was entirely without fault in this case. The car was properly parked in front of the drive to the house and somebody ran into it.’

‘And how do you know this?’

It was us, the police, who ran into it. At the time, however, we still didn’t know–’

‘What an odd story.’

‘I’ll tell it to you sometime. Anyhow, it was the accident that led us to discover the body.’

‘Do you think I could have the car back?’

‘I don’t see any reason why not.’

‘I could resell it to somebody in Vigata who deals in used cars, don’t you think?’

Montalbano didn’t answer.

He didn’t give a shit about what happened to the car.

‘That’s the house there on the right, isn’t it? I think I recognize it from the photograph.’

‘That’s it.’

Dr Licalzi executed an elegant manoeuvre, pulled up in front of the drive, got out of the car, and stood looking at the house with the detached curiosity of a sightseer.

‘Nice. What did we come here for?’

‘I don’t really know, truth be told,’ Montalbano said grumpily. Dr Licalzi knew how to get on his nerves. He decided to shake him up a little.

‘You know, some people think it was Maurizio Di Blasi, the son of your cousin the engineer, who killed your wife.’

‘Really.’ I don’t know him.

When I came here two and a half years ago, he was in Palermo for his studies.

I’m told the poor boy’s a half-wit.’

So there.

‘Shall we go inside?’

‘Wait, I don’t want to forget.’

He opened the boot of the car, took out the elegant suitcase that was inside, and removed a large envelope from it.

‘The photos of Michela.’

Montalbano slipped it in his jacket pocket. As he was doing this, the doctor extracted a bunch of keys from his own pocket,

‘Are those to the house?’

Yes. I knew where Michela kept them at our place in Bologna. They’re the extra set,’

Now I’m going to start kicking the guy, thought the inspector.

‘You never finished telling me why your marriage was as convenient for you as it was for your wife.’

‘Well, it was convenient for Michela because she was marrying a rich man, even if he was thirty years older, and it was convenient for me because it put to rest certain rumours that were threatening to harm me at a crucial moment of my career. People had started saying I’d become a homosexual, since nobody’d seen me socially with a woman for more than ten years.’

‘And was it true you no longer frequented women?’

‘Why would I, Inspector? At age fifty I became impotent. Irreversibly.’

_EIGHT

‘Nice’ said Dr Licalzi again after having a look around the living room.

Didn’t he know how to say anything else?

‘Here’s the kitchen’ the inspector said, adding, ‘Eat in.’

All of a sudden he felt enraged at himself. How did that ‘eat in’ slip out? What was it supposed to mean? He felt like an estate agent showing a house to a prospective client.

‘Next to it is the bathroom. Go and have a look yourself’ he said rudely.

The doctor didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice, the tone of voice. He opened the bathroom door, stuck his head in for the briefest of peeks and reclosed it.

‘Nice.’

Montalbano felt his hands trembling. He distinctly saw the newspaper headline:

POLICE INSPECTOR GOES SUDDENLY BERSERK, ATTACKS HUSBAND OF MURDER VICTIM.

‘Upstairs there’s a small guest room, a large bathroom and the main bedroom. Go up.’

The doctor obeyed.

Montalbano remained downstairs in the living room, lit a cigarette, and took the envelope of photographs of Michela out of his pocket. Gorgeous. Her face, which he had only seen distorted in pain and horror, had a smiling, open expression.

Finishing his cigarette, he realized the doctor hadn’t come back down.

‘Dr Licalzi?’

No answer. He bounded up the stairs. The doctor was standing in a corner of the bedroom, hands covering his face, shoulders heaving as he sobbed.

The inspector was mystified. This was the last reaction he would have expected. He went up to Licalzi and put a hand on his back.

‘Try to be brave.’

The doctor shrugged him off with an almost childish gesture and kept on weeping, face hidden in his hands. ‘Poor Michela! Poor Michela!’

It wasn’t put on. The tears, the sorrowful voice, were real.

Montalbano took him firmly by the arm. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’

The doctor let himself be led, moving away without looking at the bed, the shredded, bloodstained sheet.

He was a physician, and he knew what Michela must have felt during her last moments alive. But if Licalzi was a physician, Montalbano was a policeman, and as soon as he saw him in tears, he knew the man would no longer be able to maintain the mask of indifference he’d put on. The armour of detachment he customarily wore, perhaps to compensate for the disgrace of impotence, had fallen apart,

‘Forgive me,’ said Licalzi, sitting down in an armchair. ‘I didn’t imagine .. .It’s just horrible to die like that. The killer held her face down against the mattress, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was very fond of Michela, very. She had become like a daughter to me, you-know.’

Tears started streaming down his face again, and he wiped them away, without much success, with a handkerchief.

‘Why did she decide to build this house here instead of somewhere else?’ the inspector asked.

‘She had always mythologized Sicily, without ever knowing the place. The first time she came for a visit, she became enchanted with it. I think she wanted to create a refuge for herself here. See that little display cabinet? Those are her things in there, personal trinkets she brought down with her from Bologna. It says a lot about her intentions, don’t you think?’

‘Do you want to check and see if anything’s missing?’

The doctor got up and went over to the display cabinet.

‘May I open it?’

‘Of course.’

The doctor stared at it a long time, then raised a hand and picked up the old violin case, opened it, showed the inspector the instrument that was inside, reclosed it, put it back in its place, and shut the door.

‘At a glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything missing’

‘Did your wife play the violin?’

‘No, she didn’t play the violin or any other instrument. It belonged to her maternal grandfather from Cremona, who made them. And now, Inspector, if it’s all right with you, I want you to tell me everything.’

Montalbano told him everything, from the accident on Thursday morning to what Dr Pasquano had reported to him.

Emanuele Licalzi, when it was over, remained silent for a spell, then said only two words, ‘Genetic fingerprinting’

‘I’m not really up on scientific jargon.’ ‘Sorry. I was referring to the disappearance of her clothes and shoes.’ ‘Might be a decoy.’

‘Maybe. But it might also be that the killer felt he had no choice but to get rid of them’

‘Because he’d soiled them?’

asked Montalbano, thinking of Signora Clementina’s thesis.

‘The coroner said there was no trace of seminal fluid, right?’

‘Yes’

‘That reinforces my hypothesis, that the killer didn’t want to leave the slightest biological trace that could be used in DNA testing — that’s what I meant by genetic fingerprinting. Real fingerprints can be wiped away, but what can you do about semen, hair, skin? The killer tried to make a clean sweep.’

‘Right,’ said the inspector.

‘Excuse me, but if you don’t have anything else to tell me, I’d like to leave this place. I’m starting to feel tired.’

The doctor locked the front door with his key, Montalbano put the seals back in place, and they left.

‘Have you got a mobile phone?’

The doctor handed him his.

The inspector called Pasquano, and they decided on ten o’clock the following morning for identifying the body.

‘Will you come, too?’

‘I should, but I can’t, I have an engagement outside of Vigata. I’ll send one of my men for you, and he can take you there.’

He had Licalzi drop him off at the first houses on the outskirts of town. He needed a little walk.

‘Chief! Chief! Dr Latte with an s at the end called tree times, more and more pissed off each time, with all due respect. You’re asposta call ‘im ‘mediately in poisson.’

‘Hello, Dr Lattes?

Montalbano here.’

‘Thank heavens! Come to Montelusa immediately, the commissioner wants to talk to you.’

He hung up. It must be something serious, since the Caffe-Lattes wasn’t even lukewarm.

As he was turning the key in the ignition, he saw a squad car pull up with Galluzzo at the wheel.

‘Any news of Inspector Augello?’

‘Yeah, the hospital called to say they were discharging him. I went and picked him up and drove him home.’

To hell with the commissioner and his urgency. He stopped at Mimi’s first.

‘How are you feeling, you intrepid defender of capital?’

‘My head feels like it could burst’ That’ll teach you.’

Mimi Augello was sitting in an armchair, head bandaged, face pale.

‘I once got clobbered on the head by some guy with a blackjack. They had to give me seven stitches, and I still wasn’t in as bad a shape as you.’

‘I guess you thought you took your clobbering for a worthy cause. You got to feel clobbered and gratified at the same time.’

‘Mimi, when you put your mind to it you can be a real arsehole.’

You too, Salvo. I was going to phone you tonight to tell you I don’t think I’m in any condition to drive tomorrow.’

We’ll go to your sister’s another time.’

‘No, you go ahead, Salvo.

She was so insistent on seeing you.’

‘But do you know why?’ ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’

‘Listen, tell you what.

I’ll go, but I want you to go to the Hotel Jolly tomorrow morning at nine thirty to pick up Dr Licalzi, who arrived today, and take him to the mortuary.

OK?’

‘How are you, old friend? Eh? You look a bit down. Chin up, old boy. Sursum corda! That’s what we used to say in the days of Azione Cattolica.’

The Caffe-Lattes had warmed up dangerously. Montalbano began to feel worried.

‘I’ll go and inform the commissioner at once.’

He vanished, then reappeared.

‘The commissioner’s momentarily unavailable. Come, let me show you into the waiting room. Would you like a coffee or something else to drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

Dr Lattes, after flashing him a broad, paternal smile, disappeared. Montalbano felt certain the commissioner had condemned him to a slow and painful death. The garrotte, perhaps.

On the table in the dismal little waiting room there was a magazine, Famiglia Cristiana, and a newspaper,

L’Osscrvatore Romano, manifest signs of Dr Lattes’s presence in the commissioner’s office. He picked up the magazine and began reading an article on Susanna Tamaro. Inspector! Inspector!’

A hand was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw a uniformed policeman.

‘The commissioner is waiting for you.’

Jesus! He’d fallen into a deep sleep. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was eight o’clock. The fucker had made him wait two hours.

‘Good evening, Mr Commissioner.’

The noble Luca Bonetri-Alderighi didn’t answer, didn’t even say ‘Shoo’ or ‘Get out of here’, but only continued staring at a computer screen. The inspector contemplated his superior’s disturbing hairdo, which was very full with a great big tuft in the middle that curled back like certain turds deposited in the open country. An exact replica of the coif of that criminally insane psychiatrist who’d triggered all the butchery in Bosnia.

‘What was his name?’

It was too late when he realized that, still dazed from sleep, he’d spoken aloud.

‘What was whose name?’

asked the commissioner, finally looking up at him.

‘Never mind,’ said Montalbano.

The commissioner kept looking at him with an expression that combined contempt and commiseration, apparently discerning unmistakable signs of senile dementia in the inspector.

I’m going to speak very frankly, Montalbano. I don’t have a very high opinion of you.’

‘Nor I of you,’ the inspector replied bluntly.

‘Good. At least things are clear between us. I called you here to tell you that I’m taking you off the Licalzi murder case.

I’ve handed it over to Panzacchi, captain of the Flying Squad, to whom the investigation should have fallen by rights in the first place.’

Ernesto Panzacchi was a loyal follower whom Bonetti-Alderighi had brought, with him to Montelusa.

‘May I ask you why, though I couldn’t care less?’

‘You committed a foolish act that created a serious impediment for Dr Arqua.’

‘Did he write that in his report?’

‘No, he didn’t write it in his report. He very generously didn’t want to damage your career. But then he repented and told me the whole story.’

‘Ah, these repenters!’

commented the inspector.

‘Do you have something against repenters?’

‘Let’s drop it.’

He left without even saying goodbye. I’m going to take disciplinary measures!’ Bonetti-Alderighi shouted at his back.

The forensics laboratory was located in the building’s basement.

Is Dr Arqua in?’

‘He’s in his office.’

Montalbano barged in without knocking.

‘Hello, Arqua. I’m on my way to the commissioner’s, he wants to see me. Thought I’d drop in and see if you have any news for me.’

Vanni Arqua was obviously embarrassed. But since Montalbano had led him to believe he hadn’t yet seen the commissioner, he decided to answer as if he didn’t know the inspector was no longer in charge of the investigation.

‘The murderer cleaned everything very carefully. We found a lot of fingerprints, but they clearly had nothing to do with the homicide.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they were all yours, Inspector. You continue to be very, very careless.’

‘Oh, listen, Arqua. Did you know that it’s a sin to rat on someone? Ask Dr Lattes. You’ll have to repent all over again.’

‘Hey, Chief! Mr Cacano called another time again! Said as how he ‘membered somethin s might be maybe impor’ant. I wrote ‘is number down on dis here piece a paper.’

Eyeing the little square of paper, Montalbano felt his body start to itch all over. Catarella had written the numbers down in such a way that a three might be a five or a nine, the two a four, the five a six, and so on.

‘Hey, Cat! What kind of number is this, anyway?’

‘That’s the number, Chief.

Cacano’s number. What’s written down.’

Before reaching Gillo Jacono, he spoke to a bar, the Jacopetti family and one Dr Balzani.

By the fourth attempt, he was very discouraged.

‘Hello? Whom I speaking with? This is Inspector Montalbano.’

‘Ah, Inspector, it’s very good you called. I was on my way out.’

‘You were looking for me?’

‘A certain detail came back to me, I’m not sure if it’ll be of any use to you. The man I saw getting out of the Twingo and walk towards the house with a woman had a suitcase in his hand.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘An overnight bag?’

‘No, Inspector, it was pretty big. But..’

Yes?’

‘I had the impression the man was carrying it without effort, as if there wasn’t much in it.’

‘Thank you, Mr Jacono.

Please call me when you get

back.’

He looked up the Vassallos’

number in the phone book and dialled it.

“Inspector. I came to your office as we’d agreed, but you weren’t there. I waited a while, and then I had to go.’

‘Please forgive me. Listen, Mr Vassallo, last Wednesday evening, when you were waiting for Mrs Licalzi to come to dinner, did anybody call you?’

‘Well, a friend of mine from Venice did, and so did our daughter, who lives in Catania — I’m sure that’s of no interest to you. But, in fact, what I wanted to tell you this afternoon was that Maurizio Di Blasi did call twice that evening. Just after nine o’clock, and again just after ten. He was looking for Michela.’

The unpleasantness of his meeting with the commissioner needed to be blotted out with a solemn feast. The Trattoria San Calogero was dosed, but he remembered a friend telling him that right at the gates to Joppolo Giancaxio, a little town about twenty kilometres inland from Vigata, there was an osteria that was worth the trouble. He got in his car, and found the place immediately: it was called La Cacciatora. Naturally, they had no game. The owner-cashier-waiter, who had a big handlebar moustache and vaguely resembled the Gentleman King, Victor Emmanuel II, started things off by putting a hefty serving of delicious caponata in front of him. ‘A joyous start is the best of guides,’ wrote Boiardo, and Montalbano decided to let himself be guided. ‘What will you have?’

‘Bring me whatever you like.’

The Gentleman King smiled, appreciating the vote of confidence.

As a first course, he served him a large dish of macaroni in a light sauce dubbed Foco vivo or ‘live fire’ (olive oil, garlic, lots of hot red pepper, salt), which the inspector was forced to wash down with half a bottle of wine. For the second course, he ate a substantial portion of lamb alia cacciatora that had a pleasant fragrance of onion and oregano. He closed with a ricotta cheesecake and small glass of anisette as a viaticum and boost for his digestive system. He paid the bill, a pittance, and exchanged a handshake and smile with the Gentleman King.

‘Excuse me, who’s the cook?’

‘My wife.’

‘Please give her my compliments.’ ‘I will’

On the drive back, instead of heading towards Montelusa, he turned onto the road for Fiacca, which brought him home to Marinella from the direction opposite the one he usually took when coming from Vigata. It took him half an hour longer, but in compensation he avoided passing in front of Anna Tropeano’s house. He was certain he would have stopped, there was no getting around it, and he would have cut a ridiculous figure in the young woman’s eyes. He phoned Mimi Augello.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Terrible.’

‘Listen’ forget what I said to you. You can stay at home tomorrow morning. Since the matter’s no longer in our hands. I’ll send Fazio to accompany Dr Licalzi.’

‘What do you mean, it’s no longer in our hands?’

‘The commissioner took the case away from me. Passed it on to the captain of the Flying Squad.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘Because two does not equal three. Want me to tell your sister anything?’

‘Don’t tell her they broke my head open, for Christ’s sake,’or she’ll think I’m on my deathbed.’

‘Take care, Mimi.’

‘Hello, Fazio? Montalbano here.’ ‘What’s wrong, Chief?’

He told him to pass all phone calls relating to the case on to the Montelusa Flying Squad, and he explained what he was supposed to do with Licalzi.

‘Hello, Livia? Salvo here.

How are you doing?’ ‘All right, I guess.’

‘What’s with this tone? The other night you hung up on me before I had a chance to say anything.’ ‘You phoned me in the middle of the night’ ‘But it was the first free moment I had!’

‘Poor thing! Allow me to point out that you, between thunderstorms, shoot-outs and ambushes, have very cleverly managed to avoid answering the very specific question I asked you last Wednesday evening.’

‘I wanted to tell you I’m going to see Francois tomorrow.’

‘With Mimi?’

‘No, Mimi was hit—’

‘Oh my God.’ Is it serious?’

She and Mimi had a soft spot for each other.

‘Let me finish! He was hit on the head with a stone. Chickenshit, three stitches. So I’m going to go alone. Mimi’s sister wants to talk to me.’

‘About Francois?’

‘Who else?’

‘Oh my God. He must be sick. I’m going to phone her right away!’

‘Come on, those people go to bed at sunset! I’ll phone you tomorrow evening, as soon as I get home.’

‘Let me know. I mean it.

I’m not going to sleep a wink tonight.’

_NINE

To go from Vigata to Calapiano, anyone with any sense, and with an even superficial knowledge of Sicilian roads, would first have taken the superhighway to Catania, exited onto the road that turns back inland towards Troina at 1,120 metres’ elevation, descended to Gagliano at 751 metres by way of a sort of mule track that received its first and last layer of tarmac fifty years ago in the early days of regional autonomy, and finally reached Calapiano via a provincial road that clearly refused to be known as such, its true aspiration being to resume the outward appearance of the earthquake-ravaged country trail it had once been.

But that wasn’t the end of it. The farm belonging to Mimi’s sister and her husband was four kilometres outside town, and one reached it by following a winding strip of gravel on which even goats had doubts about setting a single one of their four available hooves. This was what one might call, for lack of a better term, the best route, the one Mimi Augello always took, its difficulties and discomforts not coming entirely to the fore until the final stretch.

Naturally, Montalbano did not take it. He chose instead to cut across the island, and thus found himself, from the start, travelling roads along which the few surviving peasants interrupted their labours to gaze in amazement at the car passing recklessly by. They would talk about it at home in the evening with their children, ‘Know what? This mornin’ a car drove by!’

This, however, was the Sicily the inspector liked best: harsh, spare in vegetation, on whose soil it seemed (and was) impossible to live, and where he could still run across, though more and more rarely, a man in gaiters and cap, rifle on shoulder, who would raise two fingers to his visor and salute him from the back of a mule.

The sky was clear and bright and openly declared its determination to remain so until evening. It was almost hot. But the open windows did not prevent the interior of the car from becoming permeated with the delightful aromas filtering out of the packages large and small literally stuffed into the backseat. Before leaving, Montalbano had stopped at the Cafre Albanese, which made the best pastries in all of Vigata, and bought twenty cannoli, fresh out of the oven, ten kilos’ worth of tetu, taralli, viscotti regina and Palermitan mostaccioli — all long-lasting cookies — as well as some marzipan fruits, and, to crown it all, a colourful cassata that weighed five kilos all by itself.

He arrived in the early afternoon and worked out that the journey had taken him more than four hours.

The big farmhouse looked empty to him; only the smoking chimney said there was someone at home. He tooted his horn, and a moment later Franca, Mimi’s sister, appeared in the doorway. She was a blonde Sicilian over forty, a strong, tall woman. She eyed the car, which she didn’t recognize, as she wiped her hands on her apron.

It’s Montalbano,’ said the inspector, opening the car

door and getting out. ,

Franca ran up to him with a big smile on her face and embraced him.

‘Where’s Mimi?’

‘At the last minute he couldn’t come. He felt really bad about it.’

Franca looked at him.

Montalbano was unable to tell a lie to people he respected; he would stammer, blush and look away.

Tm going to phone Mimi,’

Franca said decisively, walking back into the house. By some miracle Montalbano managed to load himself up with all the packages, big and small, and followed her inside a few minutes later.

Franca was just hanging up.

‘He’s still got a headache.’

‘Reassured now? Believe me, it was nothing,’ said the inspector, unloading the parcels onto the table.

‘And what’s this?’ said Franca. ^fAre you trying to turn this place into a pastry shop?’

She put the sweets in the fridge.

‘How are you, Salvo?’ ‘Fine.

And how’s everybody here?’ ‘We’re all fine, thank Goch And you won’t believe Francois. He’s shot right up, getting taller by the day.’ ‘Where are they?’

‘Out and about. But when I ring the bell for lunch, they’ll all come running. Are you staying the night with us? I prepared a room for you.’

‘Thanks, Franca, but you know I can’t. I have to leave by five at the latest. I can’t be like your brother and race along these roads like a madman.’

‘Go and wash, then.’

He returned fifteen minutes later, refreshed. Franca was setting the table for nine people. The inspector decided this was perhaps the right moment.

‘Mimi said you wanted to talk to me’

‘Later, later’ Franca said brusquely. ‘Hungry?’

‘Well, yes’

‘Want a little wheat bread?

I took it out of the oven less than an hour ago. Shall I prepare you some?’

Without waiting for an answer, she cut two slices from a loaf, dressed them in olive oil, salt and black pepper, adding a slice of pecorino cheese, put this all together to form a sandwich, and handed it to him,

Montalbano went outside, sat down on a bench next to the door, and, at the first bite, felt forty years younger. He was a little kid again. This was bread the way his grandmother used to make it for him.

It was meant to be eaten in the sun, while thinking of nothing, only relishing being in harmony with one’s body, the earth, and the smell of the grass. A moment later he heard shouting and saw three children chasing after each other, pushing and trying to trip one another. They were Giuseppe, nine years old, his brother, Domenico, namesake of his uncle Mimi and the same age as Francois, and Francois himself.

The inspector gazed at him, wonders truck. He’d become the tallest of the lot, the most energetic and pugnacious. How the devil had he managed to undergo such a metamorphosis in the two short months since the inspector had last seen him?

Montalbano ran over to him, arms open wide. Francois, recognizing him, stopped at once as his companions turned and headed towards the house. Montalbano squatted down, arms still open.

‘Hi, Francois.’

The child broke into a sprint, swerving around him. ‘Hi,’ he said.

The inspector watched him disappear into the house. What was going on? Why had he read no joy in the little boy’s eyes? Montalbano tried to console himself; maybe it was some kind of childish resentment; Francois probably felt neglected by him.

At the two ends of the table sat the inspector and Aldo Gagliardo, Franca’s husband, a man of few words who was as hale and hearty as his name. To Montalbano’s right sat Franca, followed by the three children. Francois was the farthest away, sitting next to Aldo. To his left were three youths around twenty years of age, Mario, Giacomo and Ernst. The first two were university students who earned their daily bread working in the fields; the third was a German passing through who told Montalbano he hoped to stay another three months. The lunch, consisting of pasta with sausage sauce and a second course of grilled sausage, went rather quickly. Aldo and his three helpers were in a hurry to get back to work. They all pounced on the sweets the inspector had brought. Then, at a nod of the head from Aldo, they got up and went out.

‘Let me make you another coffee’ said Franca. Montalbano felt uneasy. He’d seen Aldo exchange a fleeting glance of understanding with his wife before leaving. Franca served the coffee and sat down in front of the inspector.

It’s a serious matter’ she began.