reactions to your questions; the inconsistencies in the execution of the burglary; my participation;
everything. Without any commentary: just the facts.’
‘OK.’
*
Not that he was worried about his career like the commissioner – who was practically on the verge of a stroke – since he, for his part, had pretty much reached the
end. No, he was enraged; in fact, his blood was boiling.
In recent years, perhaps because of his increasing age, he was less and less able to control the disdain, and the subsequent feeling of rebellion, aroused in him by the more or less open support
that a certain political formation, through the involvement of certain members of Parliament and senators, was always ready to provide the Mafia. And now they were even starting to pass a number of
laws that hadn’t the slightest thing to do with the law. What country was it where a minister had once said, while in office, that one had to learn to live with the Mafia? What country was it
where a senator, convicted for first-degree collusion with the Mafia, had recycled himself and been re-elected? What country was it where a regionaldeputy, convicted for aiding
and abetting Mafiosi, had risen to the rank of senator? What country was it where a man who’d been a minister and Prime Minister a great many times had been found definitively guilty of the
crime of collusion with the Mafia, and yet continued to enjoy the status of senator for life?
The mere fact that these people never resigned of their own accord showed what sort of stuff they were made of.
He pushed away the plate in front of him.
‘What? Aren’t you going to eat?’ Enzo asked him with concern.
‘I’m suddenly not hungry any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too many worries.’
‘Inspector, don’t you know that worries are the worst enemies there are of your stomach and your cock, if you’ll pardon my language?’
‘But you can’t always control what’s going through your head. I’m sorry, because your pasta was magnificent.’
Even the customary stroll along the jetty to the lighthouse failed to dispel his bad mood.
*
‘According to what everyone says, Tumminello has always been an honest, upstanding man,’ Fazio began. ‘Fired from his first job at thirty, he found his present
stint as a nightwatchman shortly afterwards, when a relative of his wife became one of the founding members of the security firm. He’s not known to have any secret girlfriends or other
vices. He’s a family man, all work and no play.’
‘Listen, Fazio, I tried to persuade his wife to file a missing-persons report, but didn’t succeed. You should try again yourself.’
‘Already taken care of.’
God, what a pain!
‘You went to see her?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How was she?’
‘Desperate.’
‘And what did she say to you?’
‘She said she’s too superstitious to file a missing-persons report. She’s convinced that if she does, her husband really will disappear.’
‘She said the same thing to me. So my question is: does she think her husband only pretended to disappear?’
Fazio threw up his hands.
‘How do you see things?’ the inspector asked him.
‘I already told you. The whole thing looks really bad to me.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That as Tumminello was passing in front of the supermarket at that hour of the night, the poor bastard saw someone opening one of the doors . . .’
‘But he wasn’t worried because he recognized him,’ Montalbano continued. ‘It was someone belonging to the company that owns the supermarket.’
‘Exactly. So he continues his rounds, completes his shift, and goes home to bed. When the burglar calls him at home and his wife wakes him up, the poor guy has no reason not to believe
what the man says. He really thinks he’s calling from the institution.’
‘Also bear in mind that he still knows nothing about the robbery. Nobody’s had any time to inform him yet.’
‘Exactly. The minute he steps out of his house he
everything. Without any commentary: just the facts.’
‘OK.’
*
Not that he was worried about his career like the commissioner – who was practically on the verge of a stroke – since he, for his part, had pretty much reached the
end. No, he was enraged; in fact, his blood was boiling.
In recent years, perhaps because of his increasing age, he was less and less able to control the disdain, and the subsequent feeling of rebellion, aroused in him by the more or less open support
that a certain political formation, through the involvement of certain members of Parliament and senators, was always ready to provide the Mafia. And now they were even starting to pass a number of
laws that hadn’t the slightest thing to do with the law. What country was it where a minister had once said, while in office, that one had to learn to live with the Mafia? What country was it
where a senator, convicted for first-degree collusion with the Mafia, had recycled himself and been re-elected? What country was it where a regionaldeputy, convicted for aiding
and abetting Mafiosi, had risen to the rank of senator? What country was it where a man who’d been a minister and Prime Minister a great many times had been found definitively guilty of the
crime of collusion with the Mafia, and yet continued to enjoy the status of senator for life?
The mere fact that these people never resigned of their own accord showed what sort of stuff they were made of.
He pushed away the plate in front of him.
‘What? Aren’t you going to eat?’ Enzo asked him with concern.
‘I’m suddenly not hungry any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too many worries.’
‘Inspector, don’t you know that worries are the worst enemies there are of your stomach and your cock, if you’ll pardon my language?’
‘But you can’t always control what’s going through your head. I’m sorry, because your pasta was magnificent.’
Even the customary stroll along the jetty to the lighthouse failed to dispel his bad mood.
*
‘According to what everyone says, Tumminello has always been an honest, upstanding man,’ Fazio began. ‘Fired from his first job at thirty, he found his present
stint as a nightwatchman shortly afterwards, when a relative of his wife became one of the founding members of the security firm. He’s not known to have any secret girlfriends or other
vices. He’s a family man, all work and no play.’
‘Listen, Fazio, I tried to persuade his wife to file a missing-persons report, but didn’t succeed. You should try again yourself.’
‘Already taken care of.’
God, what a pain!
‘You went to see her?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How was she?’
‘Desperate.’
‘And what did she say to you?’
‘She said she’s too superstitious to file a missing-persons report. She’s convinced that if she does, her husband really will disappear.’
‘She said the same thing to me. So my question is: does she think her husband only pretended to disappear?’
Fazio threw up his hands.
‘How do you see things?’ the inspector asked him.
‘I already told you. The whole thing looks really bad to me.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That as Tumminello was passing in front of the supermarket at that hour of the night, the poor bastard saw someone opening one of the doors . . .’
‘But he wasn’t worried because he recognized him,’ Montalbano continued. ‘It was someone belonging to the company that owns the supermarket.’
‘Exactly. So he continues his rounds, completes his shift, and goes home to bed. When the burglar calls him at home and his wife wakes him up, the poor guy has no reason not to believe
what the man says. He really thinks he’s calling from the institution.’
‘Also bear in mind that he still knows nothing about the robbery. Nobody’s had any time to inform him yet.’
‘Exactly. The minute he steps out of his house he
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