hung from one corner of the room to another. Fatma walked over to it: broad shoulders, perfect back, small, round buttocks.
With a body like that, thought Montalbano, I bet she’s been through it all.
He imagined the men lining up discreetly in certain offices, with Fatma earning “the indulgence of the authorities” behind closed doors, as he had happened several times to read about, an indulgence of the most self-indulgent kind. Fatma put on a light cotton dress over her naked body and remained standing in front of Montalbano.
“So . . . your papers?”
The woman shook her head no. And she began to weep in silence.
“Don’t be afraid,” the inspector said.
“I not afraid. I very unlucky.”
“Why?”
“Because you wait few days, I no here no more.”
“And where did you want to go?”
“Man from Fela he like me, I like him, he say Sunday he marry me. I believe him.”
“The man who comes to see you every Saturday and Sunday?”
Fatma’s eyes widened.
“How you know?”
She started crying again.
“But now everything finish.”
“Tell me something. Is Gegè going to let you go with this man from Fela?”
“Man talk to Signor Gegè, man pay.”
“Listen, Fatma, pretend I never came to see you here. I only want to ask you one thing, and if you answer me truthfully, I will turn around and walk out of here, and you can go back to sleep.”
“What you want to know?”
“Did they ask you, at the Pasture, if you’d found anything?”
The woman’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, yes! Signor Filippo come—he Signor Gegè’s man—tell us if we find gold necklace with heart of diamond, we give it straight to him. If not find, then look.”
“And do you know if it was found?”
“No. Also tonight, all girls look.”
“Thank you,” said Montalbano, heading for the door. In the doorway he stopped and turned round to look at Fatma.
“Good luck.”
So Gegè had been foiled. What he had so carefully neglected to mention to Montalbano, the inspector had managed to find out anyway. And from what Fatma had just told him, he drew a logical conclusion.
When he arrived at headquarters at the crack of dawn, the officer on guard gave him a look of concern.
“Anything wrong, chief?”
“Nothing at all,” he reassured him. “I just woke up early.”
He had bought the two Sicilian newspapers and sat down to read them. With a great wealth of detail, the first announced that the funeral services for Luparello would be held the following day. The solemn ceremony would take place at the cathedral, officiated by the bishop himself. Special security measures would be taken, due to the anticipated arrival of numerous important personages come to express their condolences and pay their last respects. At latest count they would include two government ministers, four undersecretaries, eighteen members of parliament between senators and deputies, and a throng of regional deputies. And so city police, carabinieri, coast guard agents, and traffic cops would all be called into action, to say nothing of personal bodyguards and other even more personal escorts, of which the newspaper mentioned nothing, made up of people who certainly had some connection with law and order, but from the other side of the barricade atop which stood the law. The second newspaper more or less repeated the same things, while adding that the casket had been set up in the atrium of the Luparello mansion and that an endless line of people were waiting to express their thanks for everything the deceased had dutifully and impartially done—when still alive, of course.
Meanwhile Sergeant Fazio had arrived, and Montalbano spoke to him at great length about a number of investigations currently under way. No phone calls came in from Montelusa. Soon it was noon, and the inspector opened a file containing the deposition of the two garbage collectors concerning their discovery of the corpse. He copied down their addresses, said good-bye to
With a body like that, thought Montalbano, I bet she’s been through it all.
He imagined the men lining up discreetly in certain offices, with Fatma earning “the indulgence of the authorities” behind closed doors, as he had happened several times to read about, an indulgence of the most self-indulgent kind. Fatma put on a light cotton dress over her naked body and remained standing in front of Montalbano.
“So . . . your papers?”
The woman shook her head no. And she began to weep in silence.
“Don’t be afraid,” the inspector said.
“I not afraid. I very unlucky.”
“Why?”
“Because you wait few days, I no here no more.”
“And where did you want to go?”
“Man from Fela he like me, I like him, he say Sunday he marry me. I believe him.”
“The man who comes to see you every Saturday and Sunday?”
Fatma’s eyes widened.
“How you know?”
She started crying again.
“But now everything finish.”
“Tell me something. Is Gegè going to let you go with this man from Fela?”
“Man talk to Signor Gegè, man pay.”
“Listen, Fatma, pretend I never came to see you here. I only want to ask you one thing, and if you answer me truthfully, I will turn around and walk out of here, and you can go back to sleep.”
“What you want to know?”
“Did they ask you, at the Pasture, if you’d found anything?”
The woman’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, yes! Signor Filippo come—he Signor Gegè’s man—tell us if we find gold necklace with heart of diamond, we give it straight to him. If not find, then look.”
“And do you know if it was found?”
“No. Also tonight, all girls look.”
“Thank you,” said Montalbano, heading for the door. In the doorway he stopped and turned round to look at Fatma.
“Good luck.”
So Gegè had been foiled. What he had so carefully neglected to mention to Montalbano, the inspector had managed to find out anyway. And from what Fatma had just told him, he drew a logical conclusion.
When he arrived at headquarters at the crack of dawn, the officer on guard gave him a look of concern.
“Anything wrong, chief?”
“Nothing at all,” he reassured him. “I just woke up early.”
He had bought the two Sicilian newspapers and sat down to read them. With a great wealth of detail, the first announced that the funeral services for Luparello would be held the following day. The solemn ceremony would take place at the cathedral, officiated by the bishop himself. Special security measures would be taken, due to the anticipated arrival of numerous important personages come to express their condolences and pay their last respects. At latest count they would include two government ministers, four undersecretaries, eighteen members of parliament between senators and deputies, and a throng of regional deputies. And so city police, carabinieri, coast guard agents, and traffic cops would all be called into action, to say nothing of personal bodyguards and other even more personal escorts, of which the newspaper mentioned nothing, made up of people who certainly had some connection with law and order, but from the other side of the barricade atop which stood the law. The second newspaper more or less repeated the same things, while adding that the casket had been set up in the atrium of the Luparello mansion and that an endless line of people were waiting to express their thanks for everything the deceased had dutifully and impartially done—when still alive, of course.
Meanwhile Sergeant Fazio had arrived, and Montalbano spoke to him at great length about a number of investigations currently under way. No phone calls came in from Montelusa. Soon it was noon, and the inspector opened a file containing the deposition of the two garbage collectors concerning their discovery of the corpse. He copied down their addresses, said good-bye to
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