the sergeant and the other policemen, and told them they’d hear back from him in the afternoon.
If Gegè’s men had talked to the whores about the necklace, they must certainly have said something to the garbage collectors as well.
Number 28 Gravet Terrace was a three-story building, with intercom at the front door. A mature woman’s voice answered.
“I’m a friend of Pino’s.”
“My son’s not here.”
“Didn’t he get off work?”
“He got off, but he went somewhere else.”
“Could you let me in, signora? I only want to leave him an envelope. What floor is it?”
“Top floor.”
A dignified poverty: two rooms, eat-in kitchen, bathroom. One could calculate the square footage the minute one entered. Pino’s mother, fiftyish and modestly attired, showed him in.
“Pino’s room’s this way.”
A small room full of books and magazines, a little table covered with paper by the window.
“Where did Pino go?”
“To Raccadali. He’s auditioning for a part in a play by Martoglio, the one about St. John getting his head cut off. Pino really likes the theater, you know.”
Montalbano approached the little table. Apparently Pino was writing a play; on a sheet of paper he had lined up a column of dialogue. But when he read one of the names, the inspector felt a kind of shock run through him.
“Signora, could I please have a glass of water?”
As soon as the woman left, he folded up the page and put it in his pocket.
“The envelope?” Pino’s mother reminded him when she returned, handing him his water.
Montalbano then executed a perfect pantomime, one that Pino, had he been present, would have admired: he searched first in the pockets of his trousers, then more hastily in his jacket, whereupon he gave a look of surprise and finally slapped his forehead noisily.
“What an idiot! I forgot the envelope at the office! Just give me five minutes, signora, I’ll be right back.”
Slipping into his car, he took out the page he’d just stolen, and what he read there darkened his mood. He restarted the engine and left. 102 Via Lincoln. In his deposition Saro had even specified the apartment number. With a bit of simple math, the inspector figured that the surveyor/garbage collector must live on the sixth floor. The front door to the block was open, but the elevator was broken. He had to climb up six flights of stairs but had the satisfaction of having guessed right: a polished little plaque there read BALDASSARE MONTAPERTO. A tiny young woman answered the door with a baby in her arms and a worried look in her eye.
“Is Saro home?”
“He went to the drugstore to buy some medicine for the baby, but he’ll be right back.”
“Is he sick?”
Without answering, she held her arm out slightly to let him see. The little thing was sick, and how: sallow, hollow-cheeked, with big, already grown-up eyes staring angrily at him. Montalbano felt terrible. He couldn’t stand to see children suffer.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The doctors can’t explain it. Who are you, sir?”
“The name’s Virduzzo. I’m the accountant at Splendor.”
“Come on in.”
The woman felt reassured. The apartment was a mess, it being all too clear that Saro’s wife was too busy always attending to the little boy to look after the house.
“What do you want with Saro?”
“I believe I made a mistake, on the minus side, on the amount of his last paycheck. I’d like to see the stub.”
“If that’s all you need,” said the woman, “there’s no need to wait for Saro. I can get you the stub myself. Come.”
Montalbano followed her, ready with another excuse to stay until the husband returned. There was a nasty smell in the bedroom, as of rotten milk. The woman tried to open the top drawer of a commode but was unable, having only one free hand to use, as she was holding the baby in her other arm.
“I can do it, if you like,” said Montalbano.
The woman stepped aside, and the inspector opened the
If Gegè’s men had talked to the whores about the necklace, they must certainly have said something to the garbage collectors as well.
Number 28 Gravet Terrace was a three-story building, with intercom at the front door. A mature woman’s voice answered.
“I’m a friend of Pino’s.”
“My son’s not here.”
“Didn’t he get off work?”
“He got off, but he went somewhere else.”
“Could you let me in, signora? I only want to leave him an envelope. What floor is it?”
“Top floor.”
A dignified poverty: two rooms, eat-in kitchen, bathroom. One could calculate the square footage the minute one entered. Pino’s mother, fiftyish and modestly attired, showed him in.
“Pino’s room’s this way.”
A small room full of books and magazines, a little table covered with paper by the window.
“Where did Pino go?”
“To Raccadali. He’s auditioning for a part in a play by Martoglio, the one about St. John getting his head cut off. Pino really likes the theater, you know.”
Montalbano approached the little table. Apparently Pino was writing a play; on a sheet of paper he had lined up a column of dialogue. But when he read one of the names, the inspector felt a kind of shock run through him.
“Signora, could I please have a glass of water?”
As soon as the woman left, he folded up the page and put it in his pocket.
“The envelope?” Pino’s mother reminded him when she returned, handing him his water.
Montalbano then executed a perfect pantomime, one that Pino, had he been present, would have admired: he searched first in the pockets of his trousers, then more hastily in his jacket, whereupon he gave a look of surprise and finally slapped his forehead noisily.
“What an idiot! I forgot the envelope at the office! Just give me five minutes, signora, I’ll be right back.”
Slipping into his car, he took out the page he’d just stolen, and what he read there darkened his mood. He restarted the engine and left. 102 Via Lincoln. In his deposition Saro had even specified the apartment number. With a bit of simple math, the inspector figured that the surveyor/garbage collector must live on the sixth floor. The front door to the block was open, but the elevator was broken. He had to climb up six flights of stairs but had the satisfaction of having guessed right: a polished little plaque there read BALDASSARE MONTAPERTO. A tiny young woman answered the door with a baby in her arms and a worried look in her eye.
“Is Saro home?”
“He went to the drugstore to buy some medicine for the baby, but he’ll be right back.”
“Is he sick?”
Without answering, she held her arm out slightly to let him see. The little thing was sick, and how: sallow, hollow-cheeked, with big, already grown-up eyes staring angrily at him. Montalbano felt terrible. He couldn’t stand to see children suffer.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The doctors can’t explain it. Who are you, sir?”
“The name’s Virduzzo. I’m the accountant at Splendor.”
“Come on in.”
The woman felt reassured. The apartment was a mess, it being all too clear that Saro’s wife was too busy always attending to the little boy to look after the house.
“What do you want with Saro?”
“I believe I made a mistake, on the minus side, on the amount of his last paycheck. I’d like to see the stub.”
“If that’s all you need,” said the woman, “there’s no need to wait for Saro. I can get you the stub myself. Come.”
Montalbano followed her, ready with another excuse to stay until the husband returned. There was a nasty smell in the bedroom, as of rotten milk. The woman tried to open the top drawer of a commode but was unable, having only one free hand to use, as she was holding the baby in her other arm.
“I can do it, if you like,” said Montalbano.
The woman stepped aside, and the inspector opened the
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