“When she came back out, did you ask her when—”
“No, it would have seemed, well, indiscreet. I put the photo back, and that was that.”
“So why are you telling me about it?”
“Something occurred to me. If people are taking souvenir photos on these tours, it’s possible there are some in circulation from the excursion to Tindari, the one the Griffos went on. If we could find these photos, maybe they could tell us something, even if I don’t know what.”
Well, there was no denying that Mimi had a very good idea. And he was obviously awaiting some words of praise. Which never came. Coldly, perfidiously, the inspector didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. On the contrary.
“Did you read the novel, Mimi?”
“What novel?”
“If I’m not mistaken, along with the letters, I gave you some sort of novel that Sanfilippo—”
“No, I haven’t read it yet.”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, why not? I’ve been racking my brains with those letters! And before I get to the novel, I want to find out if my hunch about Sanfilippo’s lover is correct.”
He got up.
“Where are you going?”
“I have an engagement.”
“Look, Mimi, this isn’t some kind of hotel where you can—”
“But I promised Beba I’d take her to—”
“All right, all right, just this once. You can go,” Montalbano conceded, magnanimously.
“Hello, Malaspina Tours? Inspector Montalbano here. Is your driver Tortorici there?”
“Just walked in. He’s right here beside me. I’ll put him on.”
“Good evening, Inspector,” said Tortorici.
“Sorry to disturb you, but I need some information.”
“At your service.”
“Tell me something, on your tours, do people usually take photos on the bus?”
“Well, yes ... but ...”
He seemed tongue-tied, hesitant.
“Well, do they take them or not?”
“I’m ... I’m sorry, Inspector. Could I call you back in five minutes, not a second longer?”
He called back before the five minutes were up.
“I apologize again, Inspector, but I couldn’t talk in front of the accountant.”
“Why not?”
“You see, Inspector, the pay’s not so good here.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, I ... supplement my wages, Inspector.”
“Explain yourself better, Tortorici.”
“Almost all the passengers bring cameras. When we’re about to leave, I tell them they’re not allowed to take pictures inside the coach. They can take as many as they like when we get to our destination. The only person allowed to take pictures when we’re on the road is me. They always fall for it. Nobody complains.”
“Excuse me, but if you’re driving, how can you take pictures?”
“I ask the ticket man or one of the passengers to do it for me. Then I have them developed and sell them to anyone who wants a souvenir.”
“Why didn’t you want the accountant to hear you?”
“Because I never asked his permission to take pictures.”
“All you’d have to do is ask, and there’d be no problem.”
“Right. And with one hand he’d give me permission, and with the other he’d ask for a cut. My wages are peanuts, Inspector.”
“Do you save the negatives?”
“Of course.”
“Could I have the ones from the last excursion to Tindari?”
“I’ve already had all those developed! After the Griffos disappeared, I didn’t have the heart to sell them. But now that they’ve been murdered, I’m sure I could sell ‘em all, and at double the price!”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy the developed photos and you can keep the negatives. That way you can sell them however you like.”
“When do you want them?”
“As soon as you can get them to me.”
“Right now I have to go to Montelusa on an errand. Is it all right if I drop them off at the station tonight around nine o‘clock?”
One good turn deserved another. After her father-in-law’s death, Ingrid and her husband had moved into a new house. He looked for the number and dialed it. It was dinnertime, and the Swedish woman, when possible, liked to eat at home.
“You token I lissin,” said the female voice that answered the phone.
Ingrid may have changed houses, but she hadn’t changed her habit of hiring housekeepers that she went looking for in Tierra del Fuego, on Mount Kilimanjaro, or inside the Arctic Circle.
“This is Montalbano.”
“Watt say you?”
She must have been an Australian Aborigine. A conversation between her and Catarella would have been memorable.
“Montalbano. Is Signora Ingrid there?”
“She mangia mangia.”
“Could I speak to her?”
Many minutes passed. If not for the voices in the background, the inspector would have thought he’d been cut off.
“Hey, who is this?” Ingrid finally asked, suspicious.
“Montalbano.”
“Oh, it’s you, Salvo! The maid said there was some ‘Contrabando’ on the phone. How nice to hear your voice!”
“I feel like a heel, Ingrid, but I need your help.”
“So you only remember me when you need me for something?”
“Come on, Ingrid. It’s a serious matter.”
“Okay. What do you want me to do?”
“Could we have dinner together tomorrow night?”
“Sure. I’ll drop everything. Where shall we meet?”
“At the Marinella Bar, as usual. At eight, if that’s not too early for you.”
He hung up, feeling unhappy and embarrassed. Mimì had put him in an awkward position. What kind of expression, what words, would he use to ask the Swedish woman if she had a girlfriend with no body hair? He could already see himself, red-faced and sweaty, muttering incomprehensible questions to an increasingly amused Ingrid ... He suddenly froze. Maybe there was a way out. Since Nenè Sanfilippo had recorded his erotic correspondence on the computer, wasn’t it possible that ... ?
He grabbed the keys to the Via Cavour apartment and dashed out.
10
As fast as he was racing out of the office, Fazio was rushing in. And inevitably, as in the finest slapstick movies, they collided. Since they were the same height and were walking with heads down, they nearly locked horns like stags in love.
“Where you going? I need to talk to you,” said Fazio.
“So let’s talk,” said Montalbano.
Fazio locked the office door and sat down, smiling with satisfaction.
“It’s done, Chief.”
“Done?” asked an astonished Montalbano. “In one go?”
“Yessirree, in one go. Father Crucillà’s a clever man. He’s the kind of priest that’s likely to have a rearview mirror to look in when he’s saying Mass, so he can spy on his flock. Anyway, to make a long story short, when I got to Montereale I went straight to the church and sat down in the first row of pews. There wasn’t a soul around. After a little bit, Father Crucillà comes out of the sacristy dressed up in his vestments, followed by an altar boy. I think he was taking the holy oil to somebody’s deathbed. When he passed in front of me, seeing a new face, he looked at me. And I looked back at him. I stayed glued to that pew for practically two hours, and then he finally came back. We looked at each other again. He went into the sacristy for about ten minutes, then came back out with the altar boy still behind him. When he was right in front of me, he waved at me, spreading all five fingers, nice and clear. What do you think he meant?”
“He wanted you to come back to the church at five.”
“That’s what I thought, too. See how clever he is? If I was any old churchgoer, I‘d’ve thought he was just waving, but if I was the man sent by you, then he wasn’t just waving, he was giving me a five o’clock appointment.”
“What did you do?”
“I went and had lunch.”
“In Montereale?”