He woke up with a start, unable to understand whether he’d been roused by a screaming Renée in the throes of an earth-shaking orgasm or by the violent kicking at the front door as the doorbell rang without interruption. What was happening? Groggy with sleep, he got up, turned off the tape, and, heading towards the door to open up just as he was—disheveled, in shirtsleeves, trousers falling down (but when had he unfastened them to get more comfortable?), barefoot—he heard a voice he did not immediately recognize shout:
“Open up! Police!”
This completed his confusion. Wasn’t he the police?
He opened the door, to his horror. The first thing he saw was Mimi Augello in proper firing position (knees bent, ass slightly protruding, arms extended, both hands wrapped around the butt of the pistol), behind him the widow Concetta Lo Mascolo (née Burgio), and behind her a throng of people crammed onto the landing and both staircases, above and below. At a single glance he recognized the entire Crucillà family (the father Stefano, retired, in a nightshirt, his wife in a terry cloth bathrobe, the daughter Samanta—this one without the h—in a provocative long sweater); Mr. Mistretta in underpants and Guinea-T with, inexplicably, his misshapen black tote bag in hand; and Pasqualino De Dominicis, the child arsonist, between his poppy in pajamas and his mommy Gina in a baby-doll nightie that was as gauzy as it was outdated.
At the sight of the inspector, two phenomena occurred: time stopped and everyone turned to stone. The widow Concetta Lo Mascolo (née Burgio) took advantage of this to improvise a dramatic monologue that was part didactic, part explanatory.
“Madonna mia, Madonna mia, what a terrible fright! I’d just drifted off to sleep when all of sudden I thought I was hearing the same symphony I heard when the dear departed was alive! The slut going ah ah ah ah, with him making like a pig! Exactly like before! What! A ghost comes back to his house and brings his slut back with him? An’ he starts—excuse my language—he starts fucking like he’s still alive? It chilled my bones, I tell you! Scared to death, I was! So I called the cops. The last thing I could’ve imagined was that it was Mr. Inspector, come to do his personal business right here! The last thing!”
The conclusion reached by the widow Concetta Lo Mascolo (née Burgio), which was shared by all present, rested on ironclad logic. Montalbano, already lost at sea, hadn’t the strength to react. He stood in the doorway, in shock. It was Mimi Augello who finally reacted. Putting his gun back in his holster, he pushed the inspector violently back inside the apartment with one hand and at the same time started yelling so loudly that the tenants began to flee at once.
“That’s enough! Go back to bed! Move it! There’s nothing to see here!”
Then, closing the door behind him, dark-faced, he came towards the inspector.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, bringing a woman in here! Tell her to come out, so we can think of a way to get her out of the building without triggering another insurrection.”
Montalbano didn’t answer, but went into the bedroom, followed by Mimi.
“Is she hiding in the bathroom?” asked Augello.
The inspector turned the tape back on, lowering the volume.
“There’s the girl,” he said.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. Augello gawked at the television screen, then suddenly collapsed into a chair.
“Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”
Montalbano pushed the freeze-frame button.
“Mimi, the fact of the matter is that we took on the Sanfilippo and Griffo murders, you and I both, without getting involved, neglecting certain things that needed to be done. Maybe we’ve got too many other things on our minds to think clearly. We’re more concerned with our personal lives than with the investigations. End of story. We’re starting over. Did you ever ask yourself why Sanfilippo stored the correspondence with his lover on his computer?”
“No, but since he was in that line of work, computers, that is ...”
“Have you ever received any love letters, Mimi?”
“Sure.”
“And what did you do with them?”
“I kept some and got rid of the rest.”
“Why?”
“Because some were important and—‘ ”
“Stop right there. They were ‘important,’ you say. Important because of their contents, of course, but also because of the way they were written: the handwriting, the mistakes, the words crossed out, the capital letters, the paragraph breaks, the color of the paper, the address on the envelope ... In short, when you looked at that letter you could easily call to mind the person who had written it. True or not?”
“True.”
“But if you copy it onto a computer, that letter loses all value—well, maybe not all value, but most of it. It also loses its value as evidence.”
“How do you mean?”
“You can’t very well have the handwriting analyzed, can you? But, anyway, having printed copies of letters in the computer is still better than nothing.”
“I don’t follow, sorry.”
“Let’s assume Sanfilippo’s liaison is a dangerous one, not in the same sense as Laclos, of course, but—”
“Who’s this Laclos?”
“Never mind. I mean dangerous in the sense where, if discovered, it could mean trouble, or death. Nenè Sanfilippo may have said to himself that, if we’re caught, it might save our lives if I can produce the original correspondence. In short, he copies the letters onto the computer and then leaves the sheaf of originals in some obvious place, ready for an exchange.”
“Which never took place, since the originals have disappeared and he was killed just the same.”
“Right. But I’m convinced of one thing, and that is, that Sanfilippo, though he knew he was courting danger by getting involved with this woman, underestimated the danger itself. I have the impression—it’s just an impression, mind you—that we’re dealing with more than some jealous husband’s revenge. But to continue, I said to myself if Sanfilippo is depriving himself of the suggestive possibilities of a handwritten letter, is it possible he didn’t keep at least a photograph or some kind of image of his mistress? And that’s when I thought of the videocassettes.”
“And so you came here to look at them.”
“Yes, but I forgot that the minute I start watching a porno movie, I fall asleep. I was looking at the ones he recorded himself, in this room, with different women. But I don’t think he would be so stupid.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he must have taken some precautions to prevent others from immediately discovering who she is.”