“Did you find anything?”
“Nothing,” said Griffo. “And I looked everywhere. There’s no passbook, and there’s nothing in writing that might explain Papa’s two million lire a month.”
“Mr. Griffo, I need you to help me remember something.”
“I’m at your disposal.”
“I believe you told me your father didn’t have any close relatives.”
“That’s right. He had a brother, whose name I forget, but he was killed in the American bombing raids in 1943.”
“Your mother, however, did have some close relations.”
“Exactly. A brother and a sister. The brother, Zio Mario, lives in Comiso and has a son who works in Sydney. We talked about him, remember? You asked me—”
“I remember.”The inspector cut him short.
“The sister, Zia Giuliana, used to live in Trapani, where she became a schoolteacher. She remained single, never wanted to get married. But neither Mama nor Zio Mario saw much of her, though she and Mama got a little closer in recent years, to the point that Mama and Papa went to visit her two days before she died. They stayed in Trapani for almost a week.”
“Any idea why your mother and her brother had fallen out with this Giuliana?”
“My grandfather and grandmother, when they died, left almost all of the little they had to Giuliana, practically disinheriting the other two.”
“Did your mother ever tell you why—”
“She hinted at it. Apparently my grandparents felt abandoned by Mama and Zio Mario. But my mother got married very young, you see, and my uncle had left home to go to work before he was even sixteen. Only Zia Giuliana stayed with her parents. As soon as my grandparents died—Grandma died first—Zia Giuliana sold what she owned here and moved to Trapani.”
“When did she die?”
“I can’t really say exactly. At least two years ago.”
“Do you know where she lived in Trapani?”
“No. I didn’t find anything relating to Zia Giuliana in this apartment. I do know, however, that she owned her place in Trapani. She’d bought it.”
“One last thing: your mother’s maiden name.”
“Di Stefano. Margherita Di Stefano.”
One good thing about Davide Griffo: he was generous with his answers and frugal with his questions.
Two million lire a month. More or less what a low-level clerk makes by the end of his career. But Alfonso Griffo had been retired for some time and was getting by on his pension—his combined with his wife’s. Or, more accurately, he’d been able to get by because for two years he’d been receiving a considerable supplement. Two million lire a month. From another perspective, a derisory sum. Like if this were a case of systematic blackmail, for example. And yet, no matter how attached he might be to money, Alfonso Griffo, lacking the courage or imagination, could never have resorted to blackmail. Assuming he had no scruples about it. Two million lire a month. For serving as a front man, as the inspector had first hypothesized? Usually, however, a front man gets a cut of the profits or is paid off all at once, certainly not by the month. Two million lire a month. In a sense, it was the modesty of the sum that made things more difficult. Still, the regularity of the deposits must indicate something. An idea began to form in the inspector’s mind. There was a coincidence that intrigued him.
He stopped in front of City Hall and went upstairs to the Records Office. He knew the clerk there, a certain Crisafulli.
“I need some information.”
“At your service, Inspector.”
“If someone who was born in Vigàta dies in another town, is the death reported here too?”
“There’s a provision for such cases,” Mr. Crisafulli replied evasively.
“Is it ever respected?”
“Generally, yes. But it takes time, you see.You know how these things go. And I should add that if the death occurs in a foreign country, forget about it. Unless a family member takes the trouble himself to—”
“No, the person I’m interested in died in Trapani.”
“When?”
“A little over two years ago.”
“What was his name?”
“Her name was Giuliana Di Stefano.”
“We can look that up right away.”
Mr. Crisafulli touched a few keys on the computer towering in one corner of the room, then looked up at Montalbano.
“She died in Trapani on the sixth of May, 1997.”
“Does it say where she resided?”
“No. But if you wish, I could tell you in about five minutes.”
Here Mr. Crisafulli did something strange. He went to his desk, opened a drawer, took out a small metal flask, unscrewed the cap, took a sip, then rescrewed the cap, leaving the flask out. Then he went back and fiddled with the computer. Seeing that the ashtray on the table was full of cigar butts whose odor had permeated the room, the inspector fired up a cigarette himself. He had just put it out when the clerk announced, in a faint voice:
“Found it. She lived in Via Libertà 12.”
Was the man not feeling well? Montalbano wanted to ask him, but didn’t do so in time. Mr. Crisafulli raced back to his desk, grabbed the flask, and took another gulp.
“Cognac,” he explained. “I’m retiring in two months.”
The inspector gave him a questioning look. He didn’t get the connection.
“I’m a clerk of the old school,” the man said. “It used to take me months to find a record like that. Now, whenever I do it this fast, my head starts to spin.”
To get to Trapani, Via Libertà, it took him two and a half hours. Number 12 was a small three-story building surrounded by a well-tended garden. Davide Griffo had told him that Zia Giuliana used to own the apartment she lived in. After her death, it may have been resold to people she didn’t even know, in which case the proceeds would almost certainly have gone to some charitable institution. Next to the closed entrance gate was an intercom with only three names. The apartments must be pretty big. He pushed the button on top, next to the name “Cavallaro.” A woman’s voice answered.
“Yes?”
“Excuse me, ma‘am. I need some information concerning the late Miss Giuliana Di Stefano.”
“Ring apartment two, the middle one.”
The name tag next to the middle button read: “Baeri.”
“Geez, what’s the hurry! Who is it?” asked the voice of another woman, this one elderly, after the inspector had rung three times without answer and given up hope.
“Montalbano’s the name.”
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Miss Giuliana Di Stefano.”
“Go ahead.”
“Right here, over the intercom?”
“Why, will it take long?”
“Well, it’d be better if—”
“Okay, I’ll buzz you in,” said the elderly voice. “Now, do as I say. As soon as the gate opens, come in and stop in the middle of the path. If you don‘t, I won’t open the front door.”
“All right,” said the inspector, resigned.
Standing in the middle of the path, he didn’t know what to do. Then he saw some shutters open on a balcony, and out came an old lady in a wig, dressed all in black, a pair of binoculars in hand. She raised these to her eyes and looked carefully, as Montalbano began inexplicably to blush, feeling naked. The lady went back inside, reclosed the shades, and a short while later the inspector heard the metal click of the front door being opened. Naturally, there was no elevator. On the second floor, the door with the name “Baeri” on it was closed. What further test awaited him?
“What did you say your name was?” asked the voice on the other side of the door.
“Montalbano.”
“And what is your profession?”
If he said he was a police inspector, the lady might have a stroke.
“I work at the Ministry.”
“Have you got an ID?”
“Yes.”
“Slide it under the door.”