With the patience of a saint, the inspector obeyed.
Five minutes of absolute silence passed.
“I’m going to open now,” said the old lady.
Only then, to his horror, did the inspector notice that the door had four locks. And certainly inside there must be a padlock and chain. After some ten minutes of various noises, the door opened and Montalbano was able to make his entrance into the Baeri household. He was led into a large sitting room with dark, heavy furniture.
“My name is Assunta Baeri,” the old lady began, “and your ID says that you’re with the police.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, isn’t that nice,” Mrs. (Miss?) Baeri said sarcastically.
Montalbano didn’t breathe.
“The thieves and killers do whatever they please, and the police go off to soccer games with the excuse that they need to maintain order! Or they serve as escorts to Senator Ar dolì, who doesn’t need any escort, ‘cause all he’s gotta do is look at somebody and they die of fright.”
“Mrs. Baeri, I—”
“Miss Baeri.”
“Miss Baeri, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I came to talk to you about Giuliana Di Stefano. This used to be her apartment, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you buy it from the deceased?” What a question! “... Before she died, of course.”
“I didn’t buy anything! The ‘deceased,’ as you call her, left it to me, loud and clear, in her will! Thirty-two years, I lived with her. I even paid rent. Not much, but I paid it.”
“Did she leave you anything else?”
“Ah, so you’re not with the police after all, but with the tax bureau! Yes, sir, she left me another apartment, too, but a teeny-weeny one. I rent it out.”
“Anyone else? Did she leave anything to anybody else?”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know, some relative ...”
“There was her sister, who she made up with after they hadn’t spoken for years; she left her some little thing.”
“Do you know what this little thing might be?”
“Of course I know! She drew up her will right in front of me, and I’ve even got a copy of it. To her sister she left her stable and hide. Not much, just something to remember her by.”
Montalbano was flummoxed. Could one bequeath one’s hide to somebody? Miss Baeri’s next words cleared up the misunderstanding.
“No, not much at all. Do you know how much land is in a hide?”
“I couldn’t honestly say,” the inspector replied, recovering himself.
“Giuliana, when she left Vigàta to come live here, wasn’t able to sell the stable and the land around it, which apparently was out in the middle of nowhere. So, when she made her will, she decided to leave them to her sister. They’re not worth much.”
“Do you know exactly where this stable is?”
“No.”
“But it must be specified in the will. You said you have a copy of it.”
“Oh, Madunnuzza santa! What, you want me to start looking for it?”
“If you’d be so kind ...”
The old lady stood up, mumbling to herself, went out of the room, and returned less than a minute later. She knew perfectly well where the copy of the will was. She handed it rudely to Montalbano, who skimmed through it and finally found what he was looking for.
The stable was termed a “one-room rural construction”; as for the measurements, a four-by-four-meter box. Around it was a thousand square meters of land. Not much, as Miss Baeri had said. The building was in a district called “The Moor.”
“Thank you very much, and please excuse the disturbance,” the inspector said politely, getting up.
“Why are you interested in that stable?” asked the woman, also standing up.
Montalbano hesitated. He had to think up a good excuse. But Miss Baeri continued:
“I ask you because you’re the second person who’s inquired about it.”
The inspector sat back down, and Miss Baeri did likewise.
“When was that?”
“The day after poor Giuliana’s funeral, when her sister and her husband were still here. They were sleeping in the room in back.”
“Explain to me what happened.”
“I’d completely forgotten about it; I only remembered it now because we were talking about it. Anyway, the day after the funeral, it was almost time to eat. The phone rang and I went and answered it. It was a man who said he was interested in the stable and the land. I asked him if he knew that Giuliana had died and he said no. He asked me who he could talk to about it. So I put Margherita’s husband on, since it was his wife who’d inherited it.”
“Did you hear what was said?”
“No, I left the room.”
“Did the man who called say what his name was?”
“He might have, but I can’t remember anymore.”
“Afterward, did Mr. Griffo talk about the phone call in your presence?”
“When he went into the kitchen, Margherita asked him who was on the phone, and he said it was somebody from Vigàta who lived in the same building as them. But that was all he said.”
Bull‘s-eye! Montalbano leapt up.
“I have to go now, thank you very much, please excuse me,” he said, making for the door.
“Just tell me one thing, I’m curious,” said Miss Baeri, following hard on his heels. “Why don’t you simply ask Alfonso these things?”
“Alfonso who?” asked Montalbano, having already opened the door.
“What do you mean, Alfonso who? Margherita’s husband.”
Jesus! The lady knew nothing about the murders! She obviously had no television and didn’t read the newspapers.
“I’ll ask him,” the inspector assured her, already on his way down the stairs.
At the first phone booth he saw, he stopped, got out of the car, went in, and immediately noticed a small red light flashing. The telephone was out of order. He spotted another. Also broken.
He cursed the saints, realizing that the smooth run he’d been on until that moment was beginning to be broken up by small obstacles, harbingers of bigger ones ahead. At the third booth, he was finally able to call headquarters.
“Oh Chief! Chief! Where you been hidin’ out? All mornin’ I been—”
“Tell me about it another time, Cat. Can you tell me where ‘The Moor’ is?”
First there was silence, then a little giggle of what was supposed to be derision.
“How’m I sposta know, Chief? You know what it’s like in Vigàta these days. There’s Smallies everywhere.”
“Put Fazio on at once.”
Smallies? Were there so many Pygmies among the immigrant population?
“What can I do for you, Chief?”
“Fazio, can you tell me where the district called ‘The Moor’ is located?”
“Just a sec, Chief.”
Fazio had activated his computer brain. Inside his head he had, among other things, a detailed map of the municipal area of Vigàta.
“It’s over by Monteserrato, Chief.”
“Explain to me how you get there.”
Fazio explained. Then he said:
“Sorry, but Catarella insists on talking to you. Where are you calling from?”
“From Trapani.”
“What are you doing in Trapani?”
“I’ll tell you later. Pass me Catarella.”
“Hallo, Chief? I just wanted to say that this morning—”
“Cat, what is a Smallie?”
“Somebody from Smallia, Chief, in Africa. Inn’t that what they’re called? Or is it Smallians?”
He hung up, sped off in his car, then stopped in front of a large hardware store. Self-service. He bought himself a crowbar, a big pair of pliers, a hammer, and a small hacksaw. When he went to pay, the cashier, a dark, pretty girl, smiled at him.
“Have a good robbery,” she said.
He didn’t feel like answering. He went out and got back in his car. Shortly afterward, he happened to look at his watch. It was almost two, and a wolflike hunger came over him. He saw a trattoria called, according to its sign, DAL BOR-BONE, with two tractor-trailers parked in front. Therefore the food must be good. A brief but ferocious battle ensued between the angel and the devil inside him. The angel won, and he continued on to Vigàta.