“Who is it?” asked a little kid’s voice.
What to say to a child?
“A friend of your papa’s.”
The door opened and a boy of about eight, a mischievous glint in his eye, appeared before the inspector.
“Is your papa there? Or your mama?”
“No, but they’ll be back soon.”
“What’s your name?”
“Pasqualino. What’s yours?”
“Salvo.”
At that moment Montalbano became convinced he smelled something burning inside the apartment.
“What’s that smell?”
“Nothing. I set the house on fire.”
The inspector sprang forward, pushing Pasqualino aside. Black smoke was pouring out of a doorway It was the bedroom. One fourth of the double bed had caught fire. He took off his jacket, saw a wool blanket folded up on a chair, grabbed this, opened it, and threw it onto the flames, patting it hard with his hands. A malicious little tongue of fire consumed half of one of his shirt cuffs.
“If you put out my fire I’ll just start another one somewhere else,” said Pasqualino, brandishing a box of kitchen matches menacingly.
The little demon! What to do? Disarm him or continue to extinguish the blaze? The inspector opted for the fireman’s role, repeatedly getting singed and seared. Then a woman’s shrill cry paralyzed him.
“Guiiiiidoooo!”
A young blonde, boggle-eyed, was clearly about to faint. Montalbano hadn’t had time to open his mouth when a bespectacled, broad-shouldered young man, a kind of Clark Kent, materialized beside the young woman. Without saying a word, Superman, with a single, extremely elegant gesture, pushed his jacket aside, and at once a pistol the size of a cannon was pointing at the inspector.
“Hands up.”
Montalbano obeyed.
“He’s a pyromaniac! A pyromaniac!” the young woman babbled, weeping and embracing her precious little angel.
“Mama! Mama! He said he wanted to burn the whole house down!”
It took a good half-hour to clear matters up. Montalbano learned that the husband worked as a cashier in a bank, which explained why he went around with a gun, and that Signora Gina had come home late because she’d been to see the doctor.
“Pasqualino’s going to have a brother,” the woman confessed, lowering her eyes in modesty.
Against a background of screams and cries from the kid, who’d been spanked and locked in a small, dark room, Montalbano learned that even when the Griffos were at home, it was as if they weren’t there.
“Never a cough, or even, say, the sound of something dropped on the floor, or a word spoken a little louder than the rest. Nothing!”
As for Nenè Sanfilippo, Mr. and Mrs. De Dominicis didn’t even know the murder victim had lived in their building.
3
The last station on the Via Crucis was Apartment 19, fourth floor. Leone Guarnotta, lawyer.
Filtering out from under the door was a fragrance of ragù sauce that made Montalbano feel faint.
“Ah, you’re Inspector Montaperto,” said the big, mannish woman who answered the door.
“Montalbano.”
“I never get names right, but it’s enough for me to see a face just once on TV and I never forget it!”
“Who is it?” asked a male voice from inside the apartment.
“It’s the inspector, Leo. Come in, come in.”
As Montalbano entered, a skinny man of about sixty appeared, a napkin stuck into his shirt collar.
“Guarnotta’s the name, pleased to meet you. Make yourself comfortable. We were about to eat. Come into the living room.”
“The living room!” the mannish woman intervened. “If you waste time talking, the pasta’s going to turn to glue. Have you eaten, Inspector?”
“Actually, no, not yet,” said Montalbano, feeling his heart flutter with hope.
“Well, then, there’s no problem,” Mrs. Guarnotta concluded. “You can sit down with us for a dish of pasta, and that way it’ll be easier for all of us to talk.”
The pasta had been drained at the right moment (“Knowin’ when it’s time to drain the pasta is an art,” his housekeeper Adelina had once proclaimed). And the meat in the sauce was savory and tender.
But, except for filling his belly, the inspector had come up empty again, as far as the investigation was concerned. He had made, as the Sicilians say, another hole in the water.
Around four o‘clock that afternoon, finding himself in his office with Mimi Augello and Fazio, Montalbano couldn’t help but notice that he’d in fact made three holes in the water.
“Not to mention that with you, one plus one does not make two,” said Fazio, “since there are actually twenty-three apartments in that building.”
“Twenty-three?” said Montalbano, flummoxed because he was truly hopeless with numbers.
“There are three on the ground floor, Chief, all offices. And they don’t know the Griffos, much less Sanfilippo.”
In conclusion, the Griffos had lived in the building for years, but it was as if they were made of air. As for Sanfilippo, forget about it. There were tenants who hadn’t even heard of him.
“You two,” said Montalbano, “before the news of the disappearance becomes official, I want you to go around town and try to find out more. Rumors, gossip, hearsay, backbiting, that sort of thing.”
“Why, do you think that people’s answers will change after they hear of the disappearance?” asked Augello.
“Oh, they’ll change all right. Something that at first seems normal is seen in a different light after something abnormal happens. And while you’re at it, ask them about Sanfilippo, too.”
Fazio and Augello left the office less than convinced.
Montalbano picked up the keys to Sanfilippo’s place, which Fazio had left on the table, put these in his pocket, and went out and called Catarella, who for the last week had been busy trying to solve a crossword puzzle for beginners.
“Cat, I want you to come with me. I’m entrusting you with an important mission.”
Overcome with emotion, Catarella couldn’t open his mouth, not even after they’d entered the murdered young man’s apartment.
“See that computer, Cat?”
“Yessir. It’s rilly nice.”
“Well, get to work on it. I want to know everything that’s inside it. Then put in all the diskettes and ... what are they called?”
“Ziti roms, Chief.”
“Have a look at all of them, too. And report to me when you’re done.”
“There’s also some videocassettes.”
“Leave the cassettes alone.”
He got in his car and headed towards Montelusa. His friend Nicolò Zito, newsman for the “Free Channel” television station, was about to go on the air. Montalbano handed him the photograph.
“These are the Griffos, Alfonso and Margherita. You’re to say only that their son Davide is worried because he has no news of them. Please mention it on tonight’s news.”
Zito, who was an intelligent person and a good journalist, looked at the photo and asked a question the inspector had been expecting.
“Why are you concerned about the disappearance of these two?”
“I feel sorry for them.”
“I’m sure you do. But I’m also sure that’s not the only reason. Is there some connection, by any chance?”
“With what?”
“With that kid, Sanfilippo, who was murdered in Vigàta.”
“They lived in the same building.”
Nicolò literally leapt out of his chair.
“But that’s big news—”
“Which you’re not going to mention. There may be a connection, but then again there may not. Do as I say, and the first major developments will be all yours.”
He sat on the veranda, having savored the pappanozza he’d been wanting for a while. A humble dish: potatoes and onions boiled a long time, mashed into a porridge with the back of a fork, then dressed with an abundance of olive oil, strong vinegar, freshly ground black pepper, and salt. To be eaten preferably with a tin fork (he had two which he jealously guarded), scorching the tongue and palate and cursing the saints with each bite.