Fazio kept on talking, but the inspector was no longer listening. Catarella! He’d completely forgotten about him!
“I’m sorry, Fazio, I apologize to all of you. He went to do something for me and I forgot to tell you. There’s nothing to be worried about.”
He distinctly heard Fazio sigh with relief.
It took him about twenty minutes to shower, shave, and get dressed. He felt battered. When he arrived at Via Cavour 44, the concierge was sweeping the street in front of the door. She was so skinny, that there was practically no difference between her and the broomstick. She looked remarkably like Olive Oyl, Popeye’s girlfriend. He took the elevator, got off on the third floor, and opened the door to Nenè Sanfilippo’s apartment with a picklock. The lights were on inside. Catarella was sitting in front of the computer in his shirtsleeves. Upon seeing his superior, he immediately shot to his feet, put on his jacket, and adjusted the knot on his tie. He was unshaven, his eyes red.
“Awaiting your orders, Chief!”
“You still here?”
“Just finishing up, Chief. Another coupla hours oughta do it.”
“Find anything?”
“Beggin’ pardon, Chief, but d‘you wan’ me to talk technical or simple?”
“As simple as possible, Cat.”
“All right. I din’t find a goddamn thing in this computer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I said, Chief. It’s got no interneck connection. Inside it’s only got sumpin he’s writing ...”
“And what’s that?”
“Looks to me like a novel book, Chief.”
“And what else?”
“Then there’s copies of all the litters ‘e wrote and alla those writ to him. There’s a lot of ’em.”
“Business?”
“No bizniss, Chief. They’re skin litters.”
“I don’t understand.”
Catarella blushed.
“It’s like love litters, but—”
“I get the picture. And what’s on those diskettes?”
“A lotta filth, Chief. Guys wit’ girls, guys wit’ guys, girls wit’ girls, girls wit’ animals ...”
Catarella’s face looked like it was about to catch fire at any moment.
“Okay, okay, Cat. Print ‘em up for me.”
“All of ‘em? The guys wit’ girls, guys wit’ guys, girls—”
Montalbano halted the litany.
“I meant the novel book and the litters. But right now we’re going to do something else.You’re coming with me to a café, you’re going to have a caffellatte and a couple of crois- sants and then I’ll bring you back here.”
The moment he returned to his office, Imbrò, who’d been assigned to the switchboard, came in.
“Chief, the Free Channel called with a list of the names and phone numbers of all the people who contacted them after seeing the Griffos’ photo on TV. I wrote ‘em all down here.”
Fifteen or so names. At a glance, the phone numbers all looked to be from Vigàta. So the Griffos were not as evanescent as they had first seemed. Fazio came in.
“Jesus, what a scare we got when we couldn’t find Catarella! We didn’t know he’d been sent on a secret mission. You know what that wicked Galluzzo called him? Agent Double-oh-oh.”
“Spare me the comedy. Got any news?”
“I went to see Sanfilippo’s mother. The poor lady has no idea what her son did for a living. She told me that at age eighteen, with his passion for computers, he got a good job in Montelusa. Pretty well paid, and with his mother’s pension they got on okay. Then all of a sudden Nenè quit his job, had a personality change, and went off to live by himself. He had a lot of money, but he let his mother go around with holes in her shoes.”
“Tell me something, Fazio. Did they find any money on his person?”
“Are you kidding? Three million lire in cash and a check for two million.”
“Good, so at least Mrs. Sanfilippo won’t have to go into debt to pay for the funeral. Who was the check from?”
“From Manzo and Company of Montelusa.”
“Try to find out what it was for.”
“All right. As for the Griobs—”
“Have a look at this,” Montalbano interrupted him. “It’s a list of people with information on the Griffos.”
The first name on the list was Saverio Cusumano.
“Hello, Mr. Cusumano. This is Inspector Montalbano.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Wasn’t it you who called the television station when you saw the photo of Mr. and Mrs. Griffo?”
“Yessir, that was me. But what’s that got to do with you?”
“We’re handling the case.”
“Nobody ever told me that! I’m only talking to their son Davide. Good-bye.”
A joyous start is the best ofguides, as Matteo Maria Boiardo once said.
The second name on the list was Gaspare Belluzzo.
“Hello, Mr. Belluzzo? This is Inspector Montalbano, Vigàta Police. You called the Free Channel about Mr. and Mrs. Griffo.”
“Right. Last Sunday, the wife and I saw them, they were on the bus with us.”
“Where were you going?”
“To the Sanctuary of the Madonna of Tindari.”
Tindari, gentle as I know you—the line by Quasimodo echoed in his head.
“And what were you going there for?”
“It was an excursion organized by Malaspina Tours in Vigata. The wife and I went on one last year, too, to San Calogero di Fiacca.”
“Tell me something. Do you remember the names of the other passengers?”
“Sure, there was Mr. and Mrs. Bufalotta, the Continos, the Domenidòs, the Raccuglias ... There were about forty of us in all.”
Messrs. Bufalotta and Contino were on the list of those who’d called.
“A final question, Mr. Belluzzo. When you got back to Vigàta, did you see the Griffos with everyone else?”
“To be honest, I can’t really say. You know, Inspector, it was late, eleven o‘clock at night, it was dark, we were all tired ...”
There was no point wasting more time with other phone calls. He summoned Fazio.
“Listen, all these people went on an excursion to Tindari last Sunday. The Griffos were there too. The trip was organized by Malaspina Tours.”
“I know them.”
“Good. Go there and get the whole list.Then call everyone who went on the tour. I want them all at the station at nine o‘clock tomorrow morning.”
“And where are we going to put them?”
“I don’t give a damn where we put them. Set up a field hospital or something. ‘Cause the youngest of the lot’s probably sixty-five. Another thing: find out from Malaspina who was driving the bus that Sunday If he’s in Vigàta and he’s not working, I want him here within the hour.”
Catarella—eyes even redder than before, hair standing on end, making him look like a textbook maniac—came in with a fat stack of pages under his arm.
“Here’s all of it, Chief, all printed up and all.”
“Good. Leave it here and go get some sleep. I’ll see you late this afternoon.”
“Whatever you say, Chief.”
Jesus! Now he had a ream of at least six hundred pages on his desk!
Mimi came in looking splendid, and a twinge of envy came over Montalbano, who immediately remembered the spat he’d had over the phone with Livia. He darkened.
“Listen, Mimi, about that Rebecca ...”
“What Rebecca?”
“Your fiancée, no? The girl you want to marry, not take as wife, as you said ...”
“It means the same thing.”
“No, it doesn‘t, believe me. Anyway, about this Rebecca—”
“Her name is Rachele.”
“Fine, whatever. I think I remember you saying she’s a policewoman in Pavia, right?”
“Right.”
“Has she requested a transfer?”