“But didn’t this gentleman have a bank account?” asked Fazio. “How is it there are no checkbooks anywhere, not even old, used-up ones, or any bank statements?”
No answer to the question was forthcoming, since Montalbano was wondering the same thing.
One thing, however, that puzzled the inspector more than a little, and stumped Fazio as well, was the discovery of a small, dog-eared booklet entitledThe Most Beautiful Italian Songs of All Time.Though there was a television in the living room, there was no sign anywhere of records, CDs, CD players, or even a radio.
“How about the room on the terrace? Did you see any discs, headphones, or a stereo there?”
“Nothing, Chief.”
So why would somebody keep a booklet of song lyrics locked up in a drawer? Most striking was the fact that the book looked like it had been often consulted; two detached pages had been carefully stuck back in place with transparent tape. Moreover, numbers had been written in the narrow margins. Montalbano studied these, and it didn’t take him long to realize that Angelo had jotted down the meter of the lines.
“You can close it back up. By the way, did you say you found a set of keys in the room upstairs?”
“Yeah. Forensics took it.”
“I repeat: I want that wallet, cell phone, and keys this afternoon. What are you doing?”
Instead of reclosing and locking the drawer, Fazio was emptying onto the desk, in orderly fashion, all the things there were inside it.
“Just a second, Chief. I wanna see something.”
When the drawer had been completely emptied, Fazio pulled it entirely out from its runners and turned it over. Underneath, on the bottom, was a chrome-plated, squat, notched key, stuck to the wood by two pieces of tape crossed in an X.
“Well done, Fazio.”
While the inspector was contemplating the key he’d detached, Fazio put everything back into the drawer in the same order as before and locked the drawer with his own key, which he slipped back into his pocket.
“If you ask me, this key opens up a little wall safe some-where,” the inspector surmised.
“If you ask me, too,” said Fazio.
“And you know what that means?”
“It means we need to get down to work,” said Fazio, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
After two hours spent moving paintings, moving mirrors, moving furniture, moving rugs, moving medicines, and moving books, Montalbano’s pithy conclusion was: “There’s not a goddamn thing here.”
They sat down, exhausted, on the living-room couch. They looked at one another. And they both thought the same thing:
“The room upstairs.”
They climbed the spiral staircase. Montalbano opened the glass door, and they walked onto the terrace roof. The door to the little room had not been put back on its hinges but was only leaning in place with a piece of paper taped to it, forbidding entry and saying that the premises were under legal process. Fazio set the door aside, and they went in.
They had two strokes of luck. First, the room was small, and therefore they didn’t have to break their backs moving too much furniture. Second, the table had no drawers, and so they didn’t waste much time. But the result was exactly the same as that obtained in the apartment downstairs, which the inspector had brilliantly, though perhaps not so elegantly, summed up in few words. The one difference was that they were now sweating profusely, since the sun was beating down on the little room.
“Maybe the key is for a safe-deposit box at a bank?” Fazio ventured when they returned to the flat below.
“I doubt it. Usually those keys have a number on them, or an imprint, something enabling the bank people to recognize it. This one is smooth, anonymous.”
“So what are we gonna do?”
“We’re gonna go eat,” said Montalbano, waxing poetic.
After a thorough bellyful and a slow, meditative-digestive stroll, one step at a time, to the lighthouse and back, he went to the office.
“Chief, djou bring me the form that he needs?” asked Catarella the moment he walked in. “Yes, give it to him.”
According to the complex Catarellian language, “him” of course meant Catarella himself.
The inspector sat down, pulled out the key Fazio had found, set it on the desk, and started staring at it as though he wanted to hypnotize it. But the opposite thing happened. That is, the key hypnotized him. In fact, a few minutes later, he let his eyes shut, overwhelmed by an irresistible desire to sleep. He got up, went and washed his face, and at that moment he had a brainstorm. He called Galluzzo into his of-fice.
“Listen, do you know where Orazio Genco lives?”
“The robber? Of course I know where he lives. I went there twice to arrest him.”
“I want you to go see him, ask him how he’s doing, and give him my regards. Did you know that Orazio hasn’t gotten out of bed for a year? I don’t feel up to seeing what kind of state he’s in.”
Galluzzo wasn’t surprised. He knew that the inspector and the old burglar were fond of each other and had become, in their own way, friends.
“Am I just supposed to give him your regards?”
“No. “While you’re at it, let him have a look at this key.” Montalbano took it out and handed it to him. “Make him tell you what kind of key it is and what he thinks it’s for.”
“Bah!” said a skeptical Galluzzo. “That’s a modern key.”
“So?”
“Orazio’s old and hasn’t been working for years.” “Don’t worry, I know he keeps informed.”
As Montalbano was drifting off to sleep again, Fazio suddenly appeared with a plastic bag in hand. “Did you go shopping?”
“No, Chief, I went to Montelusa to get what you wanted from Forensics. It’s all in here.” He set the bag down on the desk.
“And I also want you to know I talked to the phone company. I got the authorization. They’re going to try to identify the phones that those calls came from.”
“And the information on Angelo Pardo and Emilio Sclafani?”
“Chief, unfortunately, I’m not God. I can only do one thing at a time. I’m going out to make the rounds now, see what I can find out. Oh, one more thing. Three.”
And he held up the thumb, index finger, and middle finger of his right hand.
Montalbano gave him a befuddled look.
“You become some kind of kabbalist or something? What’s ‘three’ supposed to mean? You wanna play fling flang flu?”
“Chief, you remember that kid who died from an overdose? And do you remember I told you Engineer Fasulo was also killed by drugs, even though everybody said it was a heart attack?”
“Yes, I remember. So who’s the third?”
“Senator Nicotra.”
Montalbano’s mouth took the shape of an O. “Are you kidding?”
“No, Chief. It was well known the senator dabbled in drugs. Every now and then, he would shut himself up in his villa and take a three-day trip by himself. Looks like this time he forgot to buy a return ticket.”
“But is this certain?”
“Gospel, Chief.”
“How do you like that? The guy did nothing but talk about morals and morality! Tell me something: When you went to the kid’s house, did you find the usual stuff— syringe, rubber hose?”
“Yeah.”
“With Nicotra it must have been something else, some badly cut stuff. I just don’t get it. I don’t understand these things. Anyway, may he rest in peace.”