"Is something wrong?" he asked.
"In what sense do you mean?"
"Well...in every sense, I suppose," said Ingrassia, flustered.
Montalbano shrugged evasively and went back to sniffing his fingers. The conversation stalled.
"Have you heard about poor Cavaliere Misuraca?" the inspector asked, as if chatting among friends in his living room.
"Ah! Such is life!" The other sighed sorrowfully.
"Imagine that, Mr. Ingrassia. I'd asked him if he could give me some more details about what he'd seen the night of the robbery, we'd agreed to meet again, and now this..."
Ingrassia threw his hands up in the air, inviting Montalbano, with this gesture, to resign himself to fate. He allowed a respectful pause to elapse, then:
"I'm sorry," he said, "but what other details could the poor Cavaliere have given you? He'd already told you everything he saw."
Montalbano wagged his forefinger, signaling no.
"You don't think he told you everything he saw?" asked Ingrassia, intrigued. Montalbano wagged his finger again. Stew in your own juices, scumbag, he was thinking. The green Ingrassia started to tremble like a leafy branch in the breeze.
"Well, then, what did you want him to tell you? What he thought he didn't see."
The breeze turned into a gale, the branch began to lurch. "I don't understand. Let me explain."
"You're familiar, are you not, with a painting by Pieter Brueghel called Childrens Games?"
"Who? Me? No," said Ingrassia, worried.
"Doesn't matter. But you must be familiar with the works of Hieronymus Bosch?"
"No sir," said Ingrassia, starting to sweat. Now he was really getting scared, his face starting to match the color of his outfit, green.
"Never mind, then, don't worry about it," Montalbano said magnanimously. "What I meant was that when someone sees a scene, he usually remembers the first general impression he has of it. Right?"
"Right," said Ingrassia, prepared for the worst.
"Then, little by little, a few other details may start coming back to him, things that registered in his memory but were discarded as unimportant. An open or closed window, for example, or a noise, a whistle, a song..what else? a chair out of place, a car where it's not supposed to be, a light ...That sort of thing. You know, little details that can later turn out to be extremely important."
Ingrassia took a white handkerchief with a green border out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.
"You had me brought here just to tell me that?"
"No. That would be inconveniencing you for no reason. I would never do a thing like that. I was wondering if you'd heard from the people who, in your opinion, played that joke on you, you know, the phony robbery."
"Not a word from anyone."
"That's odd."
"Why?"
"Because the best part of any practical joke is enjoying it afterward with the person it was played on. Well, if you do hear from anybody, please let me know. Good day."
"Good day," muttered Ingrassia, standing up. He was dripping wet, his trousers sticking to his bottom.
Fazio showed up all decked out in a shiny new uniform. "I'm here," he said. "And the pope is in Rome. I know, Inspector, I know: today is not your day." He started to leave but stopped in the doorway. "Inspector Augello called, said he had a terrible tooth ache. He says he's not coming unless he has to. Listen, do you have any idea where the wreck of Cavaliere Misuracas Fiat ended up?"
"It's still here, in our garage. If you ask me, it's just envy."
"What are you talking about?"
"Inspector Augello's toothache."
"It's just about of envy. Who's he envious of ?"
"You. Because it's your press conference and not his."
"And he's probably also pissed off because you wouldn't tell him who you'd arrested."
"Would you do me a favor?"
"All right, all right, I'm going."
When Fazio had closed the door well, Montalbano dialed a number. The voice of the woman who answered sounded like a parody of an African in a dubbed film.
"Hallo?"
"Who dare?"
"Who you callin dare?"
"Where did the Cardamones find these housekeepers? Is Signora Ingrid there?"
"Ya, but who callin?"
"This is Salvo Montalbano."
"You wait dare."
Ingrids voice, on the other hand, was the very same as the voice the Italian dubber had given to Greta Garbo, who was herself Swedish.
"Ciao, Salvo. How are you? Long time no see."
"I need your help, Ingrid. Are you free tonight?"
"Actually, no. But if it's really important I can drop everything."
"It's important."
"Tell me where and when."
"Nine oclock tonight, at the Marinella Bar."
...
For Montalbano, the press conference proved, as of course he knew it would, to be a long, painful embarrassment. Anti-Mafia Vice-Commissioner De Dominicis came from Palermo and sat on the Montelusa police commissioners right. Imperious gestures and angry glances prevailed upon Montalbano, who had wanted to remain in the audience, to sit on his superiors left. Behind him, standing, were Fazio, German, Gallo, and Galluzzo. The commissioner spoke first and began by naming the man they had arrested, the number one of the number twos: Gaetano Bennici, known as Tano the Greek, wanted for multiple murders and long a fugitive from justice. It was a literal bombshell. The journalists, who were there in great numbers there were even four TV cameras jumped out of their chairs and started talking to one another, making such a racket that the commissioner had difficulty reestablishing silence. He stated that credit for the arrest went to Inspector Montalbano who, with the assistance of his men, and here, he named and introduced them one by one, had been able to exploit a golden opportunity with skill and courage. Then De Dominicis spoke, explaining Tano the Greeks role within his criminal organization, certainly a prominent one, though not of the utmost prominence. As the Anti-Mafia Vice-Commissioner sat back down, Montalbano realized he was being thrown to the dogs.
The questions came in rapid-fire bursts, worse than a Kalishnikov. Had there been a gunfight? Was Tano alone? Were any law enforcement personnel injured? What did Tano say when they handcuffed him? Had he been sleeping or awake? Was there a woman with him? A dog? Was it true he took drugs? How many murders had he committed? How was he dressed? Was he naked? Was it true he rooted for the Milan soccer team? Did he have a photo of Ornella Muti on his person? Could the inspector explain a little better the golden opportunity the commissioner had alluded to?
Montalbano struggled to answer the questions as best he could, seeming to understand less and less what he was saying.
It's a good thing the TVs here, he thought. That way, at least, I can watch and make some sense of the bullshit I've been telling them.
And just to make things even harder, there were the adoring eyes of Corporal Anna Ferrara, staring at him from the crowd.
Nicolto, newsman from the Free Channel and a true friend, tried to rescue him from the quicksand in which he was drowning.
"Inspector, with your permission," said Zito. "You said you met Tano on your way back from Fiacca, where you'd been invited to eat a tabisca with friends. Is that correct?"
"Yes. What is a tabisca?"
"They'd eaten tabisca many times together."
Zito was simply tossing him a life preserver. Montalbano seized it. Suddenly confident and precise, the inspector went into a detailed description of that extraordinary, multiflavored pizza.