“Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom,” she said, getting up.

She went out. She’d left the door open, and they could hear her vomiting.

“Fazio, have you got your cell phone with you?” asked the inspector, also getting up.

“Yessir.”

“Call Catarella and ask him for the number of the Gioia Tauro police, then call and ask for Inspector Macannuco. Then pass the phone to me.”

“But where are you going now?”

“Out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette.”

He felt a weariness weighing down on him like a ton of iron. It had come over him all at once, when a thought had flashed in his brain as he was studying the photo of the trousers. What a strange reaction!

Time was when he would have made an angry or sly remark. No longer. Weariness and discouragement were his only response.

As he looked out over the railing at the port—a steamboat mooring, seagulls flying low, fishing boats in drydock—a melancholy feeling welled up inside him, on top of his fatigue, bringing a lump into his throat.

“I’ve got Macannuco on the line,” said Fazio, reaching through the window and handing him the cell phone.

“Montalbano here. Did you get the warrant?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“I wanted to ask you if the trousers that were on the bed were dirty or torn.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Did you get any fingerprints?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“My dear Salvo, somebody took great care to get rid of every last trace. A perfect job, professional. And you don’t seem surprised. Did you expect as much?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see now if I can surprise you with some other news. Inside the bathroom ceiling, right over the sink, there’s a trapdoor.”

“It’s not visible in the photo you sent.”

“That’s because the shot’s not taken from the right angle. Anyway, I climbed a little stepladder and opened it. There’s a small sort of attic there, and I found an empty suitcase and a shoebox.”

“Which am I supposed to be surprised by, the suitcase or the shoebox?”

“The shoebox. It was also empty, but I noticed, on the bottom, a trace of some white powder, which I had tested.”

“Cocaine.”

“That’s right. And that’s why I had to inform the public prosecutor.”

“I understand. Thanks, Macannuco. I’ll be in touch.”

He went back inside. Fazio was sitting in the armchair. Dolores still hadn’t returned from the bathroom.

“What did Macannuco say?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Dolores came into the room. She had washed and changed her clothes. But she hadn’t recovered her vivacity. She looked withered. In her movements, her way of walking, and her eyes. She sat down with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, but I feel very tired.”

“We’ll be leaving right away, signora,” said the inspector. “But first I must ask you at least one question, which could be helpful to the investigation. Very helpful. I know it’s painful for you to be asked at a time like this to remember the past, but I have no choice.”

“Go ahead.”

“How did you meet your husband?”

The question shocked Fazio, who looked at Montalbano with surprise. Signora Dolores winced before answering, as if from a shooting pain.

“He came to my father’s office.”

“In Bogotá?”

“No, we were in Putumayo.”

Putumayo. The biggest drug production center in Colombia. Filippo Alfano had gone to the right place.

“The nurse had been absent for several days,” Dolores continued, “and my father asked me to fill in for her.”

“Your father was a doctor?”

“A dentist.”

“And what sort of dental work did Giovanni need?”

She smiled at the memory.

“He’d fallen from his motorbike. Papa had to give him a bridge.”

What more did he need to know? Who’s in Grandma’s bed? The big bad wolf. What’s thirty minus two? Twentyeight. He had known for at least the past half hour who the dead man in the critaru was. But the fatigue was now making his legs ache. He got up from the armchair with some effort. Fazio also stood up.

“Thank you, signora. As soon as I have any news, I’ll be sure to tell you.”

“Thank you,” said Dolores.

She didn’t make a scene. Didn’t scratch him, didn’t twist his hand, didn’t grab him by the lapels of his jacket. The woman was dignified, composed, sober. Different. For the first time, the inspector felt genuine admiration for her.

Montalbano didn’t comment on this comment, but only asked:

“Were you aware that Pasquano, when he did the autopsy on the critaru victim, found a bridge in the stomach?”

Fazio, who was bending down to unlock the car door, stopped halfway and looked up at him, stunned.

“He had a bridge in his stomach?”

“He most certainly did. Apparently, shortly before he was killed, the bridge came unstuck and he swallowed it. But it hadn’t had time to pass through his body.”

Fazio was still bent down halfway.

“And there’s more,” the inspector went on. “The bridge had been made, beyond the shadow of a doubt, by a dentist in South America. Now, you tell me. Who’s in Grandma’s bed?”

“The big bad wolf,” Fazio replied automatically.

But immediately afterwards, he straightened himself abruptly, as the meaning of Montalbano’s words finally penetrated his brain.

“So . . . according to you, the dead man in the critaru—”

“—is Giovanni Alfano. Not according to me, but according to Matthew,” Montalbano concluded. “Anyway, you yourself said that Alfano’s statistics corresponded pretty closely with those of the dead man.”

“Holy shit, you’re right! But, I’m sorry, who’s this Matthew?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“But why would anyone want to kill him?”

“You know what Macannuco told me? First, that all the fingerprints had been perfectly wiped away.”

“Professionals?”

“Apparently. The second thing he said is that they found an empty shoebox with traces of cocaine in it, in a sort of crawl space above the bathroom.”

“Holy shit!”

“Exactly. Which means that, despite the strict surveillance he was under, Alfano was mixed up with drugs. Maybe he was a courier.”

“That seems impossible.”

“Impossible or not, appearances lead us to conclude that those are the facts. So it’s only natural to think that one fine day, following in his father’s footsteps, Giovanni Alfano started behaving inappropriately in the eyes of his work provider.”

“Don Balduccio?”

“So it seems. And in Balduccio’s eyes, that’s a serious offense. And intolerable. Giovanni, despite his father’s treason, had always been treated like one of the family, to the point that not only did Balduccio not disown him, he actually helped him out when he was in Colombia. So Giovanni is a traitor to his own blood. He has to die. You with me so far?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“So Don Balduccio hatches an ingenious plan. He lets Giovanni leave for Gioia Tauro with Dolores, then has him kidnapped, brought back to Vigàta, killed, chopped up, and put in a garbage bag. And he even tells his men to arrange things so that the body isn’t discovered for some time. That way everyone will think that Giovanni boarded his ship. The plan is executed without a hitch, even though Balduccio in the meantime ends up in a hospital. Giovanni’s wife, however, some two months after her husband sets sail, starts to get suspicious and comes and tells us about it.”

“But why all the drama of cutting him up into pieces and burying them at ’u critaru?”

“Have you ever read the Gospels, Fazio?”

“Never, Chief.”

“Bad.”

And he explained the whole story to him. When he had finished, Fazio was looking at him, open-mouthed.

“So it’s as if Don Balduccio had left his signature!”

“Right. That’s why it all makes sense, don’t you think?”

“I sure do. So what do we do now?”

“We take a little time.”

“And what about Signora Dolores?”

“For the moment there’s no point in telling her anything more . . . It would only make her suffer and wouldn’t help her at all. The body’s in such bad shape she wouldn’t even be able to identify it.”

“Chief, I was just thinking that whoever wrote the anonymous letter to the Antimafia office knew everything.”

“Yeah. When the time is right we’ll rub Musante’s nose in it, for having dismissed that letter too quickly. But before we make any moves, give me a day to think things over.”

“Whatever you say, Chief. What are you doing now, coming to the office?”

“Yes, I want to pick up my car and go home.”

“Chief, could I come into your office for a few minutes? I’d like to talk to you about something,” said Fazio, who hadn’t opened his mouth the whole way back to the station.

“Of course.”

“Ahh Chief Chief !” said Catarella, racing out of his closet, “I gots a litter f’yiz I’s asposta give yiz poissonally in poisson.”

Looking around himself with a conspiratorial air, he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to the inspector.

“Who gave it to you?”

“Isspector Augello did. An’ he said I’s asposta put it in yer hand the minnit I sawr yiz.”

“And where is he?”

“ ’E stepped out momentaneously, Chief, but ’e says ’e’ll be back.”

Montalbano pushed on towards his office, with Fazio following behind.

“Have a seat, Fazio, while I see what Mimì wants.”

The envelope was open. There were only a few lines.

He handed the note to Fazio, who read it and gave it back without saying a word.

“What do you make of it?”

“Chief, I already told you I don’t think it’s a good idea to assign a case like this to Inspector Augello. But you’re the one who gives the orders around here.”

Montalbano put the note and envelope in his jacket pocket.

“What did you want to tell me?”

“Chief, would you please explain to me what it is you need to think over?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You said you needed a day to think things over with regard to Giovanni Alfano.”

“So?”

“What’s to think over? It all seems so clear to me!”

“You mean it seems clear to you that Giovanni Alfano was killed on orders from Balduccio?”

“Matre santa, Chief, you said it yourself!”

“I said that the facts that we have come to know lead us inevitably to this conclusion.”

“Why, could there be any other conclusion?”

“Why not?”

“But what are your doubts based on?”

“I’ll give you an example, okay? Don’t you think there’s a certain inconsistency in Balduccio’s way of going about things?”

“And what would that be?”

“Can you explain to me why Balduccio would blithely let Giovanni Alfano leave for Gioia Tauro? The only possible answer is that he didn’t want him killed here in Vigàta, where he would have almost immediately been implicated in our investigation, but far from his territory. And that’s probably what happened.”

“So where’s the inconsistency?”

“The inconsistency is in bringing the body back here—that is, back into his own territory.”

“But he couldn’t have done otherwise, Chief!”

“Why not?”

“Because he had to set an example, so that other potential traitors in the family would think twice about betraying him!”

“Right. But then he might as well have him killed here and be done with it!”

Fazio remained a little doubtful.

“And there’s more,” Montalbano continued. “You want to hear it?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s imagine that Balduccio sends a real professional to Gioia Tauro, someone who knows his trade and never makes mistakes.”

“And in fact he left no fingerprints whatsoever,” said Fazio.

“Yeah. But he left a little cocaine inside a shoebox in the crawl space. Does that seem to you like an insignificant fuckup? For us, the cocaine means a direct connection to Balduccio. So, in short, this so-called professional fails to do the very thing he’s supposed to do, remove the very notion that any cocaine has ever passed through the place. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

“So it does . . .”

“And shall I throw down my ace while we’re at it?”

“Might as well . . .” said Fazio, resigned.

“Why leave a pair of trousers in plain view on the bed? It’s clear they belong to Giovanni Alfano—you can even see the initials on the belt buckle. Not only that, but there was no reason for Alfano to change his trousers. All they had to do was put those trousers back in their place in the armoire, and we never would have known that Alfano went back to Via Gerace. So what, then, is the purpose of those trousers? Is it to let us know that Alfano, by force or by his own choosing, returned to his apartment? And who benefits from such information? If it was a mistake, it was a huge one, because Signora Dolores noticed immediately that the apartment was not the way she left it. There was even shit in the toilet bowl! Can you tell me what need there was for the professional to return to the apartment with Giovanni? Wouldn’t it have been better to get rid of him while he was on his way to board the ship? The only possible explanation is that he went back to the apartment to eliminate any trace of a possible connection with Balduccio. But that’s exactly what he didn’t do! So why, then, go back there with Alfano? There’s something here that doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Enough. I surrender,” said Fazio, who got up and left.

“What’s he want?”

“ ’E says you summonsed ’im fer tomorrow mornin’.”

“So, let him come tomorrow morning.”

“ ’E don’t got the possibility, Chief. Says how tomorrow mornin’ ’e can’t ’cuz tomorrow mornin’ he gotta go to Milan emergently tomorrow mornin’.”

“All right then, put him on.”

“I can’t put ’im on in so much as ’at this Lambrusco’s ’ere poissonally in poisson.”

“Then send him in.”

He was a fortyish man with beard, mustache, and eyeglasses, tiny in stature and all polished and shiny, from his hair to his shoes.

“Hello, I’m Carlo Dambrusco. I’m sorry, I know you summoned me for tomorrow morning, but since tomorrow I have to—”

“What was this in reference to?”

“Well, I . . . I believe I gathered that . . . well, in short, I’m a friend of Giovanni Alfano.”

“Ah, yes. Please sit down.”

“Has something happened to Giovanni?”

“He was supposed to board a ship and never showed up.”

“He didn’t show up?”

“No. His wife has filed a report.”

Dambrusco seemed genuinely stunned by the news.

“He didn’t board the ship?” he asked again.

“No.”

“So where did he go?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“The last time I saw him...”

“When was that?”

“Let me think . . . The first of September.”

“Go on.”

“He said goodbye to me because he was going to set sail two or three days later . . . He made no indication to me that he didn’t intend to . . . He takes his work very seriously.”

“Does he confide in you much?”

“Good heavens . . . we were very good friends in childhood, before he left for Colombia . . . Then we got back in touch, later on, but it was different. We were friends, but we weren’t so close that...”

“I see. But did he confide in you?”

“In what sense?”

“In the way that a friend confides in a friend. For example, did he ever talk to you about his relations with his wife? Did he ever mention whether, in his travels, he met any other women . . . ?”

Dambrusco shook his head emphatically and repeatedly.

“I really don’t think so. He’s a serious person, not the kind to take love affairs lightly. In any case, he is very much in love with Dolores. In fact he’s confided to me that he misses her very much when he’s at sea.”

“And what about Dolores?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Does Dolores miss her husband very much when he is at sea?”

Carlo Dambrusco thought about this a moment.

“I honestly can’t say. Every time I’ve met Dolores she’s been with Giovanni. I’ve never had a chance to talk to her when he wasn’t there.”

“Fine, but that really wasn’t what I meant.”

“I realize that. But, to answer your question, no, I’ve never heard any malicious gossip about Dolores’s behavior.”

“One last question. As far as we know, Giovanni, when at home in Vigàta, had only three friends with whom he socialized, you being one of them. I’ll be talking to the other two tomorrow morning. Which of the three was he closest to?”

Dambrusco did not hesitate.

“Michele Tripodi. Who’s waiting outside.”

“You mean he’s here?”

“Yes. He brought me here in his car. I have to take mine to Milan tomorrow, and it’s still at the mechanic’s.”

“Would you do me a favor? Could you ask him if he would come in to see me now instead of tomorrow morning ? It shouldn’t take but five minutes.”

“Of course.”