The Snack Thief (21 page)

And how do you explain, just to follow your argument,

that my husband was the only one killed?
When you returned, Karima was already gone.
Excuse me, but since you werent there, who told you

this story?
Your fingerprints on the cup and on the knife told me.
Not on the knife! the woman snapped.
Why not on the knife?
The woman started biting her lip.
The cup is mine, the knife isnt.
The knife is also yours; its got one of your fingerprints

on it. Clear as day.
But that cant be!
Fazio did not take his eyes off his superior. He knew

there were no fingerprints on the knife. This was the most
delicate moment of the trick.

And youre so sure there are no fingerprints on the
knife because when you stabbed your husband you were still
wearing the gloves youd put on when you got all dressed up
to go out. You see, the fingerprint we took from it was not
from that morning, but from the day before, when, after
using the knife to clean the fish you had for dinner, you
washed it and put it back in the kitchen drawer. In fact, the
fingerprint is not on the handle, but on the blade, right
where the blade and the handle meet. And now youre going
to go into the next room with Fazio, and were going to take
your fingerprints and compare them.

He was a son of a bitch, said Signora Lapra, and he
deserved to die the way he did. He brought that whore into
my home to get his jollies in my bed all day while I was out.

Are you saying you acted out of jealousy?

Why else?

But hadnt you already received three anonymous letters?
You could have caught them in the act at the office on
Salita Granet.

I dont do that kind of thing. But when I realized hed
brought that whore into my home, my blood started to boil.

I think, signora, your blood started to boil a few days
before that.

When?

When you discovered your husband had withdrawn a
large sum from his bank account.

This time, too, the inspector was bluffing. It worked.

Two hundred million lire! the widow said in rage and

despair. Two hundred million for that disgusting whore!
That explained part of the money in Karimas bank book.
If I didnt stop him, he was liable to eat up the office,

our home, and our savings!

Shall we put this all in a statement, signora? But first tell
me one thing. What did your husband say when you appeared
before him?

He said: Get the hell out of my way. I have to go to the
office. Hed probably had a spat with the slut, shed left, and
he was running after her.

Mr. Commissioner? Montalbano here. Im calling to let you
know that Ive just now managed to get Mrs. Lapra to
confess to her husbands murder.

Congratulations. Why did she do it?
Self-interest, which shes trying to disguise as jealousy. I

need to ask a favor of you. Could I hold a press conference?
There was no answer.
Commissioner? I asked if I could
I heard you perfectly well, Montalbano. Its just that I

was speechless with amazement. You want to hold a press

conference? I dont believe it!
And yet its true.
All right, go ahead. But later you must explain to me

whats behind it.

223

Are you saying that Mrs. Lapra had long known about
her husbands relations with Karima? asked Galluzzos
brother-in-law in his capacity as a reporter for TeleVig.

Yes. Thanks to no less than three anonymous letters that
her husband had sent to her.

At first they didnt understand.

Do you mean to say that Mr. Lapra actually denounced
himself to his wife? asked a bewildered journalist.

Yes. Because Karima had started blackmailing him. He
was hoping his wifes reaction would free him from his
predicament. But Mrs. Lapra did not intervene. Nor did
their son.

Excuse me, but why didnt he turn to the police?

Because he thought it would create a big scandal.
Whereas, with his wifes help, he was hoping matters would
stay within the, uh, family circle.

But where is this Karima now?

We dont know. She escaped with her son, a little boy.
Actually one of her friends, who was worried about their disappearance,
asked the Free Channel to air a photo of the
mother and her son. But so far nobody has come forward.

They thanked him and left. Montalbano smiled in satisfaction.
The first puzzle had been solved, perfectly, within its
specific outline. Fahrid, Ahmed, and even Aisha had been left
out of it. With them in it, had they been properly used, the
puzzles design would have been entirely different.

He was early for his appointment with Valente. He stopped
in front of the restaurant where hed gone the last time he
was in Maz. He gobbled up a sautf clams in bread-
crumbs, a heaping dish of spaghetti with white clam sauce, a
roast turbot with oregano and caramelized lemon, and he
topped it all off with a bitter chocolate timbale in orange
sauce. When it was all over he stood up, went into the
kitchen, and shook the chefs hand without saying a word,
deeply moved. In the car, on his way to Valentes office, he
sang at the top of his lungs: Guarda come dondolo, guarda come
dondolo, col twist ...

Valente showed Montalbano into a room next to his own.

Its something weve done before, he said. We leave
the door ajar, and you, by manipulating this little mirror, can
see whats happening in my office, if hearings not enough.

Be careful,Valente. Its a matter of seconds.

Leave it to us.

Commendatore Spadaccia walked into Valentes office. It was
immediately clear he was nervous.

Im sorry, Commissioner Valente, I dont understand.
You could have easily come to the prefecture yourself and
saved me some time. Im a very busy man, you know.

Please forgive me, Commendatore, Valente said with
abject humility. Youre absolutely right. But well make up

for that at once; I wont keep you more than five minutes. I

just need a simple clarification.

All right.

The last time we met, you told me the prefect had been
asked in some way

The commendatore raised an imperious hand, and Valente
immediately fell silent.

If thats what I said, I was wrong. His Excellency knows
nothing about all this. Anyway, its the sort of bullshit we see
every day. The ministry, in Rome, phoned me; they dont
bother His Excellency with this kind of crap.

Obviously the prefect, after getting the phone call from
the bogus Corriere reporter, had asked the chief of his cabinet
for an explanation. And it must have been a rather lively discussion,
the echoes of which could still be heard in the strong
words the commendatore was using.

Go on, Spadaccia urged.

Valente threw up his hands, a halo hovering over his head.

Thats all, he said.

Spadaccia, dumbstruck, looked all around as if to verify
the reality of what was happening.

Are you telling me you have nothing more to ask me?

Thats right.

Spadaccia slammed his hand down on the desk with such
force that even Montalbano jumped in the next room.

You think youve made an ass of me, but youll pay for
this, just wait and see!

He stormed out, fuming. Montalbano ran to the window,
nerves taut. He saw the commendatore shoot out the

front door like a bullet towards his car, whose driver was getting
out to open the door for him. At that exact moment, the
door of a squad car that had just pulled up opened, and out
came Angelo Prest who was immediately taken by the arm
by a policeman. Spadaccia and the captain of the fishing boat
stood almost face-to-face. They said nothing to each other,
and each continued on his way.

The whinny of joy that Montalbano let out now and
then when things went right for him terrified Valente, who
came running from the next room.

Whats the matter with you?

It worked!

Sit down here, they heard a policeman say. Presthad
been brought into the office.

Valente and Montalbano stayed where they were; each lit
a cigarette and smoked it without saying a word to the other.
Meanwhile the captain of the Santopadre was simmering on a
low flame.

They entered with faces like the bearers of black clouds and
bitter cargoes. Valente went and sat behind his desk; Montalbano
pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.

Whens this aggravation gonna end? the captain began.

He didnt realize that with his aggressive attitude, he had
just revealed what he was thinking to Valente and Montalbano:
that is, he believed that Commendator Spadaccia had
come to vouch for the truth of his testimony. He felt at
peace, and could therefore play indignant.

On the desk was a voluminous folder on which Angelo
Prests name was written in large block lettersvolumi-
nous because it was filled with old memos, but the captain
didnt know this. Valente opened it and took out Spadaccias
calling card.

You gave this to us, correct?

Valentes switch from the politeness of last time to a
more coplike bluntness worried Prest

Of course its correct. The commendatore gave it to me
and said if I had any trouble after taking the Tunisian aboard I
could turn to him. Which I did.

Wrong, said Montalbano, fresh as a spring chicken.

But thats what he told me to do!

Of course thats what he told you to do, but as soon as
you smelled a rat, you gave that calling card to us instead.
And in doing so, you put that good man in a pickle.

A pickle? What kind of pickle?

Dont you think being implicated in premeditated murder
is a pretty nasty pickle?

Prestshut up.

My colleague Montalbano, Valente cut in, is trying to
explain to you why things went as they did.

And how did they go?

They went as follows: if you had gone directly to
Spadaccia and hadnt given us his card, he would have taken
care of everything, under the table, of course. Whereas you,
by giving us the card, you got the law involved. So that left
Spadaccia with only one option: deny everything.

What?!

Yessirree. Spadaccias never seen you before, never heard
your name. He made a sworn statement, which weve added
to our file.

The son of a bitch! said Prest Then he asked: And
how did he explain how I got his card?

Montalbano laughed heartily to himself.

He suckered you there, too, pal, he said. He brought
us a photocopy of a declaration he made about ten days ago
to the Trapani police. Says his wallet was stolen with everything
inside, including four or five calling cards, he couldnt
remember exactly how many.

He tossed you overboard, said Valente.

Where the waters way over your head, Montalbano
added.

How long you gonna manage to stay afloat? Valente
piled it on.

The sweat under Prests armpits formed great big
blotches. The office was filled with an unpleasant odor of
musk and garlic, which Montalbano saw as rot-green in
color. Prestput his head in his hands and muttered:

They didnt give me any choice.

He remained awhile in that position, then apparently
made up his mind:

Can I speak with a lawyer?

A lawyer? said Valente, as if greatly surprised.

Why do you want a lawyer? Montalbano asked in turn.

I thought

You thought what?
That we were going to arrest you?
The duo worked perfectly together.
Youre not going to arrest me?
Of course not.
You can go now, if you like.
It took Prestfive minutes before he could get his ass

unstuck from the chair and run out the door, literally.

So, what happens next? asked Valente, who knew they had
unleashed a pack of demons.
What happens next is that Prestwill go and pester

Spadaccia. And the next move will be theirs.
Valente looked worried.
Whats wrong? asked Montalbano.
I dont know...Im not convinced ...Im afraid

theyll silence Prest And we would be responsible.

Prests too visible at this point. Bumping him off
would be like putting their signature on the entire operation.
No, Im convinced they will silence him, but by paying him
off handsomely.

Will you explain something for me?
Sure.
Why are you stepping into this quicksand?
And why are you following behind me?
First of all, because Im a cop, like you, and secondly, be

cause Im having fun.

And my answer is: my first reason is the same as yours.
And my second is that Im doing it for money.

And whatll you gain from it?

I know exactly what my gain will be. But you want to
bet that youll gain something from it too?

Deciding not to give in to the temptation, he sped past the
restaurant where hed stuffed himself at lunch, doing 120
kilometers an hour. A half kilometer later, however, his resolution
suddenly foundered, and he slammed on the brakes,
provoking a furious blast of the horn from the car behind
him. The man at the wheel, while passing him, glared at him
angrily and gave him the finger. Montalbano then made a
U-turn, strictly prohibited on that stretch of road, went
straight into the kitchen, and, without even saying hello,
asked the cook:

So, exactly how do you prepare your striped mullet?

17

The following morning, at eight oclock sharp, he showed up
at the commissioners office. His boss, as usual, had been
there since seven, amid the muttered curses of the cleaning
women who felt prevented from doing their jobs.

Montalbano told him about Mrs. Lapras confession,
explaining how the poor murder victim, as if trying to sidestep
his tragic end, had written anonymously to his wife and
openly to his son, but both had let him stew in his own
juices. He made no mention of either Fahrid or Moussaof
the larger puzzle, in other words. He didnt want the commissioner,
now at the end of his career, to find himself implicated
in an affair that stank worse than a pile of shit.