The Snack Thief

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Have you managed to find out anything about François’s mother?”

  “Yeah, I have a lead, but don’t get your hopes up,” replied the inspector.

  “If . . . if Karima were never to come back . . . what . . .

  would happen to François?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “I’m going to bed,” said Livia, abruptly standing up.

  Montalbano took her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “Don’t get too attached to him.”

  o o o

  He delicately freed François from Livia’s embrace and laid him down to sleep on the sofa, which had already been made up. When he got into bed, Livia pressed her back against him, and this time did not resist his caresses. On the contrary.

  “And what if the kid wakes up?” Montalbano asked at the crucial moment, still acting the swine.

  “If he wakes up, I’ll go console him,” Livia said, breathing heavily.

  o o o

  At seven o’clock in the morning, he slipped softly out of bed and locked himself in the bathroom. As always, the first thing he did was look at himself in the mirror and twist up his mouth. He didn’t like his own face. So why the hell was he looking at it?

  He heard Livia scream sharply, rushed to the door, and opened it. Livia was in the living room; the sofa was empty.

  “He’s run away!” she said, trembling.

  In one bound, the inspector was on the veranda. He could see him: a tiny little dot at the edge of the water, walking towards Vigàta. Dressed as he was, in only his underpants, he dashed off in pursuit. François was not running, but walking with determination. When he heard footsteps coming up behind him, he stopped in his tracks, without turning round.

  Montalbano, gasping for air, crouched down before him but said nothing.

  The little boy wasn’t crying. His eyes were staring into space, past Montalbano.

  “Je veux maman, ” he said. I want Mama.

  Montalbano saw Livia approaching at a run, wearing one of his shirts; he stopped her with a single gesture, giving her to understand she should go back to the house. Livia obeyed.

  The inspector took the boy by the hand, and they began to walk very, very slowly. For fifteen minutes neither of them said a word. When they came to a beached boat, Montalbano sat down on the sand, François sat beside him, and the inspector put his arm around him.

  “Iu persi a me matri ch’era macari cchiù nicu di tia, ” he began, telling the child he’d lost his own mother when he was even smaller than François.

  They started talking, the inspector in Sicilian and the boy in Arabic, and they understood each other perfectly.

  Montalbano confided things he’d never told anyone before, not even Livia.

  He told him about the nights when he used to cry his heart out, head under the pillow so that his father wouldn’t hear him, and the despair he would feel every morning, knowing his mother wasn’t in the kitchen to make him breakfast, or, a few years later, to make him a snack to take to school. It’s an emptiness that can never be filled again; you carry it with you to the grave. The child asked him if he had the power to bring his mother back. No, replied Montalbano, nobody has that power. He had to resign himself. But you had your father, observed François, who really was intelligent, and not only because Livia said so. True, I had my father. And so, the boy asked, am I really going to end up in one of those places where they put children who have no father or mother?

  “That will never happen, I promise you,” said the inspector. And he held out his hand. François shook it, looking him in the eye.

  o o o

  When he emerged from the bathroom, all ready to go to work, he saw that François had taken the puzzle apart and was cutting the pieces into different shapes with a pair of scissors. He was trying, in his naïve way, to avoid following the set pattern. All of a sudden Montalbano staggered, as if struck by an electrical charge.

  “Jesus!” he whispered.

  Livia looked over at him and saw him trembling, eyes popping out of his head. She became alarmed.

  “My God, Salvo, what is it?”

  His only answer was to pick up the boy, lift him over his head, look at him from below, put him back down, and kiss him.

  “François, you’re a genius!” he said.

  o o o

  Entering the office, he nearly slammed into Mimì Augello, who was on his way out.

  “Ah, Mimì. Thanks for the puzzle.”

  Mimì only gaped at him, dumbfounded.

  “Fazio, on the double!”

  “At your service, Chief !”

  Montalbano explained to him in great detail what he was supposed to do.

  “Galluzzo, in my office!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He explained to him in great detail what he was supposed to do.

  “Can I come in?”

  It was Tortorella, pushing the door open with his foot since his hands were busy carrying a stack of papers three feet high.

  “What is it?”

  “Didìo’s complaining.”

  Didìo was the administrative manager of the Police Commissioner’s Office of Montelusa. He was nicknamed “The Scourge of God” and “The Wrath of God” for his punctil-iousness.

  “What’s he complaining about?”

  “Says you’re behind. Says you gotta sign some papers.” And he dropped the stack of papers on the desk. “Better take a deep breath and get started.”

  o o o

  After an hour of signing, with his hand already beginning to ache, Fazio came in.

  “You’re right, Chief. The Vigàta-Fiacca bus makes a stop just outside of town, in the Cannatello district. And five minutes later, the bus coming from the other direction, the Fiacca-Vigàta, also stops at Cannatello.” “So somebody could, in theory, get on the bus for Fiacca in Vigàta, get off at Cannatello, and, five minutes later, get on the Fiacca-Vigàta bus and return to town.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks, Fazio. Well done.”

  “Wait a minute, Chief. I brought back the ticket man from the morning line, the Fiacca-Vigàta. His name is Lopipàro. Should I have him come in?”

  “By all means.”

  Lopipàro, a reed-thin, surly man of about fifty, was keen to point out at once that he was not a ticket man, but a driver whose duties included collecting tickets. As the tickets were bought in tobacco shops, he did nothing more than collect them once the passengers had boarded the bus.

  “Mr. Lopipàro, everything that’s said in this room must remain confidential.”

  The driver/ticket man brought his right hand to his heart, as if taking a solemn oath.

  “Silent as the grave,” he said.

  “Mr. Lopìparo —”

  “Lopipàro,” he corrected, stressing the penultimate syllable.

  “Mr. Lopipàro, do you know Mrs. Lapècora, the lady whose husband was murdered?”

  “I sure do. She’s got a season ticket for that line. She goes back and forth to Fiacca at least three times a week. She goes to visit her sister who’s sick; she’s always talking about her on the bus.” “I’m going to ask you to make an effort to remember something.”

  “I’ll give it my best, since you ask.”

  “Last Thursday, did you see Mrs. Lapècora?”

  “No need to make any effort. I certainly did see her. We even had a little run-in.”

  “You quarreled with Mrs. Lapècora?”

  “Yessir, I sure did! Mrs. Lapècora, as everybody knows, is a little tight. She’s cheap. Well, on Thursday morning she caught the six-thirty bus for Fiacca. But when we stopped at Cannatello, she got off and told Cannizzaro, the driver, that she had to go back because she forgot something she was supposed to take to her sister. Cannizzaro, who told me all this that same evening, let her out. Five minutes later, on my way to Vigàta, I stopped at Cannatello, and the lady got on my bus.” “What did you argue about?”

  “She didn’t want to
give me a ticket for going from Cannatello to Vigàta. She claimed she shouldn’t have to use up two tickets for a little mistake. But I gotta have a ticket for every person on the bus. I couldn’t just look the other way, like Mrs. Lapècora wanted me to.” “It’s only right,” said Montalbano. “But tell me something. Let’s say the lady manages in half an hour to get what she forgot at home. How’s she going to get to Fiacca that same morning?” “She catches the Montelusa-Trapani bus, which stops in Vigàta at exactly seven-thirty. Which means she would arrive in Fiacca only an hour late.”

  o o o

  “Ingenious,” Fazio commented after Lopipàro had left.

  “How did you figure it out?”

  “The little kid, François, tipped me off when he was working on a jigsaw puzzle.”

  “But why did she do it? Was she jealous of the Tunisian maid?”

  “No. Mrs. Lapècora’s a cheapskate, as the man said. She was afraid her husband would spend everything he had on that woman. But there was something else that triggered the whole thing.” “What was that?”

  “I’ll tell you later. As Catarella says, ‘Aravice is a nasty vice.’ It was greed, you see, that brought her to Lopipàro’s attention, when she should have been making every effort to remain unnoticed.”

  o o o

  “First it took me half an hour to find out where she lived, then I wasted another half hour trying to persuade the old lady, who didn’t trust me. She was afraid of me, but she calmed down when I asked her to come out of the house and she saw the police car. She made a small bundle of her things and then got in the car. You should have heard how the kid cried with delight when, to his surprise, she appeared out of nowhere! They gave each other a big hug. And your lady friend was also very moved.” “Thanks, Gallù.”

  “When do you want me to come by to drive her back to Montelusa?”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it.” Their little family was growing without mercy. Now Grandma Aisha was also at Marinella.

  o o o

  He let the phone ring a long time, but nobody answered. The widow Lapècora wasn’t home. She must certainly be out shopping. There might, however, be another explanation. He dialed the number to the Cosentino household. The security guard’s likable, mustachioed wife answered, speaking in a soft voice.

  “Is your husband asleep?”

  “Yes, Inspector. Do you want me to call him?”

  “There’s no need. You can give him my regards. Listen, signora: I tried calling Mrs. Lapècora, but there was no answer. Do you know by any chance if she—”

  “You won’t find her in this morning, Inspector. She went to Fiacca to see her sister. She went today because tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock, she’s got the funeral of the dear—” “Thanks, signora.”

  He hung up. Maybe this would simplify what needed to be done.

  “Fazio!”

  “At your orders, Chief.”

  “Here are the keys to Lapècora’s office, Salita Granet 28.

  Go inside and take the set of keys that are in the middle drawer of the desk. There’s a little tag attached to them that says ‘home.’ It must be an extra set that he used to keep at the office. Then go to Mrs. Lapècora’s house and let yourself in with those keys.” “Wait a second. What if she’s there?”

  “She’s not. She’s out of town.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “In the dining room there’s a glass cupboard with dishes, cups, trays, and whatnot. Take something from it, anything you like, but make sure it’s something she can’t deny is hers.

  The ideal would be a cup from a complete set. Then bring it here. And don’t forget to put the keys back in their drawer at the office.”

  “And what if the widow notices a cup is missing when she comes back?”

  “We don’t give a fuck. Then you must do one more thing. Phone Jacomuzzi and tell him that by the end of the day, I want the knife that was used to kill Lapècora. If he doesn’t have anyone who can bring it to me, go get it yourself.”

  o o o

  “Montalbano? This is Valente. Could you be here in Mazàra by four o’clock this afternoon?”

  “If I leave immediately. Why?”

  “The captain of the fishing boat is coming, and I’d like you to be there.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it. Has your man managed to find anything out?”

  “Yes, and it didn’t take much. He said the fishermen are quite willing to talk.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “No, tell me now, so I can give it some thought on the way.”

  “Okay. We’re convinced the crew knew little or nothing about the whole business. They all claim the vessel was just outside our territorial waters, that it was a very dark night, and that they clearly saw a vessel approaching them on the radar screen.” “So why did they keep going?”

  “Because it didn’t occur to any of the crew that it might be a Tunisian patrol boat or whatever it was. I repeat, they were in international waters.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, without warning, came the signal to halt. Our fishing boat—or its crew at least, I can’t speak for the captain—thought it was our Customs Police making a routine check. So they stopped, and they heard people speaking Arabic. At this point the Tunisian on the Italian boat went astern and lit a cigarette. And got shot. Only then did the fishing boat turn and flee.” “And then?”

  “And then what, Montalbà? How long is this phone call going to last?”

  1 8 6

  0p>

  14

  Unlike most men of the sea, Angelo Prestìa, crew chief and owner of the Santopadre motor trawler, was a fat, sweaty man.

  But he was sweating because it was natural for him, not because of the questionsValente was asking him. Actually, in this regard, he seemed not only calm, but even slightly put out.

  “I don’t understand why you suddenly wanna drag this story out again. It’s water under the bridge.”

  “We’d merely like to clear up a few small details, then you’ll be free to go,” Valente said to reassure him.

  “Well, out with it then, for God’s sake!”

  “You’ve always maintained that the Tunisian patrol boat was acting illegally, since your vessel was in international waters. Is that correct?”

  “Of course it’s correct. But I don’t see why you’re interested in questions that are the concern of the Harbor Office.”

  “You’ll see later.”

  “But I don’t need to see anything, if you don’t mind!

  Did the Tunisian government issue a statement or didn’t they? And in this statement, did they say they killed the Tunisian themselves or didn’t they? So why do you want to hash it all out again?” “There’s already a discrepancy,” Valente observed.

  “Where?”

  “You, for example, say the attack occurred in international waters, whereas they say you’d already crossed their border. Is that a discrepancy or isn’t it, as you might say?” “No, sir, it is not a discrepancy. It’s a mistake.”

  “On whose part?”

  “Theirs. They obviously took their bearings wrong.” Montalbano and Valente exchanged a lightning-quick glance, which was the signal to begin the second phase of their prearranged interrogation.

  “Mr. Prestìa, do you have a criminal record?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you have been arrested.”

  “You guys really have a thing for old stories, don’t you!

  Yes, sir, I was arrested, because some faggot, some sonofabitch had a grudge against me and reported me. But then the judge realized the bastard was a liar, and so he let me go.” “What were you accused of ?”

  “Smuggling.”

  “Cigarettes or drugs?”

  “The second.”

  “And your whole crew also ended up in the slammer, didn’t they?”

  “Yessir, but they all g
ot out ’cause they were innocent like me.”

  “Who was the judge that threw the case out of court?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Was it Antonio Bellofiore?”

  “Yeah, I think it was him.”

  “Did you know he was thrown in jail himself a year later for rigging trials?”

  “No, I didn’t know. I spend more time at sea than on land.”

  Another lightning-quick glance, and the ball was passed to Montalbano.

  “Let’s forget these old stories,” the inspector began. “Do you belong to a cooperative?”

  “Yes, the Mafico.”

  “What does it stand for?”

  “Mazarese Fishermen’s Cooperative.”

  “When you sign up a Tunisian fisherman, do you choose him yourself or is he referred to you by the cooperative?”

  “The co-op tells us which ones to take,” Prestìa replied, starting to sweat more than usual.

  “We happen to know that the cooperative furnished you with a certain name, but you chose Ben Dhahab instead.”

  “Listen, I didn’t know this Ben Dhahab, never seen ’im before in my life. When he showed up on board five minutes before we put out, I thought he was the one sent by the co-op.” “You mean Hassan Tarif ?”

  “I think that was ’is name.”

  “Okay. Why didn’t the cooperative ask you for an explanation?”

  Captain Prestìa smiled, but his face was drawn and by now he was bathed in sweat.

  “But this kind of stuff happens every day! They trade places all the time! The important thing is to avoid com-plaints.”

  “So why didn’t Hassan Tarif complain? After all, he lost a day’s wages.”

  “You’re asking me? Go ask him.”

  “I did,” Montalbano said calmly.

  Valente looked at him in astonishment. This part had not been prearranged.

  “And what did he tell you?” Prestìa asked almost defi-antly.

  “He said Ben Dhahab came to him the day before and asked if he was signed on with the Santopadre, and when he said yes, Dhahab told him not to show up for three days and gave him a whole week’s pay.” “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Let me finish. Given this fact, Dhahab certainly didn’t sign on because he needed work. He already had money.