Angelica's Smile by Andrea Camilleri Page A

they did not rob it.”
    Which was the pure and simple truth.
    “But then how did they get their hands on the keys? Because you, in your report, write that the door to her apartment was not forced!”
    “Let me explain. Miss Cosulich carelessly left the keys to her apartment in the glove compartment of her car, which was parked outside the villa. The thieves, apparently in passing, examined the documents with her address on it and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Technically, I couldn’t mention a burglary in the villa in the report, since this never happened. I wrote instead that the woman’s car had been stolen. So, as you can see, there was no omission.”
    He glanced at his watch.
Matre santa
, it was three minutes to six!
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Commissioner, but the
Butterfly
is about to come into port, and I—”
    “Didn’t you say it was called the
Pinkerton
?”
    “Excuse me, you’re absolutely right. The
Pinkerton
. You see, that unjust accusation has confused—”
    “All right, all right, you can go.”

    He raced to Marinella at breakneck speed, about fifty miles an hour for normal drivers.
    As he was passing through the village of Villaseta, a carabiniere with disc signals in hand, who’d probably been hiding behind a blade of grass, suddenly appeared in front of him, gesturing for him to stop.
    “License and registration.”
    “Why, may I ask?”
    “The speed limit in a residential area is thirty miles an hour. Everybody and their dog knows this.”
    The inspector’s irritation at this new delay and the use of a cliché triggered an unfortunate reply.
    “Why, don’t the cats and birds know it?”
    The carabiniere gave him a dirty look.
    “Trying to be funny, are we?”
    He couldn’t allow himself to get into an argument. The guy was liable to run him in, and that would be all for Angelica that night.
    “I’m sorry.”
    How humiliating, shameful, offensive for a police inspector to haveto say he was sorry to an officer of the carabinieri!
    The carabiniere, who was carefully studying the inspector’s license, made a strange face.
    “Are you Inspector Montalbano?”
    “Yes,” he admitted through clenched teeth.
    “Are you on duty?”
    Of course he was on duty. He was always on duty.
    “Yes.”
    “Then you can go,” said the officer, giving him back his license and registration, and a military salute.
    Montalbano drove off at a speed that would have had him finishing last in a tortoise race, but after the first bend he sped back up to fifty.

    By the time he got home, it was six-forty.
    It was anybody’s guess now whether Angelica had phoned or not.
    He took the phone off the hook so that it would ring busy, went and took a quick shower because he was drenched in sweat, then put the receiver back on the hook and got dressed.
    His dramatic performance with the commissioner had taken a lot out of him.
    At seven-thirty, after he had already smoked a whole pack of cigarettes, the phone decided to ring.
    It was Angelica.
    “There’s a problem.”
    What was going on? Was this National Frustration Day or something?
    “What is it?”
    “I’m at my cousin’s villa. I came to put my room back in order. I hadn’t been back since the burglary, you know, and suddenly the power went out. A fuse must have blown. I have everything I need here to fix it, but I don’t know how to do it.”
    “Sorry to ask, but what do you need power for right now? Just lock up, come over to my place, and tomorrow we’ll call an electrician.”
    “They’re delivering the water tonight.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “They deliver water here once a week. If there’s no electricity in the tank, the pump doesn’t work, and the water won’t be sucked in. Understand? I risk being without water for over a week.”
    Montalbano had an unpleasant thought: Did she perhaps need her love nest in the coming days?
    As if she’d read his mind, she said:
    “And I won’t be able to wash the floors, which