The Brewer of Preston by Andrea Camilleri Page A

So why was the door left wide open, creating a strong draft to fuel the fire? Like a Sicilian greyhound, Puglisi came to attention, pricked his ears, and sniffed the air, but his fatigue was so great that he decided to go and get cleaned up first, after which he could study the matter with a lighter, freer head.

    It was not his fate, however, to bathe that morning. As he was putting the key in his front door, a question paralyzed him: What made him so sure that the widow Lo Russo, who lived on the floor above Gnà Nunzia, had gone to sleep at the home of her sister Agatina? For the entire duration of the fire and the ensuing pandemonium, she had given no sign of being at home, it was true, but perhaps she hadn’t been well and was still there, unconscious or injured, and in need of help. He put the key back in his pocket and stood on the landing a little while longer, trying to decide what he should do: break down the door of the widow’s apartment, or go to her sister’s place and ask if Signora Concetta had spent the night there.
    He opted for the latter course of action, perhaps because he had always, since the first time they met, felt attracted to Agatina Riguccio, wife of Totò Pennìca, a fisherman by trade. And to think that, on that occasion, he had even seen her in unflattering circumstances, after her husband had broken her cheekbone with a punch during a jealous spat—the jealousy being Totò’s, of course.
    Summoned by the neighbors, Lieutenant Puglisi had found this Agatina with a swollen face but a pair of dark, lively eyes that looked like they were always asking for something, quivering red-violet lips (which smelled of saffron and cinnamon, Puglisi thought), and light, dancing tits under her unlaced bodice.
    â€œWho called you here?” she had said. “There’s no quarrel. I slipped and fell and hit my face against the armoire.”
    â€œSo why were you screaming?”
    â€œDon’t you scream, sir, when you hurt yourself?”
    Not only beautiful, but shrewd. Six months later, another call. This time she had a nasty purple mark around her neck.
    â€œThis? This mark here? But what kinds of ideas are you getting in your head, Lieutenant! I did that myself, when my scarf got caught in a door handle.”
    But she looked him straight in the eye as she said those words, and there was, in that look, an entirely different question, one that sent shivers down his spine.
    â€œSo I can leave without having to worry about you?”
    â€œOf course, Lieutenant. And thanks,” and she grabbed his hand to say good-bye.
    The way she squeezed it took him by surprise. It was as if she had enveloped his fingers not only with her hand but with her whole body—as if the man’s hand, having become something else, had entered her innermost part, all the way to her womanly core.

    He had to knock three times before a sleepy Agatina answered.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    â€œIt’s me, Lieutenant Puglisi.”
    The door opened in a flash. Agatina stood before him in a nightgown, her skin fragrant with the warm scent of the bed, and the color that immediately suggested itself to Puglisi’s senses was the quivering pink of a sea urchin just opened.
    â€œWhat is it? What’s happened? Has something happened to my husband?”
    â€œNo, don’t worry. Nothing’s happened to your husband.”
    Agatina seemed relieved, as her tits rose and then fell in a long sigh.
    â€œPlease come inside.”
    Puglisi went in, letting himself be lulled by the color of cracked-open sea urchin, which had intensified.
    â€œSo what is it?”
    â€œDid your sister Concetta sleep here tonight?”
    â€œNo, sir. Why?”
    Puglisi shuddered. If she was at home, why hadn’t she called for help?
    â€œHave you got a key to her apartment?”
    â€œYessir.”
    She went over to a chest of drawers, opened a drawer carefully so as not to wake