The Shape of Water by Andrea Camilleri Page A

being offered him, along with everything that might be on it, came to mind as he was refortifying himself with a generous helping of the roast peppers that Adelina had left in the refrigerator. He looked for Giacomo Cardamone’s telephone number in the directory; his Swedish wife would probably be home at this hour.
    “Who dat speakin’?”
    “It’s Giovanni. Is Ingrid there?”
    “I go see, you wait.”
    He tried to guess from what part of the world this housekeeper had landed in the Cardamone home, but he couldn’t figure it out.
    “Ciao, monster cock, how are you?”
    It was a deep, husky voice, which fit the description Zito had given him. Her words, however, had no erotic effect whatsoever on the inspector. Actually, they made him feel upset: of all the names in the world, he had to go and pick one belonging to a man Ingrid knew down to his anatomical proportions.
    “Are you still there? Did you fall asleep on your feet? Did you fuck a lot last night, you pig?”
    “Excuse me, signora . . .”
    Ingrid’s reaction was immediate, an acceptance without surprise or indignation.
    “You’re not Giovanni.”
    “No.”
    “Then who are you?”
    “I’m an inspector with the police force. My name is Montalbano.”
    He expected an expression of alarm but was promptly disappointed.
    “Ooh, how exciting! A cop! What do you want from me?”
    Her tone remained familiar, even after she knew she was speaking with someone she didn’t know. Montalbano maintained his formality.
    “I would like to have a few words with you.”
    “I can’t this afternoon, but I’m free this evening.”
    “All right then, this evening.”
    “Where? Shall I come to your office? Tell me where it is.”
    “Better not. I’d prefer somewhere more discreet.”
    Ingrid paused.
    “How about your bedroom?” The woman’s voice had grown irritated. Apparently she was beginning to think that the person on the line was some imbecile trying to make advances.
    “Listen, signora, I realize you’re suspicious, with good reason. Let’s do this: I’ll be back at headquarters in Vigàta in an hour. You can phone there and ask for me. All right?”
    The woman didn’t answer immediately. She was thinking it over before making up her mind.
    “No, I believe you, cop. Tell me when and where.”
    They agreed on the place, the Marinella Bar, which at the appointed hour, ten o’clock, would surely be deserted. Montalbano advised her not to tell anyone, not even her husband.
     
 
The Luparello villa stood at the entry to Montelusa as one approached from the sea. A massive nineteenth-century building, it was surrounded by a high defensive wall with a wrought-iron gate at the center, now thrown open. Montalbano walked down the tree-lined lane cutting through one part of the park and came to the huge, double front door, one half of which was open, the other half draped with a large black bow. He leaned forward to look inside: in the vestibule, which was rather vast, there were some twenty people, men and women, looking appropriately grief-stricken, murmuring in soft voices. He thought it unwise to walk through the crowd; someone might recognize him and start wondering why he was there. Instead, he walked all around the villa and at last found a rear entrance, which was closed. He rang the bell several times before someone came and opened the door.
    “You’ve made a mistake. For condolence visits use the front door,” said a small, alert housekeeper in black pinafore and starched cap, who had classified him at a glance as not belonging to the category of caterers.
    “I’m Inspector Montalbano. Could you tell someone of the family I’m here?”
    “They’ve been expecting you, Inspector.”
    She led him down a long corridor, opened a door, and gestured for him to enter. Montalbano found himself in a large library with thousands of well-kept books neatly arrayed on enormous shelves. There was an immense desk in one corner, and in the corner opposite,