Adelina’s help, he would never manage. He might as well leave things just as they were. It was almost one o’clock in the morning, but sleep was the last thing on his mind.The burglars had forced open the French door on the veranda, and it must not have even required much effort, because when Ingrid had come by to pick him up, he had forgotten to lock the dead bolt. A thrust of the shoulder had sufficed to open it.
He went into the utilities closet where the housekeeper kept the things she needed, and he noticed that they had carefully searched even there. The tool drawer had been opened, its contents scattered across the floor. At last he found the hammer, screwdriver, and three or four small screws. But the moment he tried to fix the lock on the French door, he realized he really did need glasses.
But how could he have never noticed before that his vision was faulty? His mood, already dark because of Rachele and the lovely surprise he had come home to, turned even darker, black as ink. All at once he remembered that in the drawer of the nightstand was a pair of glasses of his father’s that had been sent to him together with the watch.
He went into the bedroom and opened the drawer.The envelope with the money was still in its place, as was the glasses’ case.
But he also found something he hadn’t expected to find. The watch had been put back.
He put on the glasses and his vision immediately improved. He went back into the dining room and started fixing the lock.
The burglars—who, it was clear, should no longer be called that—hadn’t stolen anything. Indeed, they had even given back what they had taken during their first visit.
And this was a clear, indeed unscrambled, message: Dear Montalbano,We did not break into your house to rob you, but to look for something .
Had they found it, after a search more thorough than anything he’d ever seen the police do? And what could it be?
A letter? But at home he didn’t have any correspondence that might matter to anyone.
A document? Something written that had something to do with an investigation? But he very rarely brought any paperwork home with him and, anyway, he always brought it back to the station the following day.
Whatever the case, the conclusion was that, if they hadn’t found it, then surely they would be back again for another go-round even more devastating than the last one.
His little repair job on the French door seemed to him to have come out well. He opened and closed it twice, and the spring-lock seemed to work.
“See? When you retire, you can devote yourself to little household chores like this , ” said Montalbano One.
He pretended not to have heard. The night air had brought with it the scent of the sea and, as a result, whetted his appetite. During the preceding day he’d eaten hardly anything at lunchtime, and in the evening only two spoonfuls of the hydrochloric acid soup. He opened the refrigerator: green olives, black passuluna olives, caciocavallo cheese, anchovies. The bread was a bit hard but still edible. There was no lack of wine. He put together a nice platter of what he had and took it out onto the veranda.
Clearly the burglars— for the moment we’ll keep calling them that , he said to himself—must have taken a great deal of time to be able to search the house as they had done. Did they know he was out of town and wouldn’t be back until late at night? And if they did, that meant someone had informed them. But who knew he was going to Fiacca that evening? Only Ingrid and Rachele.
Wait a second, Montalbano, don’t start running with this, or you’re liable to trip and fall onto a pile of bullshit .
The simplest explanation was that they were keeping an eye on him. And the moment they saw him leave, they had forced open the French door in broad daylight. Besides, who would have been on the beach at that hour? Then they went inside and had the rest of the afternoon to work in peace.
Hadn’t they done the same
He went into the utilities closet where the housekeeper kept the things she needed, and he noticed that they had carefully searched even there. The tool drawer had been opened, its contents scattered across the floor. At last he found the hammer, screwdriver, and three or four small screws. But the moment he tried to fix the lock on the French door, he realized he really did need glasses.
But how could he have never noticed before that his vision was faulty? His mood, already dark because of Rachele and the lovely surprise he had come home to, turned even darker, black as ink. All at once he remembered that in the drawer of the nightstand was a pair of glasses of his father’s that had been sent to him together with the watch.
He went into the bedroom and opened the drawer.The envelope with the money was still in its place, as was the glasses’ case.
But he also found something he hadn’t expected to find. The watch had been put back.
He put on the glasses and his vision immediately improved. He went back into the dining room and started fixing the lock.
The burglars—who, it was clear, should no longer be called that—hadn’t stolen anything. Indeed, they had even given back what they had taken during their first visit.
And this was a clear, indeed unscrambled, message: Dear Montalbano,We did not break into your house to rob you, but to look for something .
Had they found it, after a search more thorough than anything he’d ever seen the police do? And what could it be?
A letter? But at home he didn’t have any correspondence that might matter to anyone.
A document? Something written that had something to do with an investigation? But he very rarely brought any paperwork home with him and, anyway, he always brought it back to the station the following day.
Whatever the case, the conclusion was that, if they hadn’t found it, then surely they would be back again for another go-round even more devastating than the last one.
His little repair job on the French door seemed to him to have come out well. He opened and closed it twice, and the spring-lock seemed to work.
“See? When you retire, you can devote yourself to little household chores like this , ” said Montalbano One.
He pretended not to have heard. The night air had brought with it the scent of the sea and, as a result, whetted his appetite. During the preceding day he’d eaten hardly anything at lunchtime, and in the evening only two spoonfuls of the hydrochloric acid soup. He opened the refrigerator: green olives, black passuluna olives, caciocavallo cheese, anchovies. The bread was a bit hard but still edible. There was no lack of wine. He put together a nice platter of what he had and took it out onto the veranda.
Clearly the burglars— for the moment we’ll keep calling them that , he said to himself—must have taken a great deal of time to be able to search the house as they had done. Did they know he was out of town and wouldn’t be back until late at night? And if they did, that meant someone had informed them. But who knew he was going to Fiacca that evening? Only Ingrid and Rachele.
Wait a second, Montalbano, don’t start running with this, or you’re liable to trip and fall onto a pile of bullshit .
The simplest explanation was that they were keeping an eye on him. And the moment they saw him leave, they had forced open the French door in broad daylight. Besides, who would have been on the beach at that hour? Then they went inside and had the rest of the afternoon to work in peace.
Hadn’t they done the same
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