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perfectly planned burglary. We’ve never seen anything so well planned in Vigàta.”
    Fazio was now shaking his head.
    “I wasn’t referring to the perfect planning, but to the perfect resemblance.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Chief, just three days ago, there was another burglary exactly like this one, an exact duplicate.”
    “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”
    “Because you told us you didn’t want to be bothered with things like burglaries. Inspector Augello took care of it.”
    “Tell me more.”
    “Do you know a lawyer named Lojacono?”
    “Emilio? A fat guy, about fifty, with a limp?”
    “That’s him.”
    “And so?”
    “Every Saturday morning the guy’s wife goes to Ravanusa to visit her mother.”
    “A fine example of daughterly devotion. What the fuck do I care if she visits her mother? What’s that got to do with anything?”
    “A lot. Just hang on a minute. Do you know a lady named Dr. Vaccaro?”
    “The pharmacist?”
    “That’s right. Her husband also goes to see his mother every Saturday morning, in Favara.”
    Montalbano was starting to feel his nerves fraying.
    “Would you please get to the point?”
    “I’m getting to that. So anyway, both Lojacono the lawyer and Dr. Vaccaro the pharmacist take advantage of the absence of their respective spouses and every Saturday spend a blissful night in Lojacono’s country house.”
    “How long have they been lovers?”
    “For a little over a year.”
    “And who knows about it?”
    “Everyone in town.”
    “We’re off to a good start. So how’d it go?”
    “The lawyer’s a man known for being precise; he always does the same things, never varies. For instance, when he goes to his country house with his mistress, he always leaves the keys on top of the television, which is only about three feet away from a window that is always left half open, night and day, winter and summer. Got that?”
    “Got it.”
    “The burglars stuck a wooden pole about ten feet long with a magnetic metal tip through the grate and through the window, attracted the keys with the magnet, and then grabbed them.”
    “How did you find out about the pole?”
    “We found it at the scene.”
    “Go on.”
    “Then they opened the gate and front door with the keys and, without making any noise, went into the bedroom and gassed the lawyer and the lady pharmacist. They grabbed all the valuables they could find, then got into both cars, since the lady had come with her own, and drove here to Vigàta to ransack both of their homes.”
    “So there were at least three burglars.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because there had to have been a third man, the one driving the burglars’ own car.”
    “True.”
    “Can you explain to me why none of the local TV stations ever mentioned this story?”
    “Because we did a great job. We wanted to avoid a scandal.”
    At that moment Catarella showed up.
    “Beckin’ yer partin’, Chief, but Misser an’ Missis Piritone juss come onna premisses juss now.”
    Montalbano gave Catarella a dirty look but decided not to say anything. The guy might start crying again.
    “Is that really their name?” Fazio asked in disbelief.
    “Gimme a break! Their name’s Peritore. Listen, take them into your office, get their report and the list they’ve drawn up, and then come back here.”
    After spending the next half hour signing papers, which were piling up on his desk out of control, the telephone rang.
    “Chief, ’at’d be yer lady frenn.”
    “Is she here?”
    “Nossir, she’s onna line.”
    “Tell her I’m not here.”
    Catarella must have balked.
    “Chief, beckin’ yer partin’ an’ all, bu’ mebbe ya din’t unnastand ’oo’s onna line. The foresaid caller in quession is yer lady frenn Livia, I dunno if ’at wuz clear t’yiz.”
    “I got that, Cat. I’m not here.”
    “Whate’er y’ say, Chief.”
    And immediately Montalbano regretted it. What kind of bullshit was this, anyway? He was acting like a