The Scent of the Night Read Free

himself.
    Armed with her faith in Gargano's honesty, Mariastella would open up the office every morning, sit down and wait for her love to return. Everyone in town laughed at her. Everyone, that is, who hadn't had any dealings with the ragioniere , since those who'd lost their money were not in a laughing mood. The da y before, Gallo had told Montal bano that Miss Cosentino had even gone to the bank to pay, out of her own pocket, the rent that was due on the office. So why had the guy now threatening her with a gun got it in his head to take it out on her? Poor thing, she had nothing to do with the whole affair. And why, in fact, had the distraught investor come up with his brilliant idea so late, some thirty days after Gargano's disappearance, in other words at a time when most of the ragioniere ‘ s victims had resigned themselves to the worst? Montalbano belonged to the first school of thought, the one that believed that the ragioniere had split after screwing everybody, and he felt very sorry for Mariastella Cosentino. Every time he happened to pass in front of the agency and saw her sitting there calmly behind the counter, he felt an ache in his heart that would stay with him for the rest of the day.
     
    There were about thirty people in front of the King Midas office, heatedly talking and wildly gesticulating, and kept at bay by three municipal policemen. Recognizing the inspector, they surrounded him.
    Is it true there's a man with a gun inside?'
    ‘ Who is he? Who is he?'
    He forced his way through the crowd, shoving and yelling, and finally reached the entrance to the building. But here he stopped, slightly bewildered. Inside he saw, recognizing them from behind, Mimì Augello, Fazio, and Galluzzo, who looked as if they were involved in some strange kind of ballet: first bending their upper bodies to the right; then to the left, then taking one step forward, one step back. He opened the glass outer door without a sound and got a better look at the scene. The office consisted of a single spacious room divided in two by a wooden counter with a sheet of glass and a cashier's window on top. Beyond this partition were four empty desks.
    Mariastella Cosentino was sitting at her usual place behind the cashier's window, very pale, but calm and composed. One came and went between the two sections of the office through a small wooden door in the partition itself.
    The assailant, or whatever he was — Montalbano didn't know how to define him — was standing right in the little doorway between the two sections, so that he could keep his gun trained simultaneously on Mariastella and the three policemen. He was an old man of about eighty whom the inspector recognized at once, a respected land surveyor named Salvatore Garzullo. Partly because of nervous tension, partly because of fairly advanced Parkinson's, the pistol — which dated surely back to the days of Buffalo Bill and the Sioux — was shaking so badly in the old man's hands that whenever he aimed it at one of the inspector's men, they all took fright because they couldn't tell where an eventual shot might end up.
     
    ‘I want back the money that son of a bitch stole from me, or I'm going to kill the lady!'
    The land surveyor had been yelling this same demand without variation for over an hour, and by now he was getting worn out and hoarse. More than speaking, he seemed to be making gargling sounds.
    Montalbano took three resolute steps, walked past the line formed by his men, and held out his hand to the old man, a smile beaming across his face.
    'Dear Mr Garzullo, what a pleasure to see you! How are you? ’
    'I'm doing all right, thanks,' said Garzullo, confused.
    But he recovered himself immediately when he saw Montalbano about to take another step towards him.
    'Stay where you are or I'll shoot!'
    ‘F or Heaven's sake, Ins pector, be careful!' Miss Cosen tino said in a steady voice. If someone has to be sacrificed for Mr Gargano, let it be me. I'm