The Snack Thief Read Free Page B

tomorrow.
    Thanks.
Dont mention it.
Montalbano took two steps on the landing, turned
    around, and knocked again.
What can I do for you, Inspector?
Earlier you said you had experience dealing with dead
    people. What did you mean?
I worked as a nurse for a few years.
Thanks.
Dont mention it.
    He went down to the fifth floor, where according to
Cosentino the elevator had been waiting with the already
murdered Aurelio Lapra inside. Had he perhaps gone up
one flight to meet someone who then knifed him?
    Excuse me, maam, Im Inspector Montalbano.
    The young housewife who had come to the door
about thirty, very attractive but unkemptput a finger to her
lips, her expression complicitous, enjoining him to be quiet.
    Montalbano fell silent. What did that gesture mean?
    Damn his habit of always going about unarmed! Gingerly the
young woman stood aside from the door, and the inspector,
on his guard and looking all around him, entered a small
study full of books.
    Please speak very softly. If the baby wakes up, thats the
end, we wont be able to talk. He cries like theres no tomorrow.
    Montalbano heaved a sigh of relief.
    You already know everything, maam, dont you?
    Yes, Mrs. Gullotta, the lady next door, told me, the
woman said, breathing the words in his ear. The inspector
found the situation very arousing.
    So you didnt see Mr. Lapra this morning?
    I havent been out of the house yet.
    Where is your husband?
    In Fela. He teaches at the middle school there. He
leaves every morning at six-fifteen sharp.
    He was sorry their encounter had to be so brief. The
more he looked at Signora Gulisanothat was the surname
on the plaquethe more he liked her. In feminine fashion,
she sensed this and smiled.
    Will you stay for a cup of coffee?
    With pleasure.
    The little boy who answered the door to the next apartment
couldnt have been more than four years old and was fiercely
cockeyed.
    Who are you, stranger? he asked.
    Im a policeman, Montalbano said, smiling, forcing
himself to play along.
    Youll never take me alive, said the kid, and he shot his
water pistol at the inspector, hitting him square in the forehead.
    The scuffle that followed was brief, and as the disarmed
child started to cry, Montalbano cold-bloodedly squirted him
in the face, drenching him.
    What is this? Whats going on here?
    The little angels mother, Signora Gullotta, had nothing
in common with the young mother next door. As a preliminary
measure she slapped her son hard, then she grabbed the
water pistol the inspector had let fall to the floor and hurled
it out the window.
    There! Thatll put an end to all this aggravation!
    With a heartrending wail, the little boy ran into another
room.
    Its his fathers fault, always buying him these toys! Hes
out of the house all day long, doesnt give a damn, and Im
stuck here to look after that little demon! And what do you
want?
    Im Inspector Montalbano. Did Mr. Lapra by any
chance come up to your apartment this morning?
    Mr. Lapra? To our apartment? Why would he do
that?
    Thats what Im asking you.
    I guess I knew the man, but it was never anything more
than good morning, good evening . . . Not a word more.
    Perhaps your husband
    My husband never spoke to Lapra. Anyway, when
could he have? The guys always out. He just doesnt give
a damn.
    Where is your husband?
Hes out, as you can see.
Yes, but where does he work?
At the port, at the fish market. Hes up at four-thirty in
    the morning and back at eight in the evening. Im lucky I
ever see him at all.
An understanding woman, this Mrs. Gullotta.
    On the door to the third and last apartment on the fifth floor
was the name piccirillo. The woman who answered the
door, a distinguished-looking fifty-year-old, was clearly upset
and nervous.
    What do you want?
Im Inspector Montalbano.
The woman looked away.
We dont know anything.
Montalbano immediately smelled a rat. Could this woman
    have been the