Angelica's Smile by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online Page B

phone and found it turned off, I was in the middle of a discussion with Signora Agata Cannavò, the widow of Commendatore Gesmundo Cannavò, ex–director general of the port, ex-sponsor of Dockers’ Day, ex—”
    “Fine, fine, but who’s Signora Cannavò?”
    “The sixteenth name on the list.”
    “Ah, right. And why did you go and talk to her?”
    “I went to tell her that there was a possibility, however slim, that she would be robbed.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Well, till now I’d been hearing about the people on the list from outsiders, and I was interested in finding out what somebody who was on the list thought about the whole thing.”
    “Good idea! What did she say?”
    “A whole slew of things. The widow is a busybody who knows everything about everyone. And she talks nonstop. She told me that Ragonier Tavella is drowning in debt because he spends all his time in illegal gambling dens. She told me that Signora Martorana, the wife of Antonio Martorana, the surveyor, is engineer De Martino’s mistress. And she told me in a whisper that the Peritores, in her opinion, have an ‘open’ marriage, even though they do everything to hide it. To the point of going to church every Sunday. And she even told me something funny.”
    “What was that?”
    “Apparently on the night the seaside house was robbed, there were four people sleeping there.”
    “So? What’s wrong with that?”
    “Well, according to the widow, Signora Peritore was in one bedroom with another man, while Signor Peritore was in a different bedroom with another woman.”
    “But hadn’t they gone there to celebrate their wedding anniversary?”
    “I guess everyone has their own way of celebrating,” Fazio said philosophically.
    “Nice little social circle. Listen, what’s Peritore do for a living?”
    “Officially speaking, he sells used cars.”
    “And unofficially?”
    “He lives off his wife, who’s filthy rich from an inheritance an aunt left to her.”
    “So, to conclude, the widow didn’t tell you anything pertinent to the burglaries.”
    “Nothing.”
    “So we’re at a dead end.”
    “’Fraid so.”
    “I’m absolutely positive there’s going to be another robbery.”
    “Me too. But we can’t very well put eleven apartments under surveillance here and another handful of villas and houses in the country or by the sea!”
    “We’ll just have to wait. And hope that they make some kind of mistake next time.”
    “That’s unlikely.”
    “Not really. In the burglary that was supposed to throw us off, they made the mistake of breaking down the door.”
    “What burglary was that, may I ask?”
    “Ah, that’s right, you were never informed.”
    And he told Fazio about the plumber Incardona’s visit and the burglary that, according to him, was just a red herring.
    Fazio agreed.

    When Fazio left, the inspector reached out with one hand, picked up the four letters addressed to him that he’d found on his desk, and started slowly studying the postmarks on them.
    Two had been sent from Milan, another from Rome, and the last one from Montelusa.
    In Milan he had no friends; in Rome he had a friend who had even put him up once, but he’d been recently transferred to Parma; and in Montelusa, of course, he knew a lot of people.
    But the truth of the matter was that he hated to open his mail.
    Nowadays he received all sorts of advertising pamphlets, invitations to cultural events, and occasionally a few meager lines from former schoolmates of his.
    All things considered, given his age, he had to admit he hadn’t made many friends over the course of his life.
    In a way he was happy about this, and in another way he wasn’t. Perhaps, with old age coming on faster than a rocket heading for outer space, it would have been better to have a few friends by his side.
    But, deep down, weren’t Fazio, Mimi Augello, and even Catarella by now more friends than coworkers?
    This was his consolation, if there was indeed any