Free The Snack Thief by Andrea Camilleri

Aisha, the old woman said out of the blue.
    Mon nom est Salvo, said Montalbano.
    He got in the car, found the pastry shop hed caught a
glimpse of on the way, bought twelve cannoli, and drove back
to the house. Aisha had set a table under a tiny pergola behind
the cottage, at the front of the garden. The countryside
was deserted. Before doing anything else, Montalbano unwrapped
the pastry tray, and the old woman immediately ate
two cannoli as an appetizer. Montalbano wasnt too thrilled
with the kubba, but the kebabs had a tart, herbal flavor that
made them a little more sprightly, or so, at least, he defined
them according to his imperfect use of adjectives.
    During the meal Aisha probably told him the story of
her life, but shed forgotten her French and was speaking only
Arabic. Nevertheless, the inspector actively participated:
when the old woman laughed, he laughed too; when she
grew sad, he put on a face fit for a funeral.
    When supper was over, Aisha cleared the table, while
Montalbano, at peace with himself and the world, smoked a
cigarette. When the old woman returned, she was wearing
a mysterious, conspiratorial expression. In her hand was a
narrow, flat black box that probably once held a necklace or
something similar. Aisha opened it, and inside was a
    savings-account passbook for the Banca Popolare di Montelusa.
    Karima, the old woman said, bringing her forefinger to
her lips, meaning that this was a secret and should remain so.
    Montalbano took the booklet from the box and opened it.
    An even five hundred million lire.
    The previous yearSignora Clementina Vasile Cozzo told
himshed suffered a terrible spell of insomnia she could
do nothing about. Luckily it lasted only a few months. She
would spend most of the night watching television or listening
to the radio. Reading, no. She couldnt read for very
long, because after a while her eyes would start to flutter.
Onceit must have been around four in the morning, perhaps
earliershe heard the shouts of two drunkards quarreling
right under her window. She opened the curtain, just
out of curiosity, and noticed that the light was on in Mr.
Lapras office. What could Mr. Lapra be doing there
at that hour of the night? But Mr. Lapra was not there, in
fact. Nobody was there; the front room of the office was
empty. So Signora Vasile Cozzo concluded that somebody
had left the light on. Suddenly, however, from the other
room, which she knew existed but couldnt see from her
window, there emerged a young man who used to come to
the office now and then, even when Lapra wasnt there.
Stark naked, the man ran to the telephone, picked up the receiver,
and started talking. Apparently the telephone had
    been ringing, though the signora hadnt heard it. Moments
later, Karima emerged, also from the back room, and also
naked. She stood there listening to the young man, who was
growing animated as he spoke. When the telephone call was
over, the young man grabbed Karima and they went back
into the other room to finish what theyd been doing when
they were interrupted by the telephone. They later reappeared
fully dressed, turned off the light, and left in the
mans large metallic gray car.
    Over the course of the previous year this scenario had
repeated itself four or five times. For the most part they
would stay there for hours not doing or saying anything. If
he grabbed her by the arm and took her into the other
room, it was only to pass the time. Sometimes he would
write or read, and she would doze in the chair, head resting
on the table, waiting for the phone to ring. Sometimes,
after the call came in, the man would make a call or two
himself.
    On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, the woman,
Karima, would clean the officebut what was there to clean,
for Christs sake? And sometimes she would answer the
phone, but she never passed the call on to Mr. Lapra, even
when he was right next