Free The Snack Thief by Andrea Camilleri Page A

to her. He would only sit there, listening
to her talk, head down and looking at the floor, as if
none of it was his concern, or as if he felt offended.
    In the opinion of Clementina Vasile Cozzo, the maid, the
Tunisian girl, was a bad, evil woman.
    Not only did she do what she did with the dark young
    man, but now and then she would go and wheedle poor old
Lapra, who inevitably would give in, letting himself be
led into the back room. One time, when Lapra was sitting
at the little secretarial table reading the newspaper, she
kneeled in front of him, unzipped his trousers, and, still
kneeling...
    At this point Signora Vasile Cozzo, blushing, interrupted
her narrative.
    It was clear that Karima and the young man had keys to
the office, whether they had been given them by Lapra or
had copies made themselves. It was also clear, even though
there were no insomniac witnesses, that the night before
Lapra was murdered, Karima had spent a few hours in the
victims home. This was proved by the scent of VoluptDid
she also own a set of keys to the flat, or had Lapra himself
let her in, taking advantage of the fact that his wife had taken
a generous dose of sleeping pills? In any case, the whole thing
seemed not to make sense. Why risk being caught in the act
by Mrs. Lapra when they could easily have met at the office?
For the hell of it? Just to season an otherwise predictable
relationship with the thrill of danger?
    And then there was the matter of the three anonymous
letters, unquestionably pieced together in that office. Why
had Karima and the dark young man done it? To put Lapra
in a difficult bind? It didnt tally. They had nothing to
gain by it. On the contrary, they risked jeopardizing the
availability of their telephone number and whatever it was
the company had become.
    For a better understanding of all this, Montalbano would
have to wait for Karima to return. Fazio was right: she must
have slipped away to avoid answering dangerous questions
and would come back on the sly. The inspector was positive
that Aisha would keep the promise shed made to him. In his
unlikely French, hed explained to her that Karima got
mixed up with a nasty crowd, and that sooner or later that
bad man and his friends would surely kill not only her but
also Frans and Aisha herself. He had the impression hed
sufficiently convinced and frightened her.
    They agreed that as soon as Karima reappeared, the old
woman would phone him; she had only to ask for Salvo and
say only her name, Aisha. He left her the telephone numbers
to his office and home, telling her to make sure she hid them
well, as she had done with the passbook.
    Naturally the argument held water on one condition:
that Karima was not the killer. But no matter how much he
turned it over in his head, the inspector could not picture her
with a knife in her hand.
    He glanced at his watch by the flame of his lighter. Almost
midnight. For more than two hours now hed been sitting
on the veranda, in darkness to avoid getting eaten alive by
mosquitoes and sand flies, hashing and rehashing what hed
learned from Signora Clementina and Aisha.
    Yet he needed one further clarification. Could he possibly
call Mrs. Vasile Cozzo at that hour? She had told him
that every evening the housekeeper, after giving her dinner,
    would help her undress and put her in the wheelchair. But
even if she was ready for bed, she didnt turn in immediately;
she would watch television late into the night. She
could move from the wheelchair to the bed, and vice versa,
by herself.
    Signora, its unforgivable, I know.
    Not at all, Inspector, not at all! I was awake, watching a
movie.
    Well, signora. You told me the dark young man sometimes
used to read or write. Do you know what it was he
read? Or wrote? Could you tell?
    He used to read newspapers and letters. And he would
write letters. But he didnt use the typewriter that was