Free Rounding the Mark by Andrea Camilleri Page A

her?”

6
    Seen in the light of day, Riguccio was pale and unshaven, with bags under his eyes. Montalbano got worried.
    “Are you sick?”
    “I’m tired. My men and I can’t take it anymore. Every night there’s another boatload, every night another twenty to one hundred and fifty illegals. The commissioner’s gone to Rome just to explain the situation and ask for more men. Good luck! He’ll return with a lot of sweet promises. What do you want?”
    When Montalbano told him about the disappearance of the black woman and her three kids, Riguccio didn’t make a sound. He merely looked up from the papers piled up on his desk and stared at the inspector.
    “Take your time, while you’re at it,” the inspector blurted out.
    “And in your opinion, what should I do?” Riguccio snapped back.
    “Bah, I dunno, do a search, send out a bulletin . . .”
    “Have you got something against these wretched people?”
    “Me?!”
    “Yeah, you. Seems to me you want to hound them.”
    “Hound them? Me? You’re the one who agrees with this government!”
    “Not always. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Listen, Montalbà: I’m someone who goes to church on Sunday because I believe in it. End of story. Now let me tell you how things went the other night, because it wasn’t the first time. That woman, you see, took you all for a ride, you, the ambulance men—”
    “You mean she faked that fall?”
    “Oh yes. It was all an act. She wanted to go the emergency room, where they can basically come and go as they please.”
    “But why? Did she have something to hide?”
    “Probably. In my opinion, she was part of some kind of family reunion outside the law.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Her husband is almost certainly an illegal who nevertheless managed to find work on the local black market. And he probably summoned his family here, with the help of people who make money from this kind of thing. If the woman had gone through the proper procedures, she would have had to declare that her husband was an illegal immigrant in Italy. And with the new law they would have all been kicked out of the country. So they took a shortcut.”
    “I see,” said the inspector.
    He pulled the three slabs of chocolate out of his jacket pocket and laid them on Riguccio’s desk.
    “I bought them for those little kids,” he muttered.
    “I’ll give them to my son,” said Riguccio, putting them in his pocket.
    Montalbano gave him an uncomprehending look. He knew that his colleague, after six years of marriage, had given up hope of having a child. Riguccio understood what was going through his head.
    “Teresa and I managed to adopt a little boy from Burundi. Oh, I almost forgot. Here are the glasses.”
     
 
Catarella was puttering away at the computer, but the moment he saw the inspector, he dropped everything and ran up to him.
    “Ah, Chief, Chief!” he began.
    “What were you doing at the computer?” Montalbano asked.
    “Oh, that? I’s workin onna idinnification Fazio axed me to do. Of the dead guy who was swimmin when you was swimmin.”
    “Good. What did you want to tell me?”
    Catarella got flustered and stared at his shoes.
    “Well?” asked Montalbano.
    “Beggin’ pardon, Chief, I forgot.”
    “That’s all right, when it comes back to you—”
    “It’s back, Chief! Pontius Pilate called again! And so I tol’ him as how you tol’ me to tell him that you’s meeting with Mr. Caiphas and Sam Hedrin, but he made as like he din’t unnastand, and so he tol’ me to tell you as how he got something he gotta tell you.”
    “Okay, Cat. If he calls back, tell him to tell you what he has to tell me, so you can tell me yourself.”
    “Chief, sorry, but I’m curious ’bout something. Wasn’t Pontius Pilate the guy?”
    “What guy?”
    “The guy that washed ’is hands inni olden days?”
    “Yes.”
    “So he was the ansister of this guy that called?”
    “When he calls back, you can ask him yourself. Is Fazio