Free The Patience of the Spider by Andrea Camilleri Page B

that his wife felt sick in the
car on her way to Vig and called him on her cell phone for
help, or that his son got hit by a car . . . something like that.
Susanna feels she cant refuse, so she has him get on the back
of her bike and sets out. And in this case as well, we have an
explanation for the positioning of the motorbike. Another
possibility . . .
    Montalbano suddenly broke off.
    Why dont you go on?
    Because Im bored. Dont kid yourself: It doesnt matter
that much exactly what happened.
    It doesnt?
    No, because, if you think about it . . . The more we examine
the details that seem essential to us, the fuzzier, the more out-
of-focus they become. Take you, for example. Didnt you come
to me to find out what ever happened to Susannas helmet?
    Her helmet? Yes.
    As you can see, the more our discussion progressed, the
more the helmet receded into the background. In fact it became
so unimportant that we stopped talking about it. The
real question is not the how, but the why.
    Francesco was opening his mouth to ask another question
when the door burst open and crashed loudly against the wall,
sending him flying out of his chair in fear.
    What was that? he asked.
    My and slipped, Catarella said contritely from the
doorway.
    What is it? Montalbano asked in turn.
    Seeing as how you said you dint wanna be disturbed by
any disturbers, I hadda come ax you a question in poisson.
    Go ahead.
    Is Mr. Zito the newsman one of them that youda call
disturbers, an if he int, int he?
    No, hes no disturbance. Put him on.
    Hi, Salvo, its Nicolorry to interrupt, but I wanted to
tell you I just came into my office
    What the hell do I care what your work hours are? Tell it
to your employer.
No, Salvo, this is serious. I just got in and my secretary
told me that ...well, itsabout that girl who waskidnapped.
    Okay, tell me what she said.
    No, Id rather you came here.
    Ill drop by as soon as I can.
    No, right now.
    Montalbano hung up, stood up, and shook Francescos hand.
    The Free Channel, the private television station where NicolZito worked, had their studios in an outlying district of Montelusa.
As he was driving there in his car, the inspector tried to
guess what could have happened that would make his journalist
friend so anxious to tell him about it. And he guessed right.
Nicols waiting for him at the entrance to the building,
and as soon as he saw Montalbanos car pull up, he went out to
greet him. He looked upset.
    What is it?
    This morning, right after the secretary came in to work,
there was an anonymous phone call. A man asked her if we
had the equipment to record a telephone call and she said yes.
He told her to get it all ready, because he was going to call
back in five minutes. Which he did.
    They went into Nicoloffice. On his desk was a
portable but professional-looking tape recorder. The journalist
turned it on. As hed anticipated, Montalbano heard the exact
same recording hed heard at the Mistretta home, not one
word more or less.
    Its scary. That poor girl . . . said Zito.
Then he asked:
Did the Mistrettas get this call? Or do the bastards want
    us to act as go-betweens?
They called late last night.
Zito breathed a sigh of relief.
Well, Im glad for that. But then why did they also send
    it to us?
    Ive got a very good idea why, said Montalbano. The
kidnappers want everyone, not just the father, to know that
the girl is in their hands. Normally a kidnapper has everything
to gain from silence. These guys, however, are doing everything
under the sun to make noise. They want the sound of
Susanna begging for help to scare as many people as possible.
    Why?
Thats the big question.
So what do I do now?
If you want to play their game, then broadcast the phone
    call.
Its not my job to help criminals.
Good for you! Ill make sure to carve those noble words
    on your tombstone.
Youre such an asshole, said Zito, grabbing his crotch.
Well, then,