Free A Voice in the Night by Andrea Camilleri

the ashtray ends up under the desk. Make sense to you?’
    ‘Makes sense.’
    ‘Listen, put the butt and the empty book of matches in a plastic bag. They might turn out to be important.’
    As Fazio was doing this, Montalbano suddenly thought of something else. ‘So where’d the mobile end up?’
    ‘What mobile?’
    ‘Borsellino’s.’
    ‘But did he have one?’
    ‘Of course he did. I distinctly remember that the first time I came here, he had it in his hand.’
    ‘Search the drawers carefully.’
    Montalbano reopened the middle one and stuck his hand all the way to the back. Pens, pencils, envelopes, letterhead paper, stamps, boxes of paper clips, rubber bands.
    He opened the right-hand drawer. Just the computer.
    He opened the left-hand drawer. Receipts, shipping forms, account books.
    No mobile.
    ‘Maybe the killers took it,’ said Fazio.
    ‘Or maybe he left it at home when he went back to eat and change his shirt.’
    ‘It’s possible,’ said Fazio.
    ‘And do you know what this means?’
    ‘That we have to go to Borsellino’s house,’ sighed Fazio, resigned.
    ‘Right on the money, Fazio. Put everything back in the jacket pockets and let’s go.’
    As Fazio was putting the wallet back, he gave a little cry.
    ‘What is it?’ the inspector asked.
    ‘Maybe the mobile’s here in the inside pocket. I forgot to look before.’
    Fazio stuck two fingers in the specially made pocket and pulled out something that wasn’t a mobile. It was an object shorter and fatter than a thermometer, but it wasn’t a
thermometer, because it was made of metal.
    ‘What is it?’ the inspector asked.
    ‘Come on, Chief, you’ve seen hundreds of these things at press conferences! The journalists use them!’
    ‘But what are they for?’
    ‘They’re digital recorders that you hook up to your computer. They’re very sensitive and have large memories. But I don’t know what they’re called.’
    ‘Let me see it.’
    Fazio handed it to him, and Montalbano slipped it into his pocket.
    ‘You know what I say? All things considered, let’s take the computer too.’
    Fazio rifled through the open drawer and after a few moments said:
    ‘I’m ready.’
    They went out of the office and straight into total darkness.
    ‘Chief,’ said Fazio, ‘walk behind me with your hands on my shoulders. That way we won’t do a repeat of before.’
    Nobody saw them come out of the supermarket.
    And they didn’t run into anyone on their way to the car.
    *
    As they drew near to Borsellino’s place, Fazio again parked in a nearby street, but not too close. By now, however, it was the middle of the night, and the only souls
about were a couple of dogs and three cats squabbling near a rubbish bin. Before getting out of the car, Fazio took two torches and gave one to the inspector.
    ‘Borsellino lived on the fifth floor,’ he said as they headed off.
    ‘Is there a lift?’ Montalbano asked, worried.
    ‘Yes there is. What should we do?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Should we go up to the sixth floor and come down one, or to the fourth and go up one?’
    ‘I like the first one better,’ said the inspector.
    Fazio opened the building’s main door as if he’d always lived there himself. But at the door to the apartment, he had some trouble.
    ‘What’s the matter?’
    The key refused to go into the lock.
    He tried again.
    ‘What is this?’ he said under his breath. ‘Just a few hours ago it opened just fine!’
    At last he succeeded, and they went in and shut the door behind them. They turned on their torches.
    The apartment consisted of a small entranceway, four rooms off a central corridor, two bathrooms, and a kitchen. Apparently Borsellino, since his wife’s death, had not had any other women
living with him. The place was in perfect order.
    The mobile was neither in the bedroom nor in the dining or living room. Nor in the kitchen or bathroom.
    The last room was a sort of study.
    There was a desk identical to the one in the