The Snack Thief (14 page)

Oh yeah? The kid recognized his uncle, did he? How
about that!

And he would have brought the first forkful to his

mouth. But he couldnt. He had to dive in and butt his head
against it. The instinct of the hunt, it was once called by
Dashiell Hammett, who understood these things well.

Wheres the photo? asked Nicol soon as Montalbano
walked in.

It was the one of Karima and her son.

Do you want me to frame the whole thing? Or just a
detail?

As is.

Nicolto left the room, then soon returned without
the photograph and sat himself comfortably down.

Tell me everything. But most of all, tell me about the
snack thief, which Pippo Ragonese thinks is bullshit but I
dont.

I havent got the time, Nicolelieve me.

No, I dont believe you. Question: was the boy stealing
snacks the one in the photo you just gave me?

He was dangerously intelligent, this Nicoletter play
along.

Yes, thats him.

And whos the mother?

Shes someone who was definitely involved in the murder
the other dayyou know, the guy found in the elevator.
But no more questions. As soon as I manage to make some
sense of this, youll be the first to know, I promise.

Could you tell me at least what Im supposed to say
about the photo?

Right, of course. Your tone should be that of somebody
telling a sad, sorrowful story.

So youre a director now?

You should say that an elderly Tunisian woman came to
you in tears, begging you to show that photo on TV. Shes
had no news of either mother or child for three days. Their
names are Karima and Frans. Anyone whos seen them,
etcetera, anonymity guaranteed, etcetera, should call Vig
police headquarters, etcetera.

Up yours, etcetera, said Nicolto.

Back home, Livia went immediately to bed, bringing the kid
along with her. Montalbano, on the other hand, stayed up,
waiting for the midnight news report. Nicold what he
was supposed to do, keeping the photo on-screen as long as
possible. When the program was over, the inspector called to
thank him.

Could you do me another favor?

Ive half a mind to charge you a fee. What do you
want?

Could you run the segment again tomorrow on the one

p.m. news? I dont think too many people saw it at this

hour.

Yes, sir!

He went into the bedroom, released Frans from

Livias embrace, picked the child up, took him into the living
room, and put him down to sleep on the sofa that Livia had
already made up. He then took a shower and got into bed.
Livia, though asleep, felt him beside her and nudged closer
with her back to him, pressing her whole body against him.

She had always liked to do it this way, half-asleep, in that
pleasant no-mans-land between the country of sleep and the
city of consciousness. This time, however, as soon as Montalbano
began to caress her, she moved away.

No. Frans might wake up.

For a moment, Montalbano stiffened, petrified. He
hadnt considered this other aspect of familial bliss.

He got up. Sleep, in any case, had abandoned him. On their
way back to Marinella, hed had something in mind that he
wanted to do, and now he remembered what it was.

Valente? Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you at home,
especially at this hour. I need to see you at once, its extremely
urgent. Would it be all right if I came to Maz tomorrow
morning, around ten?

Sure. Could you give me some

Its a complicated, confusing story. Im going purely on
a hunch. Its about that Tunisian who was killed.

Ben Dhahab.

Just for starters, his name was Ahmed Moussa.

Holy shit.

Exactly.

11

Theres not necessarily any connection, observed Vice-
Commissioner Valente after Montalbano had finished telling
his story.

If thats your opinion, then do me a big favor. Well
keep each to his own side: you go ahead and investigate why
the Tunisian used an assumed name, and Ill look for the reasons
for Lapras murder and Karimas disappearance. And
if we happen to cross paths along the way, well pretend we
dont know each other and wont even say hello. Okay?

Jesus! Why dont you fly straight off the handle!

Inspector Angelo Tomasino, a thirty-year-old with the
look of a bank teller, the kind who hand-counts five hundred
thousand lire in small bills ten times before handing them
over to you, threw down his ace, in support of his boss:

Anyway, its not necessarily true.

Whats not necessarily true?

That Ben Dhahab is an assumed name. His full name
might have been Ben Ahmed Dhahab Moussa. Who knows,
with these Arab names?

I wont bother you any longer, said Montalbano,
standing up.

His blood was boiling, and Valente, who had known him
a long time, realized this.

What should we do, in your opinion? he asked simply.

The inspector sat back down.

Find out, for example, who knew him here in Maz.
How he managed to sign on to that fishing boat. If his papers
were in order. Go search his living quarters. Do I have to tell
you to do these things?

No, said Valente. I just like to hear you say them.

He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and handed
it to Montalbano. It was a search warrant for the home of
Ben Dhahab, complete with stamp and signature.

This morning I woke up the judge at the crack of
dawn, Valente said, smiling. Care to come along for the
ride?

The widow Ernestina Locro, nPip was keen to point
out that she wasnt a landlady by profession. She did own, by
the grace of her dear departed, a catojo, that is, a little ground-
floor room that in its day had been a barbershop or, as they
say now, a hair salon, though whatever they say, it was certainly
not a salon. The gentlemen would see it soon enough,
and anyway, what need was there for that whatdoyoucallit,
that search warren? They had only to come and say, Signora
Pip this is how it is, and she wouldnt have made any trouble.
The only people who make trouble are the ones who got
something to hide, whereas she, well, as anyone in Maz
could testifyanyone except for the sons of bitches and

bastardsshed always led, and continued to lead, a clean life,
squeaky clean. What was the late Tunisian man like? Look,
gentlemen, on no account would she ever have rented a
room to an Africannot to one who was black as ink nor to
one whose skin dint look no different than a Mazareses.
Nothing doing. She was scared of those Africans. So why did
she rent the room to Ben Dhahab? He was so well-bred,
gentlemen! A real man of distinction, the likes of which you
dont find anymore, not even in Maz. Yes, sir, he spoke
Talian, or least managed to get his point across most of the
time. He even showed her his passport

Just a second, said Montalbano.

Just a minute, said Valente at the same time.

Yessirs, his passport. All in order. Written the way the
Arabs write, and there were even words written in a foreign
language. Ingrish? Frinch? Dunno. The photograph matched.
And if the gentlemen really, really wanted to know, shed
even filed an official rental statement, as required by law.

When did he arrive, exactly? Valente asked.

Exactly ten days ago.

And in ten days hed had enough time to settle in, find
work, and get killed.

Did he tell you how long he planned to stay? Montalbano
asked.

Another ten days. But...

But?

Well, he wanted to pay me for a whole month in advance.

And how much did you ask of him?

I asked him straightaway for nine hundred thousand.
But you know what Arabs are like, they bargain and bargain,
and so I was ready to come down to, I dunno, six hundred,
five hundred thousand...But the man didnt even let me
finish. He just put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a roll of
bills as fat as the belly of a bottle, took off the rubber band
holding em together, and counted out nine one-hundred-
thousand-lire bills.

Give us the key and explain a little better where this
place is, Montalbano cut in. The Tunisians good breeding
and distinction, in the eyes of the widow Locro, were concentrated
in that roll of bills as fat as the belly of a bottle.

Gimmeaminutetoget readyand Illcomewithyou.

No, signora, you stay here. Well bring the key back
to you.

A rusty iron bed, a wobbly table, an armoire with a piece
of plywood in place of the mirror, three wicker chairs. A
small bathroom with toilet and sink, and a dirty towel;
and on a shelf, a razor, a can of shaving cream, and a comb.
They went back into the single room. There was a blue
canvas suitcase on a chair. They opened it: empty.

Inside the armoire, a new pair of trousers, a dark, very
clean jacket, four pairs of socks, four pairs of briefs, six
handkerchiefs, two undershirts: all brand new, not yet worn.
In one corner of the armoire was a pair of sandals in good

condition; in the opposite corner, a small plastic bag of dirty
laundry. They emptied it onto the floor: nothing unusual.
They stayed about an hour, searching everywhere. When
theyd lost all hope,Valente got lucky. Not hidden, but clearly
dropped and left wedged between the iron headboard and
the bed, was a Rome-Palermo plane ticket, issued ten days
earlier and made out to Mr. Dhahab. So Ahmed had arrived
in Palermo at ten oclock in the morning, and two hours
later, at the most, he was in Maz. To whom had he turned
to find a place to rent?

Did Montelusa send you the personal effects along with
the body?

Of course, replied Valente. Ten thousand lire.

Passport?

No.

What about all that money he had?

If he left it here, Im sure the signora took care of it. The
one who leads a squeaky-clean life.

He didnt even have his house keys in his pocket?

Not even. How do I have to say it? Should I sing it? He
had ten thousand lire and nothing else.

Summoned by Valente, Master Rahman, an elementary-
school teacher who looked like a pure Sicilian and served as
an unofficial liaison between his people and the Mazarese authorities,
arrived in ten minutes.

Montalbano had met him the year before, when involved
in the case later dubbed the terra-cotta dog.

Were you in the middle of a lesson? asked Valente.

In an uncommon show of good sense, a school principal
in Maz, without involving the superintendency, had allowed
some classrooms to be used to create a school for the
local Tunisian children.

Yes, but I called in a substitute. Is there a problem?

Perhaps you could help clarify something for us.

About what?

About whom, rather. Ben Dhahab.

They had decided,Valente and Montalbano, to sing only
half the Mass to the schoolteacher. Afterwards, depending on
his reactions, they would determine whether or not to tell
him the whole story.

Upon hearing that name, Rahman made no effort to
hide his uneasiness.

What would you like to know?

It was up to Valente to make the first move; Montalbano
was only a guest.

Did you know him?

He came and introduced himself to me about ten days
ago. He knew who I was and what I represent. You see, last
January or thereabouts, a Tunis newspaper published an article
on our school.

And what did he say to you?

He said he was a journalist.

Valente and Montalbano exchanged a very quick glance.

He wanted to do a feature on the lives of our countrymen
in Maz. But he intended to present himself to everyone
as somebody looking for a job. He also wanted to sign

on with a fishing boat. I introduced him to my colleague El
Madani. And he put him in touch with Signora Pipabout
renting a room.

Did you ever see him again?

Of course. We ran into each other a few times by
chance. We also were both at the same festival. He had become,
well, perfectly integrated.

Was it you who set him up with the fishing boat?

No. It wasnt El Madani, either.

Who paid for his funeral?

We did. We have a small emergency fund that we set up
for such things.

And who gave the TV reporters the photos and information
on Ben Dhahab?

I did. You see, at that festival I mentioned, there was a
photographer. Ben Dhahab objected; he said he didnt want
anyone taking his picture. But the man had already taken
one. And so, when the TV reporter showed up, I got hold of
that photo and gave it to him, along with the bit of information
Ben Dhahab had told me about himself.

Rahman wiped away his sweat. His uneasiness had increased.
And Valente, who was a good cop, let him stew in his
juices.

But theres something strange in all this, Rahman decided.

Montalbano and Valente seemed not even to have heard
him, looking as if their minds were elsewhere. But in fact
they were paying very close attention, like cats that, keeping
their eyes closed as if asleep, are actually counting the stars.

Yesterday I called the newspaper in Tunis to tell them
about the incident and to make arrangements for the body.
As soon as I told the editor that Ben Dhahab was dead, he
started laughing and said my joke wasnt very funny: Ben
Dhahab was in the room right next to his at that very moment,
on the telephone. And then he hung up.

Couldnt it simply be a case of two men with the same
name? Valente asked provocatively.

Absolutely not! He was very clear with me! He specifically
said hed been sent by that newspaper. He therefore lied
to me.

Do you know if he had any relatives in Sicily? Montalbano
stepped in for the first time.

I dont know, we never talked about that. If hed had
any in Maz, he certainly wouldnt have turned to me for
help.

Valente and Montalbano again consulted each other
with a glance, and Montalbano, without speaking, gave his
friend the go-ahead to fire the shot.