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fertile imagination, when in fact he was innocent as Christ.
    In scarcely an hour's time he made his house look like a place that had been visited by skillful, conscientious burglars. Drawers pulled completely out of his desk, the papers inside strewn across the floor, next to books half opened, skimmed and abused. In the bedroom both night tables were thrown wide open, ditto the armoire and dresser, their contents scattered over the bed and the chairs. Montalbano looked and kept on looking, and finally became convinced that never in a million years would he succeed in finding what he was searching for. Then, just when he'd given up hope, inside a box in the dresser's bottom drawer, next to a photo of his mother, who'd died before an image of the living person could form in his memory, together with a photo of his father and a few of his rare letters, Montalbano found the envelope sent to him by the notary, opened it, took out the document, read it, reread it, went out of the house, got in his car, remembered that in one of the first buildings at the edge of Vigata there was a tobacco shop with a photocopier, copied the document, got back in his car, went home, took fright at the shambles he'd made of his house, started looking for a sheet of paper and an envelope, cursing all the while, found these, sat down at his desk, and wrote:
     
    Esteemed Commissioner of Vigata Police,
    Given that you are inclined to lending an ear to anonymous letters, I won't sign this one. Enclosed herewith is a copy of a receipt from the notary Giulio Carlentini, clarifying the position of Inspector Salvo Montalbano. The original is of course in the possession of the present writer and may be viewed upon polite request.
    Signed,
    a friend
     
    He got back in his car, went to the post office, sent the letter registered mail with return receipt requested, left, leaned over to open his car door, and froze in that position like somebody suddenly seized by one of those violent back spasms that, at the slightest move, stab you like a knife, and all y ou can do is stand perfectl y still in the hope that some miracle might, at least momentarily, make the pain go away. What had made the inspector blanch was the sight of a woman pas sing by at that moment, apparentl y on her way to a nearby delicatessen. It was none other than Mariastella Cosentino, vestal of the temple of ragioniere Gargano. Having closed up the agency at the end of the afternoon shift, she was buying groceries before going home. The sight of Mariastella Co sentino had brought to mind a ch illing thought, followed by an even more chilling question: What if, by some terrible luck, the notary had invested Francois's money with Gargano's firm? If so, the cash by now had already evaporated and headed towards the South Seas, which meant not only that the kid would never see a lira of his mother's estate, but also that he, Montalbano, after having just sent that taunting letter to the commissioner, would have an awfully hard time explaining the money's disappearance. Try as he might to say he had nothing to do with it, the commissioner would never believe him. At the very least he would think the inspector had plotted with the notary to split the poor orphan's five hundred million lire.
    He managed to rouse himself, opened the car door, and sped off, screeching the tyres the way policemen and imbeciles often do, in the direction of the notary Carlen tini's office. There, he raced up two flights of stairs, getting winded in the process. The door was closed, and outside was a small sign posting the office hours. It was an hour after closing time, but somebody might still be inside. He rang the doorbell and, just to be sure, knocked as well. Barely had the door begun to open when he burst through it with a violence worthy of Catarella. The girl who had come to the door jumped back, terrified.
    ‘ What ... what do you want? Please ... please don t hurt me.'
    She was obviously convinced the man