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before her was a robber. She had turned deathly pale.
    ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you’ said Montalbano. ‘ I have no reason to hurt you. Montalbano's the name.'
    'Oh, how silly of me’ the girl said. ‘ I remember you now. I saw you once on television. Please come in.'
    'Is Mr Carlentini here?' the inspector asked, following her inside.
    ‘ You haven't heard?'
    'Haven't heard what?' said Montalbano, becoming even more distressed.
    ‘ Poor Mr Carlentini—'
    ‘ Is dead?' Montalbano howled, as if she'd just informed him that the person he loved most in the world had died. The girl looked at him with mild stupefaction. 'No, he isn't dead. He had a stroke. He's recovering.' 'But can he speak? Can he remember things?' 'Of course.'
    'How can I talk to him?'
    ‘N ow?'
    ‘Now! '
    The girl glanced at her watch.
    'Maybe there's still time. He's at Santa Maria Hospital in Montelusa.'
    She went into a room full of papers, folders, dossiers, and binders, dialled a number, and asked for Room 114. Then she said:
    'Giulio—' But she interrupted herself. It was a well-known fact that the notary never let a pretty one get away. And the young woman on the phone was thirtyish and tall, with long black hair down to the small of her back and beautiful legs.
    'Mr Carlentini’ she continued. Inspector Montalbano's here at the office and would like to speak with you ... OK? I'll talk to you later’
    She handed the phone to Montalbano and discreedy left the room
    'Hello, Mr Carlentini? Montalbano here. I just wanted a little information from you. Do you remember, a few years back, I turned over to you a passbook account for five hundred million lire ... ? Oh, so you do remember? I'm asking you because I was worried you might have inv ested the money with Mr Gargano’s firm and so ... No, no, please don't be offended ... no, of course not, I didn't mean ... As you can imagine, I ... OK, OK, I'm very sorry. And get well soon.'
    He hung up. The notary, at the mere mention of Gargano's name, had taken offence.
    'Do you think I would be so stupid as to trust in a crook like Gargano? ’ he had said.
    Francois's money was safe.
    Still, as he was getting in his car to go to the station, Montalbano swore he would make ragioniere Gargano pay, dearly and in full, for the terrible fright he'd given him.
     
    FOUR
     
    But he never made it to the station, for on the way there he determined he'd had a rough day and therefore deserved a consolation prize. He'd heard vague mention of a trattoria that had opened a few months back about six miles past Montelusa, off the provincial road to Giardina, where the food was supposed to be good. He even remembered the name, Giugiu 'u Carritte ri, that is, 'Giugiu the Carter'. After failing four times to find the right road, and at the very moment he'd decided to turn back and put in yet another appearance at the Trattoria San Calogero — since meanwhile he was getting more and m ore ravenous — he saw in the beam of the headlights a sign for the restaurant, a hand-painted piece of wood attached to a lamppost. After five minutes of authentic dirt road of the sort that no longer exists — all pits and rocks — he finally arrived, though for a moment he suspected it might all be a hoax on the part of Giugiu, who was probably only pretending to be a carter when he was actually a rally driver.
    Still feeling suspicious, he was hardl y convinced by the secluded littl e white house he came to. Poorly whitewashed and with no neon sign, it consisted of a single, ground-floor room with another room on top. A dim, depressing light filtered out through the two windows on the bottom floor. Surely the final touch on the hoax. There were two cars in the parking area. He got out and hesitated, feeling indecisive. He didn't want the evening to end with food poisoning. He tried to remember who it was that had recommended the place to him, and it finally came back to him: Assistant Inspector Lindt, the son of a Swiss couple