9
They got up. In the salons they encountered barely
ten people.
A few of them lay sprawled out in armchairs, half
asleep. Since it wasn’t very late, the soup and putrid mullets must
have had an effect somewhere between food poisoning and heaviness
in the stomach.The courtyard had already nearly been emptied of
automobiles.
They walked the three hundred yards of road until
they saw Ingrid’s car, now alone, parked under an almond tree. But
there was no sign of the ex-con in the vicinity. He had thought,
however, to leave the keys in the car door.
Since it was night and there was little traffic,
Ingrid felt entitled to drive at an average speed of about ninety
mph. What’s more, when she passed a tractor-trailer on a curve with
another car fast approaching head-on, Montalbano, in that instant,
was able to read his own obituary in the newspaper. This time,
however, he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of telling her
to slow down.
Ingrid wasn’t talking. She was driving alertly,
tongue pressed between her lips, but it was clear she was not in
her usual good mood. She didn’t open her mouth until Marinella came
into view.
“Did Rachele get what she wanted?” she began
brutally.
“Thanks to your help.”
“What do you mean?”
“That you and Rachele had agreed on a plan, perhaps
when you were changing for dinner. She probably told you she would
like—how shall I put it?—to taste me. And you cleared out,
inventing some Giogiò who never existed. Am I right?”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”
“So then what’s wrong?”
“I’m having a belated attack of jealousy,
okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. It’s illogical.”
“I’ll leave the logic to you. I have a different
way of thinking.”
“Namely?”
“Salvo, the fact is that with me you play the
saint, and with other women—”
“But it was you who acted as my sponsor for
Rachele, I am sure of it!”
“Your sponsor?!”
“Yes, ma’am! ‘You know, Rachele, Montalbano’s
cassata is the best there is! Try and see for yourself!’
”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
They pulled up at his house. Montalbano got out of
the car without saying goodbye. Ingrid, too, got out, and planted
herself in front of him.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked.
“At you, at me, at Rachele, at all of
creation!”
“Just listen for a second. Let’s be frank, Salvo.
It’s true that Rachele asked me if she could give it a go, and I
cleared out. But it’s equally true that, when you were alone with
her, she hardly pointed a gun at you and forced you to do what she
wanted. She asked you, in her way, and you consented. You could
have said no, and that would have been the end of that.You have no
right to be mad at me or Rachele. Only at yourself.”
“Okay, but—”
“Let me finish. I also understand what you meant by
your cassata. What, did you want feeling? Did you want a
declaration of love? Did you want Rachele to whisper passionately
to you: ‘I love you, Salvo.You’re the only person in the world I
love’? Did you want deep feelings for an excuse, so you could have
your quickie and feel less guilty? Rachele, quite honestly, offered
you—wait, how shall I put it?—ah, yes: she offered you a deal. And
you accepted.”
“Yes, but—”
“And you want to know something else? You
disappointed me a little.”
“Why?”
“I really thought you would be able to handle
Rachele. And now that’s enough. I apologize for the rant. Good
night.”
“I apologize, too.”
The inspector waited for Ingrid to leave, waved
goodbye, then turned, opened the door, flicked on the light, went
inside, and froze.
The burglars had turned the house upside
down.
After spending half an hour trying to put
everything back in its proper place, he lost heart. Without
Adelina’s help, he would never manage. He might as well leave
things just as they were. It was almost one o’clock in the morning,
but sleep was the last thing on his mind.The burglars had forced
open the French door on the veranda, and it must not have even
required much effort, because when Ingrid had come by to pick him
up, he had forgotten to lock the dead bolt. A thrust of the
shoulder had sufficed to open it.
He went into the utilities closet where the
housekeeper kept the things she needed, and he noticed that they
had carefully searched even there. The tool drawer had been opened,
its contents scattered across the floor. At last he found the
hammer, screwdriver, and three or four small screws. But the moment
he tried to fix the lock on the French door, he realized he really
did need glasses.
But how could he have never noticed before that his
vision was faulty? His mood, already dark because of Rachele and
the lovely surprise he had come home to, turned even darker, black
as ink. All at once he remembered that in the drawer of the
nightstand was a pair of glasses of his father’s that had been sent
to him together with the watch.
He went into the bedroom and opened the drawer.The
envelope with the money was still in its place, as was the glasses’
case.
But he also found something he hadn’t expected to
find. The watch had been put back.
He put on the glasses and his vision immediately
improved. He went back into the dining room and started fixing the
lock.
The burglars—who, it was clear, should no longer be
called that—hadn’t stolen anything. Indeed, they had even given
back what they had taken during their first visit.
And this was a clear, indeed unscrambled, message:
Dear Montalbano,We did not break into your house to rob you, but
to look for something.
Had they found it, after a search more thorough
than anything he’d ever seen the police do? And what could it
be?
A letter? But at home he didn’t have any
correspondence that might matter to anyone.
A document? Something written that had something to
do with an investigation? But he very rarely brought any paperwork
home with him and, anyway, he always brought it back to the station
the following day.
Whatever the case, the conclusion was that, if they
hadn’t found it, then surely they would be back again for another
go-round even more devastating than the last one.
His little repair job on the French door seemed to
him to have come out well. He opened and closed it twice, and the
spring-lock seemed to work.
“See? When you retire, you can devote yourself
to little household chores like this,” said Montalbano
One.
He pretended not to have heard. The night air had
brought with it the scent of the sea and, as a result, whetted his
appetite. During the preceding day he’d eaten hardly anything at
lunchtime, and in the evening only two spoonfuls of the
hydrochloric acid soup. He opened the refrigerator: green olives,
black passuluna olives, caciocavallo cheese, anchovies. The bread
was a bit hard but still edible. There was no lack of wine. He put
together a nice platter of what he had and took it out onto the
veranda.
Clearly the burglars—for the moment we’ll keep
calling them that, he said to himself—must have taken a great
deal of time to be able to search the house as they had done. Did
they know he was out of town and wouldn’t be back until late at
night? And if they did, that meant someone had informed them. But
who knew he was going to Fiacca that evening? Only Ingrid and
Rachele.
Wait a second, Montalbano, don’t start running
with this, or you’re liable to trip and fall onto a pile of
bullshit.
The simplest explanation was that they were keeping
an eye on him. And the moment they saw him leave, they had forced
open the French door in broad daylight. Besides, who would have
been on the beach at that hour? Then they went inside and had the
rest of the afternoon to work in peace.
Hadn’t they done the same thing the first time?
They had waited for him to go out to buy whisky, and then gone
inside.Yes, they were keeping an eye on him. Spying on him.
And it was possible that even now, as he was eating
his olives and bread, they were watching him. Shit, what a pain in
the ass!
He felt deeply disturbed to know that his every
movement was being observed by people unknown. He hoped they had
found what they were looking for, so they could stop breaking his
balls.
Having finished eating, he got up, took the plate,
cutlery, bottle, and glass into the kitchen, locked the French
door, congratulating himself on his repair job, and went to take a
shower.As he was washing himself, a few blades of straw fell from
his head to his feet, before they were swallowed up by the small
whirlpool around the drain.
He woke up to the screams of Adelina, who came
running into his bedroom, scared out of her wits.
“O matre di dio! O madunnuzza santa! Wha’
happen?”
“Burglars, Adelì.”
“Burglars in you’ house, sir?”
“So it seems.”
“Wha’d they steal?”
“Nothing. Actually, do me a favor. As you’re
putting things back in order, check and see if anything’s
missing.”
“Okay.You wanna some coffee?”
“Of course.”
He drank it in bed. And, still in bed, he smoked
his first cigarette.
Then he went into the bathroom, got dressed, and
returned to the kitchen for a second cup.
“Know what, Adelì? Yesterday evening, in Fiacca, I
had some soup and, I’m sorry to say, I’ve never tasted anything
quite like it.”
“Really, signore?” said Adelina, displeased.
“Really. I had them give me the recipe. Soon as I
can find it, I’ll read it for you.”
“Signore, I dunno if I gotta nuffa time a tidy uppa
you’ whole house.”
“That’s okay. Do as much as you can. You can finish
tomorrow.”
“Ah Chief, Chief! How’d ye spenn your
Sunday?”
“I went to see some friends in Fiacca.Who’s
here?”
“Fazio’s onna premisses. Should I oughta call
’im?”
“No, I’ll go get him.”
Fazio’s office was a room with two desks in it.The
second desk was supposed to be for an officer of the same rank who
had left five years ago and had never been replaced. “Shortage of
personnel,” the commissioner always replied whenever anyone
submitted a written request for a replacement.
Fazio stood up, perplexed to see the inspector come
in. It was rather rare for Montalbano to enter his room.
“Good morning, Chief. What’s up? Want me to come to
your office?”
“No. Since I want to report a crime, it’s up to me
to come to you.”
“Report a crime?” Fazio grew even more
perplexed.
“Yes. I want to report a breaking and entering and
burglary. Or rather, a breaking and entering and attempted
burglary. What’s certain is the breaking. Of my balls, that
is.”
“I haven’t understood a word, Chief.”
“Burglars broke into my house, in Marinella.”
“Burglars?”
“But they clearly weren’t burglars.”
“They weren’t burglars?”
“Listen, Fazio, either you stop repeating what I
say, or my mood is gonna go quickly south. Close your mouth, which
is still hanging open, and sit down.That way I can sit down, too,
and tell you the whole story.”
Fazio sat down stiff as a broomstick.
“So, one evening, Signora Ingrid comes to my house
and . . . ,” the inspector began, and he told him about the
burglars’ first entry and the disappearence of the watch.
“Well,” said Fazio, “it sounds to me like a robbery
by young punks needing to buy the next dose.”
“Wait, there’s a second part.This story comes in
installments. Yesterday afternoon, Signora Ingrid came by at three
in her car ...”
This time, when the inspector had finished, Fazio
remained silent.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“I was thinking. It’s clear that the first time,
they took the watch to make it look like they were burglars, but
they didn’t find what they were looking for. Since they had to come
back a second time, they decided to lay their cards on the table
and returned the watch. Maybe by giving back the watch they meant
to say that they’d found what they were looking for and won’t be
back.”
“But we don’t know that with any certainty. One
thing is certain, though: They’re in a hurry to find what they’re
looking for. And if they haven’t found it, they might try again,
even today, or to night,or to morrow,at the latest.”
“I just thought of something,” said Fazio.
“Out with it.”
“Are you pretty sure they’re spying on you?”
“Ninety percent.”
“What time does your housekeeper leave?”
“Around twelve-thirty, quarter to one.”
“Could you call her and tell her you’re going to
come home for lunch today?”
“Yeah, sure.Why?”
“That way, you go home and eat lunch so that nobody
can break in because you’re there.At three o’clock, I’ll come by
with the squad car. I’ll have the siren going and make a big
racket.You come running out, get in the car, and we’ll
leave.”
“Where to?”
“We’ll go visit the temples. If those guys are
keeping an eye on you, they’ll think I came to get you for an
emergency. And they’ll spring right into action.”
“So?”
“Well, the guys that are spying on you won’t know
that Galluzzo’s lurking nearby. In fact, I’ll send him there right
now and explain the situation to him.”
“No, no, Fazio, there’s no need—”
“Lemme tell you something, Chief. This whole thing
smells funny to me, and I don’t like it.”
“But do you know what they’re looking for?”
“What, you yourself don’t know, and you want
me to tell you?”
“When does the Giacomo Licco trial begin?”
“In about a week, I think.Why do you ask?”
Giacomo Licco had been arrested by Montalbano a
while back. He was a Mafia lightweight, a shakedown thug for the
protection racket. One day he shot at the legs of a shopkeeper who
had refused to pay up. Scared to death, the shopkeeper had always
maintained that it was a stranger who shot at him.The inspector,
however, had found considerable evidence pointing to Giacomo Licco.
The problem was that there was no telling how the trial would turn
out, and Montalbano would have to testify.
“It’s possible they’re not looking for anything.
Maybe it’s a warning: Watch what you say at the trial, because
we can go in and out of your house as we please.”
“That’s also possible.”
“Hello, Adelina?”
“Yes, signore.”
“What are you doing?”
“I tryinna putta house beck in orda.”
“Have you made something to eat?”
“I do that later.”
“Do it now. I’m coming home for lunch at
one.”
“Whatteva you say, sir.”
“What’d you get?”
“A coupla sole I gonna fry. An’ pasta witta
broccoli to start.”
Fazio came in.
“Galluzzo’s gone to Marinella. He knows a spot
where he can hide and keep an eye on your house from the sea
side.”
“All right. Listen, don’t talk about this with
anyone, not even Mimì.”
“Okay.”
“Have a seat. Is Augello in?”
“Yessir.”
The inspector picked up the phone.
“Catarella, tell Inspector Augello I’d like to see
him.”
Mimì showed up at once.
“Yesterday I went to Fiacca,” Montalbano
began,“where there was a horse race. Signora Esterman was one of
the people running in it, on a horse lent to her by Severio Lo
Duca. This same Lo Duca spoke to me at length. In his opinion, the
whole affair is a vendetta by a certain Gerlando Gurreri, a former
groom in his employ. Have you ever heard his name before?”
“Never,” Fazio and Augello said in a single
voice.
“Whereas we ought to know more about him.
Apparently he’s taken up with some crooks.You want to look into it,
Fazio?”
“All right.”
“Are you going to tell us what Lo Duca told you,
and in minute detail?” asked Mimì.
“Coming right up.”
“It’s not really such a far-fetched hypothesis”
was Mimì’s comment when the inspector had finished talking.
“I feel the same way,” said Fazio.
“But if Lo Duca is right,” said Montalbano,“do you
realize that the investigation ends here?”
“Why’s that?” asked Augello.
“Mimì, what Lo Duca told me, he has not told and
will never tell our colleagues in Montelusa. All they have is a
generic report of the theft of two horses.They don’t know that one
of them was bludgeoned to death, because we haven’t told them.
Besides, Signora Esterman never even filed a report with us. And Lo
Duca told me explicitly that he knew we were not in contact with
Montelusa on this issue. Therefore, whatever way you look at it, we
have no card in hand that tells us how to proceed.”
“And so?”
“And so there are at least two things we need to
do.The first is to find out more about Gerlando Gurreri. Mimì, you
reproached me for believing Signora Esterman’s story without
checking it out. Let’s try to check out what Lo Duca told me,
starting with his clubbing Gurreri in the head. Surely he must have
been treated in some hospital in Montelusa, no?”
“I get it,” said Fazio. “You want proof that Lo
Duca’s story is true.”
“Right.”
“Consider it done.”
“The second thing is that there’s one element of
particular importance in Lo Duca’s hypothesis. He told me that
nobody actually knows, at present, which of the two horses was
killed—whether it was his or Esterman’s. Lo Duca maintains this was
done to make him stew in his own juices for a while. But one thing
is certain, and that is that nobody really knows which horse it
was. Lo Duca also told me that his horse is called Rudy. Now, if
there is a photograph of this horse, and if Fazio and I could see
it . . .”
“I think I may know where to find one,” said Mimì,
who chuckled and then continued, “Certainly for somebody who’s
supposedly lost his wits, this Gurreri, based on what Lo Duca told
you, can think very clearly.”
“In what sense?”
“Well, first he kills Esterman’s horse to put Lo
Duca on tenterhooks concerning his own horse’s fate, and then he
phones Esterman so that Lo Duca can no longer hide from her the
fact that her horse was stolen . . . To me he sounds sharp as a
knife, this guy, and not like some poor brainless bastard!”
“I pointed that out to Lo Duca,” said
Montalbano.
“And what’d he say?”
“He said that most probably Gurreri is being
advised by some of his accomplices.”
“Hmph,” said Mimì.