The Potter's Field (14 page)

Like Judas's thirty pieces of silver.

He could no longer stand the heat inside the house. He got dressed, put on a heavy jacket, and went out on the veranda to think.

That they had a Mafia murder on their hands he had become convinced from the moment Pasquano told him the stranger had been killed with one shot to the base of the skull. A typical procedure that connected, with an invisible thread, the worst kind of criminal cruelty with certain methods sanctioned by time-honored military custom.

But here something else was emerging.

Whoever killed the stranger was purposely providing the inspector with precise information as to the whys and wherefores of the killing itself.

Meanwhile, this murder had been committed, or ordered—which amounted to the same thing—by someone who still operated in observance of the rules of the “old” Mafia.

Why?

The answer was simple: Because the new Mafia fired their guns pell-mell and in every direction, at old folks and kids, wherever and whenever, and never deigned to give a reason or explanation for what they did.

With the old Mafia, it was different. They explained, informed, and clarified. Not aloud, of course, or in print. No. But through signs.

The old Mafia were experts in semiology, the science of signs used to communicate.

Murdered with a thorny branch of prickly pear placed on the body?

We did it because he pricked us one too many times with his thorns and troubles.

Murdered with a rock inside his mouth?

We did it because he talked too much.

Murdered with both hands cut off?

We did it because we caught him with his hands in the cookie jar.

Murdered with his balls shoved into his mouth?

We did it because he was fucking someone he shouldn't have been.

Murdered with his shoes on his chest?

We did it because he wanted to run away.

Murdered with both eyes gouged out?

We did it because he refused to see the obvious.

Murdered with all his teeth pulled out?

We did it because he ate too much.

And so on merrily in this fashion.

For this reason, the meaning of the message was immediately clear to Montalbano: We killed him as he deserved, because he betrayed us for thirty pieces of silver, like Judas.

Thus the logical conclusion was that the murdered stranger was a mafioso, “executed” because he was a traitor. Which amounted, finally, to a first step forward.

Wait a second, Montalbà. Maybe you've been touched by divine Grace
.

Yes indeed. Because if the argument made sense, and boy did it ever make sense, it might be possible to get free of this case, to sidestep it with elegance.

In fact, if the victim was a mafioso, the matter might not be his concern anymore, but the Antimafia Commission's.

He cheered up. Yes, this was the right path to take. And, most importantly, it got rid of the troublesome question of Mimì.

First thing tomorrow morning, he would go to Montelusa to talk to Musante, a colleague in charge of local Mafia matters.

Meanwhile, however, he had to kill some time while waiting for Ingrid's phone call.

He played the only three versions of solitaire he knew, without cheating as he often did. He played over and over, without winning a single hand.

He went to his bookcase to fetch a book Livia had bought, titled
Solitaire for the Solitary
. The first version belonged to the category the author defined as the easiest. The inspector couldn't even understand how the cards were supposed to be set up. Then he played a game of chess against himself, changing places with each move, so that he would seem like a real opponent. Fortunately, it was a long match. But the opponent won with a brilliant move. And Montalbano felt upset with himself for having lost.

“Care for a rematch?” his adversary asked.

“No, thanks,” Montalbano replied to himself.

His opponent would probably have won the rematch, too.

Careful inspection, in front of the bathroom mirror, of a tiny little pimple beside his nose. Bitter acknowledgment of a certain amount of hair loss. Failed attempt at counting same (approximately, that is).

Second game of chess, also lost, resulting in hurling of various objects against the walls.

The phone call never came. Instead, around six o'clock in the morning—by which time, at the end of his rope, he had collapsed on his bed—he heard the sound of a car pulling up in the parking space in front of the house. He raced to open the door. It was Ingrid, half-frozen to death.

“Give me some steaming hot tea. I'm freezing.”

“But weren't you used to much colder—”

“I guess I'm not anymore.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I parked on a side street from where I could keep an eye on Mimì's front door. He came out at ten, got into his car, which was parked right in front, and drove off. He was very agitated.”

“How could you tell?”

“From the way he drove.”

“Here's your tea. Shall we go into the living room?”

“No. Let's stay in the kitchen. Would you believe that for a moment I thought he was coming to see you?”

“Why?”

“Because he was headed for Marinella. But then . . . You know where, just when you reach the seafront, there's a filling station on the right that's no longer in use?”

“Sure.”

“Well, a short way past the station, there's an unpaved road that goes up the hill. That's where he turned. I know that road because it leads up to some houses, including one that I've been to a few times. I had to keep fairly close behind his car because the road intersects with quite a few others that lead to the different houses. If he'd turned off the main road, it would have been hard to keep following him. But in fact he stopped in front of the fourth house on the right, got out, opened the gate, and went in.”

“And what did you do?”

“I continued on.”

“You passed behind him?”

“Yes, but he turned around.”

“Damn!”

“Calm down. There's no way he could have recognized me. I've only had my Micra for a week.”

“Yes, but you yourself are very—”

“Recognizable? Even with sunglasses and a great big hat à la Greta Garbo?”

“Let's hope you're right. Go on.”

“A little bit later I came back, but with the engine turned off. Mimì's car was in the yard. He'd gone inside.”

“Did you wait for the woman to arrive?”

“Of course. Until half an hour ago. I never saw her arrive.”

“So what does it mean?”

“Look, Salvo, when I drove past the house the first time, I swear I saw the light on inside. There was already someone there waiting for him.”

“You mean the woman lives there?”

“Not necessarily. Mimì left his car in the yard. He didn't put it in the little garage next to the house, maybe because the woman had already put her own car in it when she got there earlier.”

“But, Ingrid, the garage might have the woman's car in it not because she got there shortly before Mimì, but because she lives there.”

“That's also possible. At any rate, Mimì didn't knock or ring a bell when he arrived. He opened the gate with a key he already had.”

“Why didn't you wait a little longer?”

“Because too many people were starting to pass by.”

“Thanks,” said Montalbano.

“Thanks? That's all?” asked Ingrid.

“Thanks, and that's all,” said Montalbano.

Before leaving the house just before nine o'clock, the inspector phoned the Antimafia Commission's Montelusa office.

“Hello, Musante? Montalbano here.”

“
Carissimo!
What a pleasure to hear from you! What can I do for you?”

“Could I drop by this morning? There's something I wanted to talk to you about, it shouldn't take long.”

“Could you come in about an hour? I've got a meeting afterwards that—”

“Thanks, see you in a bit.”

He got in his car, and when he was at the abandoned filling station, he did an extremely slow U-turn that unleashed the worst homicidal instincts in the drivers behind him.

“Asshole!”

“Faggot!”

“Blow you away, muthafucka!”

He turned onto the unpaved road, and after a short stretch passed by the fourth house. Windows shuttered, garage door down. The gate, however, was open because an old man was working in the garden, which was well tended. The inspector stopped, parked the car, got out, and started looking at the house.

“Looking for someone?” asked the old man.

“Yes. A Mr. Casanova, who's supposed to live here.”

“Afraid not, sir. You're mistaken. Nobody lives here.”

“But who owns the house?”

“Mr. Pecorini. But he only comes here in summertime.”

“Where can I find this Mr. Pecorini?”

“He's in Catania. Works at the port, at customs.”

He got back in the car and headed for the station. If he got to Montelusa five minutes late, too bad. He parked in the station's lot but remained in the car, pressed his hand on the horn and did not let up until Catarella appeared in the doorway.

Seeing the inspector in his car, he came running up.

“Whattizzit, Chief? Whass wrong?”

“Fazio around?”

“Yessir.”

“Call'im.”

Fazio arrived like a bat out of hell.

“Fazio, get moving, fast. I want to know everything there is to know about a certain Pecorini who works at customs in the port of Catania.”

“Should I proceed with caution, Chief?”

“Yeah, it's probably better if you do.”