The Potter's Field (25 page)

Is this what you've come looking for?
he asked himself as he rolled along the Enna to Catania autostrada at a snail's pace, driving to distraction all the other motorists unfortunate enough to be traveling the same route as he.
Do you think that seeing those mountains from afar, breathing that air from afar, will bring back the ingenuousness, the naivety, the enthusiasm of your first years with the police? Come on, Inspector, get serious; accept that what you've lost is gone forever.

He suddenly accelerated, leaving that landscape behind. The Catania–Messina autostrada wasn't too busy. And, in fact, he was able to board the twelve-thirty ferry across the Strait. Thus, since he had left home at seven, it had taken him five and a half hours to go from Vigàta to Messina. It would have taken somebody like Fazio, driving as he normally did, two hours less.

As soon as the ferryboat had passed the statue of the Blessed Virgin that wishes happiness and good health to all voyagers, and began to dance on the mildly choppy sea, the salty air stirred up a beastly hunger in Montalbano's stomach. The night before, he hadn't had a chance to eat anything. He quickly climbed a small staircase that led to the bar. On the counter was a small mountain of piping hot
arancini
. He bought two and went out onto the deck to eat them. Attacking the first, he reduced it by half with a single bite, and of this half, he swallowed a good portion. He realized his grave mistake at once. How could they call
arancini
these rice balls fried in hundred-year-old oil and cooked by a cook suffering from violent hallucinations? And how acidic the meat sauce was! He spit the rest of the
arancino
he still had in his mouth into the sea, and the remaining half and whole arancini met the same watery end. He went back to the bar and drank a beer to get rid of the nasty taste in his mouth. Later, as he was easing his car out of the ferryboat, that little bit of foul
arancino
, combined with the beer, bubbled up into his throat. The acid burned so badly that, without realizing it, he swerved and suddenly found himself sideways on the ramp, with the car's nose pointing out over the water.

“What the hell are you doing? What the hell are you doing?” yelled the sailor who was directing the disembarking vehicles.

Sweating all over, the inspector coaxed the car, one millimeter at a time, back into the proper position, while the eyes of the man driving the tractor trailer behind him seemed to say he was ready to slam him from behind and send him the fuck onto the dock or into the sea, take your pick.

At Villa San Giovanni he went and ate at a truckers' restaurant where he'd already been twice before. And this third time he was not disappointed either. After an hour and a half at table, that is, around three o'clock in the afternoon, he got back in his car and headed toward Gioia Tauro. He took the autostrada, and in a flash he was already past Bagnara. Continuing on the A3, he was about twenty kilometers from Gioia Tauro when he decided to take the final stretch nice and slow, looking for the bypass to Lido di Palmi. There was a bypass for Palmi, but not for Lido di Palmi. How could that be? He was sure he hadn't missed it and driven past it. He decided just to continue on to Gioia Tauro. Leaving the autostrada, he headed towards town and stopped at the first filling station he found.

“Listen, I need to go to Lido di Palmi. Should I take the autostrada?”

“The autostrada doesn't go there—or, rather, you would have to follow a long and complicated route. You're better off taking the state road, which'll take you down the shoreline. It's a lot nicer.”

The man explained how to get to the state road.

“One more thing, I'm sorry. Could you tell me where Via Gerace is?”

“You'll pass it on the way to the state road.”

Via Gerace 15 consisted of a little apartment that must have originally been a rather large garage. It was the first of four identical apartments situated one beside the other, each with a little gate and a tiny yard. Beside the door was a garbage bin. The four flats were situated behind a rather tall building of some ten stories. No doubt they were used as crash pads or pieds-à-terre for people passing through. The inspector got out of the car, took from his pocket the keys he had taken from Fazio's desk, opened the little gate, closed it behind him, opened the door, and closed this too. Macannuco had done a good job entering the place without forcing the locks. The apartment was quite dark, and Montalbano turned on the light.

There was a tiny entrance hall that hadn't been photographed ; it had barely enough room for a coatrack and a small, low piece of furniture with one drawer and a small lamp on top, which illuminated the space. The kitchen looked the same as in the photograph, but now the cupboards were open, as was the refrigerator; and bottles, boxes, and packages had been scattered higgledy-piggledy across the table.

The search team had passed through the bedroom like a tornado. Alfano's trousers were balled up on the floor. In the bathroom, they had dismantled the flushing system and exposed all the pipes, breaking the wall. The trapdoor directly above the sink was left open, and there was a folding stepladder beside the bidet. Montalbano moved it under the trapdoor and climbed it. The storage space was empty. Apparently the Forensics team had taken the suitcase and shoebox away with them.

He climbed down, went back into the entrance hall, and opened the drawer on the little stand. Stubs of electric and gas bills. Sticking out from under the stand, whose legs were barely an inch and a half tall, was the white corner of an envelope. Montalbano bent down to pick it up. It was an unopened bill from Enel, the electric company. He opened it. The payment deadline on it was August 30. It hadn't been paid. He put it back under the stand and was about to turn out the light when he noticed something.

He went up to the little stand again, ran a finger over it, picked up the lamp, put it back down, opened the door, went out, closed it behind him, and raised the lid on the garbage bin. It was empty. There were only a few rust stains at the bottom. He put it back in place, opened the little gate, was about to close it again behind him, when a voice above him called out:

“Who are you, may I ask?”

It was a fiftyish woman who must have weighed a good three hundred pounds, with the shortest legs Montalbano had ever seen on a human being. A giant ball. She was looking out from a balcony on the first floor of the tall building, directly above the Alfanos' apartment.

“Police. And who are you?”

“I'm the concierge.”

“I'd like to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

A half-open window on the second floor of her building then opened all the way, and a girl who looked about twenty came forward, resting her elbows on the railing, as if settling in to listen to the proceedings.

“Look, signora, must we speak at this distance?” the inspector asked.

“I got no problem with it.”

“Well, I do have a problem with it. Come down to the porter's desk at once. I'll meet you there.”

He closed the little gate, got into his car, circled round the building, stopped in front of the main entrance, got out, climbed four steps, went inside, and found himself face-toface with the concierge, who was getting out of the elevator sideways, pulling in her tits and paunch as best she could. Once out, the ball reinflated.

“Well?” she asked belligerently.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions about the Alfanos.”

“Them again? Haven't we heard enough about them? What's your rank with the police?”

“I'm an inspector.”

“Ah, well, then, can't you ask your colleague Macannuco about it instead of hassling me again? Do I have to keep repeating the same story to all the inspectors in the kingdom?”

“I think you mean the republic, signora.” Montalbano was starting to have fun.

“Never! I do not recognize this republic of shit! I am a monarchist and I'll die a monarchist!”

Montalbano smiled cheerfully, then assumed a conspiratorial air, looked around carefully, bent down towards the ball, and said in a low voice:

“I'm a monarchist, too, signora, but I can't say so openly, or else my career . . . You understand.”

“My name is Esterina Trippodo,” the ball said, holding out a tiny, doll-like hand to him. “Please come with me.”

They went down a flight of stairs and entered an apartment almost identical to the Alfanos'. On the right-hand wall in the entrance hall was a portrait of King Vittorio Emanuele III under a little lamp, which was lit. Next to this, lit up in turn, was a photo of his son, Umberto, who had been king for about a month, though Montalbano's memory was a bit hazy. On the left-hand wall, on the other hand, was a photograph, unlit, of another Vittorio Emanuele, Umberto's son, the one known in the scandal sheets for a stray shot he had once fired. The inspector looked at the photo in admiration.

“He certainly is a handsome man,” said Montalbano, bullshitter extraordinaire, without shame.

Esterina Trippodo brought her index finger to her lips, then applied her kiss to the photograph.

“Come in, come in, please make yourself at home.”

The kitchen–living room was ever so slightly bigger than the Alfanos'.

“Can I make you some coffee?” asked Esterina.

“Yes, thank you.”

As the lady was fumbling with the
napoletana
, Montalbano asked:

“Do you know the Alfanos?”

“Of course.”

“Did you see them the last time they were here, on the third and the fourth of September?”

Esterina launched into a monologue.

“No. But they were here, in fact. He's a gentleman. He called me to ask me to buy a bouquet of roses and to have them left in front of the door to their apartment, and said they would be arriving in the early afternoon. He'd asked me to do this before. But that evening, the roses were still in front of the door. The next day I dropped by a little before noon to pick up the money for the roses. The flowers were gone, but nobody answered the door. They'd already left. So I opened their gate—I'm the only one's got a key—to empty the garbage—it's my job—but all I found inside the bin was a syringe full of blood. They didn't even put it in a bag or a piece of paper! Nothing! Just thrown there! Disgusting! Good thing I had gloves on! Who knows what the hell the goddamn slut was up to!”

“Did you mention these things to Inspector Macannuco?”

“No, why? He's not one of us!”

“What about the roses, were you paid for them?”

“Good things come to those who wait!”

“If I may presume . . . ,” said Montalbano, reaching into his wallet.

Signora Trippodo magnanimously allowed him to presume.

“I noticed an electric bill under the little table in the entrance,” said the inspector.

“When the bills come, I slip them under the door. Apparently she didn't take that one away with her and pay it.”

And in the name of their common faith in the monarchy, she answered all his other questions in generous detail.

About half an hour later, Montalbano got back in his car, and after barely five minutes on the road, he saw the sign indicating the way to Palmi. It was logical, therefore, that Dolores had taken this road instead of the autostrada. At once the sign for the bypass to Lido di Palmi appeared before him.

Jesus! It was barely two and a half miles from the apartment on Via Gerace! You could even walk there! Taking the bypass, he spotted a motel barely a hundred yards farther on. If Dolores had her accident right at the bypass, there was a very good chance this was the motel she went to.

He parked the car, got out, and went into the bar, which was also the motel's front desk. It was empty. The coffee machine was even turned off.