The Track of Sand (11 page)

“Veronica del Bosco, who shouldn’t be any problem for Rachele.”

“But why hasn’t Rachele taken advantage of the fall?”

“No idea.”

As they began the final lap, Rachele moved up into second place. For about fifty yards she engaged in a tight, rousing head-to-head dash with Benedetta, as the crowd seemed to go completely mad with shouting. Even Montalbano found himself yelling:

“Come on, Rachele! Come on!”

Then, about thirty yards from the finish line, Benedetta’s horse seemed to grow ten extra legs, and there wasn’t much Rachele could do about it.

“Too bad!” said Ingrid. “If she’d had her own horse, she would surely have won. Are you sorry?”

“Well, a little.”

“Mostly because you won’t be kissed by Rachele, right?”

“So what do we do now?”

“Now the baron is going to read the results.”

“What results? We already know who won.”

“Just wait.They’re interesting.”

Montalbano torched a cigarette. Three or four people who were standing near him stepped away, staring at him with annoyance.

“Mesdames et messieurs!”
the baron called out from his turret. “It is my pleasure to announce to you that the sum total of the bets amounts to over six hundred thousand euros! I am truly grateful to all of you.”

Figuring there were about three hundred people present, and most were either blue bloods or businessmen or landowners, you couldn’t exactly say they had opened their wallets.

“The rider who received the highest number of bets was Signora Rachele Esterman!”

The crowd applauded. Rachele had lost the race, but raised the most money.

“I ask our distinguished guests please not to linger on the lawn, where we shall need to set up the tables for dinner, but to gather in the salons inside the villa.”

When Montalbano and Ingrid turned their backs on the track, the last thing they saw were two manservants who, having picked up Colonel Romeres, were lowering him from the turret.

“I’m going to go change,” said Ingrid, slipping away. “See you in about an hour, in the salon of the ancestors.”

Montalbano went into the salon, found a mysteriously unoccupied armchair, and sat down. He had to get through an hour without thinking about what he had realized as he was watching the race, which had put him on edge. He had noticed that he couldn’t see very well.There was no denying it. Each time the horses were running on the far side of the track from where he stood, he could no longer make out the different colors of the riders’ silks. Everything became muddled, the outlines blurred. If not for Ingrid he would not even have realized that it was Beatrice della Bicocca who had fallen.

“Well, what’s so unusual about that?”
asked Montalbano One.
“It’s old age. Mimì Augello was right
.
”

“That’s bullshit!”
Montalbano Two rebelled.
“Mimì Augello says you hold things at arm’s length in order to read.That’s presbyopia, which is typical of aging.Whereas what we have here is myopia, which has nothing to do with age!”

The discussion was interrupted by a man who planted himself directly in front of the armchair.

“Inspector Montalbano! Rachele had told me you were here, but I couldn’t find you.”

It was Lo Duca.About fifty, tall, most distinguished, most tanned from solar lamps, most glistening smile, salt-and-pepper hair groomed to perfection. One could only use superlatives to describe him. Montalbano stood up, and they shook hands. He was most fragrant as well.

“Why don’t we go outside?” Lo Duca suggested. “It’s stifling in here.”

“But the baron said . . .”

“Never mind the baron. Come with me.”

They passed back through the salon of armor, went out one of the French doors, but instead of taking the broad lane, Lo Duca immediately turned left. On this side there was a very well tended garden with three gazebos.Two had people in them, but the third was free. It was starting to get dark, but one of the gazebos had its light on.

“You want me to turn on the light?” asked Lo Duca. “But take my word for it, it’s better if we don’t. We’d be eaten alive by mosquitoes.Which will happen anyway during dinner.”

There were two comfortable wicker easy chairs and a little table with a vase of flowers and an ashtray on it. Lo Duca took out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to the inspector.

“Thanks, but I prefer my own.”

They lit their cigarettes.

“Excuse me for getting straight to the point,” said Lo Duca. “Perhaps you don’t feel like talking about work at the moment, but—”

“Not at all, go right ahead.”

“Thank you,” Lo Duca began. “Rachele told me she went to the Vigàta police to report the disappearance of her horse, but then didn’t file the report after you told her it had been killed.”

“Right.”

“Rachele was probably too upset when you told her the horse had been destroyed in a particularly brutal manner ; in fact she was unable to be more specific—”

“Right.”

“But how did you find out?”

“It was pure chance. The horse came and died right outside my window.”

“But is it true that, a bit later, somebody came and removed the carcass?”

“Right.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“No. Do you?”

“Perhaps, yes.”

“Tell me, if you would.”

“Of course I’ll tell you. If and when the body of Rudy, my horse, is found, it probably will have been killed in the same manner.This is a vendetta, Inspector.”

“And did you present this hypothesis of yours to my colleagues in Montelusa?”

“No. Just as you, from what I’ve heard, haven’t yet told your colleagues in Montelusa that you found Rachele’s horse.”

Touché. Lo Duca certainly knew how to fence.

The inspector had to proceed carefully.

“A vendetta, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Could you be a little more precise?”

“Yes.Three years ago I had a heated argument with one of the men who used to tend my horses, and in a fit of anger, I struck him in the head with an iron rod. I didn’t think I had hurt him too badly, but it left him disabled. Naturally I took care of all the medical expenses, but I also give him a monthly stipend equal to the pay he used to receive.”

“But, if that’s the way it is, why would this man want—”

“Well, it’s been three months since his wife has had any news of him. He was no longer right in the head. One day he left muttering threats against me and hasn’t been seen since.There are rumors he has taken up with criminals.”

“Mafiosi?”

“No, just common criminals.”

“But why didn’t this man limit himself to stealing and killing your horse? Why did he also take Signora Esterman’s horse?”

“I don’t think he knew that the horse wasn’t mine, when he was stealing it. He probably realized it afterwards.”

“And you didn’t mention this to my colleagues in Montelusa, either?”

“No. And I don’t think I will.”

“Why not?”

“Because I feel it would be hounding an unlucky wretch whose mental infirmity I am responsible for.”

“So why did you bring it up with me?”

“Because I’ve been told that when you want to get to the bottom of something, you do.”

“Well, since I’m someone who gets to the bottom of things, as you say, could you tell me this person’s name?”

“Gerlando Gurreri. But could I have your word that you will not mention this name to anyone?”

“No need to worry. However, you’ve given me the motive, but you haven’t told me why they removed the horse’s carcass.”

“As I said, I believe that when Gurreri stole the two horses, he believed they were both mine. Then one of his accomplices must have pointed out to him that one of them belonged to Rachele. So they killed it and then removed the carcass, leaving me to stew in my doubts.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Inspector, how can you be so sure that the horse you found dead on the beach was Rachele’s and not mine? When they took away the remains, they made it impossible to identify the animal. So, by leaving me in a state of uncertainty, they are making me suffer even more. Because I was very attached to my Rudy.”

The argument made a certain sense.

“Tell me something, Mr. Lo Duca. Who was it that informed Signora Esterman that her horse had been stolen?”

“I thought I did. But apparently someone beat me to it.”

“Who?”

“I dunno, maybe one of the two men who tend the horses. Rachele, morever, had given the watchman the telephone numbers where she could be reached.The watchman kept that piece of paper with the telephone numbers pinned inside the front door of his house. It’s still there, in fact. Is that of any importance?”

“Yes, it’s very important.”

“How so?”

“You see, Mr. Lo Duca, if nobody from the stable called Signora Esterman, it means that it was Gerlando Gurreri.”

“And why would he do it?”

“Maybe because he thought that you would wait as long as possible before informing Signora Esterman of the theft of her horse, in the hopes of recovering it quickly, perhaps by paying a big ransom.”

“In other words, to make me lose face and embarrass me in the eyes of everyone?”

“It’s a possibility, don’t you think? But if you tell me that Gurreri, who you say is a bit off his rocker, is not in any condition to reason so subtly, then my hypothesis crumbles.”

Lo Duca paused to think about this.

“Well,” he said after a brief moment.“I suppose it’s possible that it wasn’t Gerlando who cooked up the scheme of the telephone call, but one of the crooks he’s fallen in with.”

“That, too, is quite likely.”

“Salvo? Where are you?”

Ingrid was calling him.

Saverio Lo Duca stood up. Montalbano likewise.

“I’m sorry to have troubled you for so long, but, as I am sure you realize, I didn’t want to miss this precious opportunity.”

“Salvo? Where are you?” Ingrid called again.

“Oh, not at all!” said the inspector.“In fact, I’m sincerely grateful for what you’ve been so kind to reveal to me.”

Lo Duca gave a hint of a bow. Montalbano as well.

Not even in the nineteenth century could a more polished and elegant dialogue—say, between the Viscount of Castelfrombone (a descendant of de Bouillon) and the Duke of Lomantò, of Quartetto Cetra fame—have taken place.

They turned the corner. Ingrid, looking quite chic, was standing in front of one of the French doors, looking around.

“Here I am,” said the inspector, waving an arm.

“I’m sorry to abandon you, but I need to meet with . . .” said Lo Duca, picking up his pace and walking away without ever saying who it was he was supposed to meet.

At that moment, the peal of a powerful gong rang out. Perhaps they had put a microphone in front of it.Whatever the case, it sounded like the start of an earthquake. And an earthquake it was.

From the interior of the villa, a disorderly chorus thundered:

“The gong! The gong!”

Everything that followed was exactly like an avalanche or a river bursting its banks.

Pushing and shoving, tripping and colliding, a surge of shouting women and men crashed through the three French doors and poured out onto the broad lane. In an instant, Ingrid receded from sight, caught in the middle and irresistibly swept downstream.Turning around towards him, she opened her mouth and said something, but the words were incomprehensible. It was like the ending of a tragic film. Bewildered, Montalbano had the impression that a terrible blaze had broken out inside the villa, but the cheerful faces of everyone in the wild stampede told him that he was mistaken. Getting out of the way to avoid being bowled over, he waited for the flood to pass.The gong had announced that dinner was ready. Why was it that these aristos, entrepreneurs, and businessmen were always so hungry? They had already polished off two long tablefuls of antipasti, and still they acted as though they hadn’t eaten for a week.

When the flood subsided into a little rivulet of three or four stragglers running like hundred-meter sprinters, Montalbano ventured to step back onto the broad lane. Good luck finding Ingrid! But what if, instead of going to eat, he were to ask the ex-con for the car keys, slip inside, and take a two-hour nap? He thought this seemed like an excellent idea.

“Inspector Montalbano!” he heard a woman’s voice call.

He turned towards the salon and saw Rachele Esterman coming out. At her side was a fiftyish man dressed in a dark gray suit, the same height as she, with very little hair and the face of a spy.

By “the face of a spy” the inspector meant an utterly anonymous face, one of those you could have before you for an entire day but still not remember the following day. Faces like James Bond’s are not spy faces, because once you’ve seen them you never forget them, and thus the danger of recognition by the enemy is all the greater.

“Guido Costa, Inspector Montalbano,” said Rachele.

The inspector had to make a considerable effort to stop looking at Rachele and turn his gaze towards Costa. The moment he had seen her, he was spellbound. She was wearing a sort of black sack held up by her very slender shoulders and hanging down to her knees. Her legs were longer and more beautiful than Ingrid’s. Hair loose and brushing her shoulders, a ring of precious stones around her neck. In her hand she held a shawl.

“Shall we go?” said Guido Costa.

He had the voice of a dubber of porn flicks, one of those warm, deep voices that are used in these to whisper lewd things into women’s ears. Perhaps the insignificant Guido had some hidden qualities.