The Track of Sand (14 page)

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 . . .”