The Track of Sand (16 page)

“So,” Montalbano observed, “it was already planned that they would escape by land.”

“Excuse me,” Fazio said to Galluzzo, “but why didn’t you keep running after them?”

“Because my pistol jammed,” Galluzzo replied.

He took it out of his pocket and handed it to Fazio.

“Take it to Weapons with my sincere thanks. If those guys had realized I couldn’t shoot anymore, I wouldn’t be here telling you what happened.”

Montalbano made as if to go out on the veranda.

“I already checked, Chief,” said Fazio. “There are two twenty-liter jerry cans full of gasoline. They were gonna burn down your house.”

Now that was serious news.

“So, Chief, how should I proceed?” asked Galluzzo.

“About what?”

“About the two shots I fired. If the guys at Weapons ask me—”

“Tell ’em you had to shoot a rabid dog and the gun jammed.”

“Just what, exactly, are your intentions, Chief ?” asked Fazio.

“To have somebody fix the French door,” said the inspector, cool as a cucumber.

“If you want, I could fix it for you in less than an hour,” said Galluzzo. “You got the tools?”

“Go look in the storeroom.”

“Chief,” Fazio resumed, “we’ve got to agree on an explanation.”

“Why?”

“’Cause in the next five minutes our guys, or the carabinieri, are liable to show up here.”

“Why?” the inspector repeated.

“Was there, or was there not, an exchange of gunfire? Five shots were fired! Somebody in the area must surely have called the police or the—”

“How much you want to bet?”

“On what?”

“That nobody called anybody. Given the hour of the day, most of the people who heard the shots either thought it was some motorbike backfiring or some punks fooling around.The two or three who realized it was gunshots, being practical and smart, probably kept doing whatever the hell they were doing.”

“There’s everything I need here,” said Galluzzo, returning with the tool drawer.

And he got down to work. After he had been hammering awhile, the inspector said to Fazio:

“Let’s go in the kitchen.You want some coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“How about you, Gallù?”

“No, thanks, Chief. Otherwise I won’t sleep tonight.”

Fazio was silent, lost in thought.

“You worried?”

“Yeah, Chief.The boat, the car, the continuous surveillance, at least three men for the job ...This isn’t some offhand thing. It stinks of the Mafia to me, if you really want to know. Maybe you were right to think of the Giacomo Licco trial.”

“Fazio, I haven’t got any of the papers on Licco here at home. And they realized this when they did their thorough search. If they came back today to set fire to the place, it must mean they want to intimidate me.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“But are you convinced they’re doing it for Licco’s sake?”

“What other important stuff have you got going at the moment?”

“Important stuff, nada.”

“You see? Listen to me, Chief, it’s the Cuffaros who are behind all this. Licco’s one of theirs.”

“And you think they would go to such lengths for a two-bit hood like Licco?”

“Chief, two bits or four bits, he’s still their hood. They can’t just drop him. If they don’t protect him, they’ll lose the trust of their members.”

“But how could they possibly imagine that I would suddenly get scared, go to trial, and say,
I’m sorry, I made a mistake; Licco’s got nothing to do with this
.”

“But that’s not what they want! All they want is for you, at the trial, to seem a little uncertain. That’ll be enough. As for picking apart your evidence, the Cuffaros’ lawyers’ll take care of that. And if you want some advice, I suggest you sleep at the station tonight.”

“Those guys aren’t coming back, Fazio. My life is not in danger.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The simple fact that they waited till I had gone out to set fire to my house. If they wanted to kill me—aside from the fact that they could have picked me off from the boat at any time with a precision rifle—they would have set the fire at night, when I was at home asleep.”

Fazio thought about this for a moment.

“Maybe you’re right.You’re more useful to them alive.”

But he seemed more doubtful than before.

“Chief, there’s one thing I don’t understand.Why don’t you want to tell anyone about all this?”

“Think about it for a minute. Let’s say I officially report breaking and entering and attempted robbery. Attempted, mind you, because I don’t know whether they took anything or not.You know what will happen the very same day?”

“Nossir.”

“The very second the evening news comes on Tele-Vigàta, the purse-lipped chicken-ass face of their commentator Pippo Ragonese will pop up and say:
Have you heard the news? Apparently burglars can come and go as they please with impunity at the house of Inspector Montalbano!
And I’ll come out looking like a complete ass.”

“You’re right. But you could go talk about it privately with the commissioner.”

“With Bonetti-Alderighi?! You must be joking! That guy’ll order me to proceed according to the rules! And I’ll be hounded to death! No, Fazio, it’s not that I don’t want to do it; I
can’t
do it.”

“Whatever you say, sir. What are you gonna do, go back to the station?”

Montalbano glanced at his watch. It was already past six.

“Nah, I think I’ll stay here.”

Half an hour later, Galluzzo triumphantly announced that he’d finished the repair and the French door was good as new.

Adelina had succeded in putting the living room back in order, but the bedroom was still in total disarray. All the drawers had been thrown open and their contents strewn about on the floor; they had even taken out all the suits hanging in the armoire and turned all the pockets inside out.

Wait a second!

This meant that what they were looking for was something that could fit inside a pocket. A sheet of paper? A small object? No, a sheet of paper was probably the more likely hypothesis. Which brought him back to square one: the Licco trial.The phone rang, and he went to pick it up.

“Diss ’Spector Montalbano?”

A deep voice, speaking heavy dialect.

“Yes.”

“Do whatcha sposta do, asshole.”

He hadn’t time to respond before the guy hung up.

The first thing he thought was that they still had him under surveillance, since the phone call was made after Fazio and Galluzzo had left. But even if Fazio and Galluzzo had been there, what could they have done?
Nada de nada.
With his men there, however, the inspector would at least have felt less spooked. A subtle psychological tactic. At the other end, directing the whole thing, there must be somebody sharp as a knife, as Mimì had said.

The second thing he thought was that he could never do what he was supposed to do, in that he had utterly no idea what, according to the anonymous caller, he was supposed to do.

They should be a little more clear, dammit!

He went back into the bedroom to put things in order, and barely five minutes later the phone rang again. He picked up the receiver and spoke before the other could open his mouth.

“Listen here, you motherfucking son of a bitch.”

“
What
is your problem?” Ingrid interrupted him.

“Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry, I thought . . . So, what’s up?”

“Considering the greeting, I don’t think you’re in the right mood. But I’ll try anyway. I only want to know why you won’t return Rachele’s phone calls . . .”

“Did she tell you to ask me?”

“No, I’m doing this on my own initiative, after seeing how bad she felt. So, what is it?”

“You have to believe me, today has been the kind of day—”

“Do you swear that’s not just an excuse?”

“I won’t swear to anything, but it’s not an excuse.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I was thinking this was some Catholic rejection of the woman who led you into temptation.”

“You really shouldn’t put it in those terms.”

“Why not?”

“Because, as you told me yourself, what took place between Rachele and me was a transaction, an exchange. If Mrs. Esterman has no complaints about the matter—”

“No, no complaints. On the contrary.”

“—then there’s no reason to talk, don’t you think?”

Ingrid seemed not to have heard.

“So I’ll tell her to call you later at home?”

“No. Tomorrow morning would be better, at the office. Now I have to . . . go out.”

“So you’ll talk to her when she calls?”

“I promise.”

After two hours of toil, of stooping and standing, grabbing and folding, pushing and pulling, the bedroom was back to normal.

And now he should have eaten something, except that he wasn’t hungry.

He sat down on the veranda and fired up a cigarette.

All at once he realized that, sitting there as he was, with the veranda’s light on to boot, he made a perfect target, especially as it was a very dark night. But the reason he had told Fazio that he was certain they had no intention of killing him was not so much to reassure him, but because he was deeply convinced of it. So convinced that he had even left his pistol, as usual, in the glove compartment of his car.

Anyway, if those people decided to start shooting at him, how was he going to defend himself? With a pistol that probably risked jamming after the first shot, like Galluzzo’s, against three Kalashnikovs?

By going to spend the night at the station, as Fazio had suggested? Come on!

The moment he left the building to go out to eat or have a coffee at the bar, the usual motorcyclist in helmet and face-screen could increase his body weight with a couple of kilos of lead.

Go around with an escort at all times? But, as had been amply proved, an escort had never succeeded in preventing a homicide.

If anything, all it had ever accomplished was an increase in the number of dead: not just the designated victim, but two or three men from the escort as well.

And this was inevitable. Because anyone who comes up to you to kill you knows exactly what he needs to do and has likely rehearsed the scenario dozens of times, whereas the men in the escort, who are trained to fire on the rebound—that is, after they’ve been attacked, and thus defensively, not offensively—know nothing of the intentions of the man who is approaching. A few seconds later, when they finally understand, it is already too late: that difference of a few seconds between the attacker and the escort is the killer’s winning card.

In short, the brain of the person using a weapon to kill has one more gear than the one who uses it to defend.

At any rate, the inspector felt on edge, there was no denying it.

On edge, not afraid.

And also deeply offended.

When he’d seen the house turned upside down, his first feeling was one of shame. The comparison was, of course, untenable, but in a vague way he understood why very often a woman who has been raped feels too humiliated to report it.

His house—in other words, his person—had been brutally violated, searched, turned inside out by unknown hands. In fact, the only way he’d been able to talk about it with Fazio was to pretend he was joking.The rifling through all his belongings had upset him considerably more than the attempt to burn the house down.

Then there was that offensive telephone call. But it wasn’t so much the tone or the final insult.The offense lay in the fact that someone could think he was the kind of man to give in to intimidation and do the bidding of others, like some measly little punk or worthless nobody. Had he ever given them any reason, any hint in his actions or words, to have such an opinion of him?