The Track of Sand (27 page)

“Yes?” said Rachele, expectant.

“Did your horse’s shoes have anything unusual about them?”

“In what sense?”

“I don’t know, I’m not very familiar with this sort of thing, as you know . . . Was there anything engraved in them, some sort of sign or symbol . . . ?”

“Yes.Why do you want to know?”

“A silly idea of mine.What kind of symbol?”

“Right at the center of the arch, on top, there is a small
W
, engraved in the metal. There’s a blacksmith in Rome who makes them specially for me. His name is—”

“And does Lo Duca use the same smith for his—”

“Of course not!”

“Too bad,” he said, appearing disappointed.

He hung up. He didn’t want Rachele to start asking questions.The last piece of the puzzle that had first started to come together in his head on the evening in Fiacca had fallen into place and given a meaning to the whole scheme.

He started singing. Who was there to stop him? He broke into “Che gelida manina” in a loud voice.

“Signore! Signore! Wha’ss got inna you this morning?” asked the housekeeper, who had come running from the kitchen.

“Nothing, Adelì. Ah, listen. Make some good things for tonight. I’ve got two guests coming to dinner.”

The phone rang. It was Rachele.

“We got cut off,” the inspector said at once.

“Listen, what time do you want us to come?”

“Would nine o’clock be all right with you?”

“Nine is perfect. See you then.”

He hung up and the telephone rang again.

“It’s Fazio.”

“No, no, I’ve changed my mind. I’m on my way there. Wait for me.”

He sang all the way to the station. By this point he couldn’t get those notes and words out of his head. And when he reached the part where he couldn’t remember them, he started over again from the top.

He pulled up, got out, passed by Catarella, who, hearing him sing, sat there spellbound and open-mouthed.

“Cercar che giova
. . . Cat, tell Fazio to come to my office straightaway.
Se al buio non si trovaaa . . .”

He went into his room, sat down, leaned back in his chair.

“What’s happened, Chief ?”

“Close the door, Fazio, and have a seat.”

He took the horseshoe out of his pocket and set it down on the desk.

“Take a good look at it.”

“Can I pick it up?”

“Sure.”

As Fazio was studying the horseshoe, the inspector kept singing under his breath.

“È una notte di luuuna
. . .
”

Fazio gave him a questioning look.

“It’s a perfectly ordinary horseshoe,” he said.

“Exactly. And that’s why they did everything within their power to get it back: They broke into my home, they tried to burn the place down, Gurreri lost his life . . .”

Fazio’s eyes widened.

“All for this horseshoe . . . ?”

“Yessirree.”

“And you had it all the while.”

“Yessirree. And I’d completely forgotten about it.”

“But it’s an ordinary horseshoe with no distinguishing characteristics!”

“And that is exactly what distinguishes it: the fact that it has no distinguishing characteristics.”

“But what does that mean?”

“It means that the horse that was slaughtered did not belong to Rachele Esterman.”

And he resumed in a low voice:

Mimì Augello arrived late, and so the inspector had to repeat everything he had already told Fazio.

“All things considered, the horseshoe brought you good luck” was Augello’s only comment. “It made you realize how things really stood.”

Afterwards, Montalbano explained to both the idea he had in mind: to set up a complicated trap, an ambush, which would have to function like clockwork.And if all went well, they would haul in a net full of fish.

“Are you two in agreement?”

“Absolutely,” said Mimì.

Fazio, for his part, seemed slightly doubtful.

“Chief, it’s going to have to take place here, at the station, there’s no question about that. The problem is that here, at the station, there’s also Catarella.”

“So what?”

“Chief, Catarella’s liable to blow the whole thing for us. He’s liable to bring Prestia into my office and Lo Duca into yours.You realize that, with him around—”

“All right, have him come see me. I’ll send him on a secret mission.You, Fazio, make the phone calls you need to make, and then come back.You, too, Mimì, get organized.”

The two went out, and a millionth of a second later, Catarella arrived on the run.

“Come in, Cat, lock the door, and sit down.”

Catarella did as he was told.

“Now listen closely, because I’m going to give you a very delicate assignment that nobody else must know about. You mustn’t whisper a word of this to anyone.”

Getting excited, Catarella started squirming in his chair.

“I want you to go to Marinella and take up a position in a house under construction, just across the road from my house.”

“I know the locality of the location, Chief. But whaddo I do after I take a position?”

“You must bring along a sheet of paper and a pen. I want you to take notes on every person who walks past my house along the beach. Write down if they’re male, female, children, and so on . . . When it gets dark, come back to the station with the list. Be sure not to let anyone see you! This is a top-secret matter. Now go.”

Burdened with this tremendous responsibility, and moved to tears by the trust the inspector had placed in him, Catarella stood up, red as a turkey-cock, and, unable to speak, gave a military salute, clicking his heels, then fumbled with the key in the lock, trying with great effort to open the door, which he finally did, and left.

“It’s all done,” said Fazio, returning after a brief spell. “Michilino Prestia will be here at four, and Lo Duca at four-thirty, on the dot. And here is Bellavia’s address.”

He handed him a little piece of paper which Montalbano put in his pocket.

“Now I’m gonna go tell Gallo and Galluzzo what they’re supposed to do,” Fazio continued. “Inspector Augello told me to let them know that it’s all set, and that he’ll be ready in the parking lot at four o’clock.”

“Good.You know what I say? I’m gonna go eat.”

He pecked at some antipasti, decided against pasta, and forced himself to eat two sea bream. His stomach felt tight as a fist. And he no longer felt like singing.Without warning, apprehension about the afternoon’s operation had come over him.Would it work?

“Inspector, you didn’t do me justice today.”

“Forgive me, Enzo, but today’s just not the day.”

He looked at his watch.There was just enough time for a stroll to the lighthouse, but not to sit down on the rock.

In Catarella’s place there was Patrolman Lavaccara, a bright kid.

“Do you know what you have to do?

“Yes, sir, Fazio explained it all to me.”

The inspector went into his office, opened the window, smoked a cigarette, closed the window, and sat down at his desk. At that exact moment, there was a knock at the door. It was ten minutes past four.

“Come in!”

Lavaccara appeared.

“Inspector, Signor Prestia is here.”

“Show him in.”

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” said Prestia, entering.

As Lavaccara was closing the door and going back to his post, Montalbano stood up and held his hand out to Prestia.

“Please make yourself comfortable. I’m sincerely sorry to have bothered you, but you know how it is, sometimes . . .”

Michele Prestia was over fifty, well dressed, with gold-rimmed eyeglasses and the air of an honest accountant. He looked completely calm.

“Give me about five minutes, and I’ll be right with you.”

He needed to stall. He pretended to be reading a document, every so often chuckling or knitting his eyebrows. Then he set it aside and stared at Prestia a long time without saying anything. Fazio had said that Prestia was a nobody, a rag doll in Bellavia’s hands. He appeared, however, to have nerves of steel. At last the inspector made up his mind.

“Your wife has filed a report with us. Against you.”

Prestia balked. He blinked a few times. Perhaps, being already in with the wrong crowd, he was expecting something else. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before managing to speak.

“My wife?!! Reported me?!”

“She wrote us a long letter.”

“My wife?!”

He couldn’t get over the shock.

“And what does she accuse me of?”

“Continuous abuse.”

“Me?! So I supposedly—”

“Signor Prestia, I advise you not to keep denying the fact.”

“But this is insane! I’ve stumbled into a nuthouse! May I see the letter?”

“No.We’ve already sent it to the prosecutor.”

“Look, Inspector, there’s clearly been some kind of mistake. I—”

“Are you Michele Prestia?”

“Yes.”

“Fifty-five years old?”

“No, sir. Fifty-three.”

Montalbano wrinkled his brow, as though suddenly prey to doubt.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely!”

“Hmph. Do you live at 47 Via Lincoln?”

“No, I live at 32 Via Abate Meli.”

“Really? Could I see some identification, please?”

Prestia took out his wallet and handed him his ID card, which Montalbano studied very long and carefully. Every so often he looked up at Prestia, then back down at the document.

“It seems clear to me that—” Prestia began.

“Nothing is clear. Excuse me a moment. I’ll right back.”

He stood up, left the room, closed the door, and went to see Lavaccara.With him in Catarella’s closet was also Galluzzo, waiting for him.

“Is he here yet?”

“Yessir. I just now brought him to Fazio,” said Lavaccara.

“Galluzzo, come with me.”

He went back into his office, followed by Galluzzo and wearing an expression of mortification. He left the door open.

“I am terribly sorry, Signor Prestia.This is a case of mistaken identity. I beg your pardon for any trouble I may have caused you. Go with Corporal Galluzzo, who will have you sign your release. Good day.”

He held out his hand to him. Prestia muttered something and left the room, preceded by Galluzzo. Montalbano felt himself turn into a statue.This was the critical moment. Prestia took two steps into the corridor and found himself face-to-face with Lo Duca, who was coming out of Fazio’s office in turn, followed by Fazio himself. Montalbano saw the two men freeze for a moment, paralyzed. Galluzzo had a sudden flash of genius and said, coplike: