The Track of Sand (6 page)

“Is Esterman her maiden name?”

“No, it’s Gianfranco’s, her husband’s. Her family name is Anselmi del Bosco. She’s an aristocrat.”

“She told me her relationship with her husband is only ‘fraternal.’Why doesn’t she divorce him?”

“Divorce him? Are you kidding? Gianfranco is as Catholic as they come. He goes to Mass, he goes to confession, he’s got some sort of fancy job at the Vatican . . . He would never divorce. I don’t even think they’re officially separated.”

She laughed again, but it wasn’t a very happy laugh.

“Basically, she’s in the same situation as me . . . Listen, I’m going to go pee, and while I’m away, you should open that other bottle of whisky.”

She stood up, lurching first to the left, then to the right. Regaining her balance, she headed off unsteadily. Without noticing, they had drunk a whole bottle.

Things ended the same way as all the other times.

At a certain hour of the night, when there were scarcely four fingers of whisky remaining in the second bottle, and they had talked about everything except Rachele Esterman, Ingrid said she felt sleepy and had to go immediately to bed.

“I’ll drive you back to Montelusa.You’re in no condition to drive.”

“And I suppose you are?”

Indeed, the inspector’s head was spinning a little.

“Ingrid, I only need to wash my face and I’m ready.”

“I, on the other hand, am more inclined to go take a shower and slip into bed.”

“Into my bed?”

“What other beds are there? I’ll be quick,” she continued, thick-tongued.

“Listen, Ingrid, it’s not—”

“C’mon, Salvo. What’s got into you? It certainly won’t be the first time. And anyway, you know how much I like sleeping chastely beside you.”

Chastely, hah! He alone knew how dearly he had to pay for that chastity: not a wink of sleep, getting up in the middle of the night to take emergency cold showers . . .

“Okay, but, you see—”

“And besides, it’s so erotic!”

“Ingrid, I am not a saint!”

“That’s precisely what I’m counting on,” she said, laughing and getting up from the couch.

He woke up late the following morning, with a bit of a headache. He had drunk too much. All that was left of Ingrid was her scent on the sheets and pillow.

He glanced at his watch. Almost nine-thirty. Maybe Ingrid had something to do in Montelusa and had let him sleep. But why hadn’t Adelina arrived yet?

Then he remembered that it was Saturday, and on Saturdays the housekeeper didn’t show up until around noon, after she had done her shopping for the week.

He got up, went into the kitchen, prepared a pot of strong coffee, went into the dining room, opened the French door, and stepped out onto the veranda.

The day looked like a photograph. Not a breath of wind, everything perfectly still, illuminated by a sun particularly careful not to leave anything in shade.There wasn’t even any surf.

He went back inside and immediately noticed his pistol on the table.

Strange.What was it doing—

Then, all at once, he remembered the previous evening and what a frightened Ingrid told him: that two men had entered the house after he went out to the Marinella Bar to buy whisky.

He remembered that he always kept an envelope in the drawer of the nightstand with two or three hundred euros in it, the money he would need for the week, which he would withdraw from the cash machine and put in his pocket. He went and checked the drawer.The envelope was in its place, with all the money inside.

The coffee had bubbled up. He drank two cups of it, one right after the other, and resumed looking around the house to see if anything was missing.

After half an hour of this, he decided that nothing, apparently, was missing. Apparently. Because, deep inside his head, he had a nagging thought telling him that there was indeed something missing, but he hadn’t noticed what.

He went into the bathroom, took a shower, shaved, and got dressed. He grabbed his pistol, locked the door, opened the car, got in, slipped the pistol back into the glove compartment, started the engine, and just sat there.

All at once he remembered what it was that was missing. He needed to confirm. He went back in the house, into the bedroom, and reopened the drawer to the nightstand. The burglars had stolen his father’s gold watch. They had left the envelope that was on top of it, not realizing there was money in it.And they hadn’t tried to steal anything else because they had heard Ingrid arrive.

He felt two contrasting emotions. Anger and relief. Anger because he was attached to that watch; it was one of the few mementos he kept with him. And relief because it was proof that the two men who had entered his house were merely a couple of petty thieves who clearly had no idea they had broken into the home of a police inspector.

Since he didn’t have much to do at the office that morning, he went to the bookshop to restock. Approaching the cash register to pay, he realized all his authors were Swedish: Enquist, Sjöwall-Wahlöö, and Mankell. In unconscious homage to Ingrid? Then he remembered that he needed at least two new shirts. And an extra pair of underpants wouldn’t hurt, either. He went off to buy these.

By the time he got to the office, it was almost midday.

“Ahh Chief, Chief !”

“What’s wrong, Cat?”

“I’s about to phone you, Chief !”

“What for?”

“Seeing as how I din’t see you here, I got a li’l worried. I’s afraid you was sick.”

“I’m perfectly fine, Cat. Any news?”

“Nuttin, Chief. But Isspector Augello juss came in now sayin’ as how he wants me to tell ’im when y’arrived onna premmisses.”

“You can tell him I’m here.”

Mimì appeared, yawning.

“Feeling sleepy? So you slept late and forgot that you were supposed to go to the village of Columba to—”

Mimì raised a hand to stop him, yawned again, noisily, and sat down.

“Since the kid didn’t let us get a wink of sleep last night—”

“Mimì, I’m starting to get tired of that excuse. I’m going to phone Beba right now to find out if it’s true.”

“You’ll make an ass of yourself if you do. Beba will only confirm my story. If you would just let me finish speaking—”

“Speak.”

“At five o’clock this morning, since I was already wide awake, I headed off for the village of Columba. I figured they started work early. The stable was hard to find. You get there by taking the road to Montelusa.A couple of miles on, there’s a dirt road on the left, a private driveway that leads to the stable, which is all fenced off.There’s a gate with an iron barrier and, next to this, a pole with a button on it. I thought about climbing over the barrier.”

“Bad idea.”

“And in fact I pushed the button, and a few minutes later a man appeared out of a wooden shed and asked me who I was.”

“So what’d you do?”

“From the way he spoke and moved, he looked like a caveman. There was no point in talking to him. So I said I was from the police. In a commanding voice.And he let me in right away.”

“That wasn’t such a good move.We have no authorization to—”

“Come on, the guy didn’t ask me anything at all! He didn’t even ask me for my name! He was ready to answer all my questions, because he thought I was from Montelusa Central.”

“But if La Esterman never reported the stolen horse, how—”

“Wait, I’ll get to that. We only know half the story of this whole affair. Apparently Lo Duca himself reported the crime to Montelusa Central; it’s all rather complicated, as you’ll see.”

“Why file the report at Montelusa?”

“Because half the stable’s property is in our territory, and the other half is in Montelusa’s.”

“So, what’s the story?”

“Wait. First I need to explain to you the layout of the stables. So, just past the barrier, on the left-hand side, are two wooden sheds, one rather large, the other much smaller, and a barn.The first is the watchman’s house; he lives there day and night.The second is used for storing harnesses and trappings and everything else needed for the care of horses. On the right-hand side are ten stalls in a row, where the animals are kept.The last leads to a great big riding-ground.”

“And are the horses always there?”

“No, they are put out to pasture in the meadows of La Voscuzza, which belong to Lo Duca.”

“But did you find out what actually happened?”

“Did I ever! The troglodyte, what’s his name . . . ? Wait a second.”

He pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket and slipped on a pair of glasses. Montalbano froze.

“Mimì!”

It was almost a scream. Augello, stunned, stared at him.

“What is it?”

“You ...you ...”

“
O matre santa
, what have I done?”

“You wear glasses now?!”

“Well, yeah.”

“Since when?”

“I just picked them up yesterday evening and put them on for the first time today. If they bother you, I can take them off.”

“Jesus, you look strange in glasses, Mimì!”

“Strange or not, I needed a pair. And if you want some advice, you ought to go have your eyes checked yourself.”

“I see perfectly fine!”

“That’s what you think. But I’ve already noticed that, for some time now, when you read, you hold things out at arm’s length.”

“So? What does that mean?”

“It means you’re presbyopic. And don’t make that face! It’s not the end of the world if you have to wear glasses!”

Maybe not the end of the world, but certainly the end of one’s prime. Wearing glasses for reading meant surrendering to old age without the least bit of a fight.

“So, what’s this troglodyte’s name?” he asked gruffly.

“Firruzza; Antonio Firruzza. He’s the custodian, who for the moment is taking the place of the watchman, whose name is Ippolito Vario.”

“And where’s the watchman?”

“In the hospital.”

“You mean the night the horse was kidnapped, it was Firruzza on guard duty?”

“No, it was Ippolito.”

“So Vario’s his surname?”

The inspector was distracted. He couldn’t take his eyes off the bespectacled Augello.

“No,Vario’s his given name.”

“I’m not following anything anymore.”

“Salvo, if you don’t stop continually interrupting me, I’ll get lost, too. So, what’s it gonna be?”

“Okay, okay.”

“So, that night, around two o’clock Ippolito was woken up by the sound of the doorbell.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Jeez, what a pain in the ass! Will you let me speak, or not? Yes, he lives alone.”

“I’m sorry. But don’t you think a lighter frame would suit you better?”

“Beba likes this one. May I continue?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Ippolito gets up out of bed thinking it’s Lo Duca, just back from his travel, with some crazy hankering to see his horses. It wouldn’t have been the first time. So Ippolito grabs a flashlight and goes out to the gate. Bear in mind that it’s a very dark night. But as he approaches the man who wants to come in, he realizes that it’s not Lo Duca. He asks the man what he wants, and by way of an answer the guy points a gun at him. Ippolito is forced to open the gate with his keys.The man then takes the keys and whacks Ippolito in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol, knocking him out.”

“Which prevented the watchman from seeing anything else. Listen, how strong is the correction on those things?”

Mimì stood up in a huff.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back until you stop fixating on my glasses.”

“C’mon, sit down. I swear I won’t ask anything else about your glasses.”

Mimì sat back down.

“Where was I?”

“So the watchman had never seen the man who assaulted him before?”

“Never. Anyway, to conclude, Ippolito was found by Firruzza and two other men who look after the horses, in his house, bound and gagged and with a serious concussion.”

“So it could not have been Ippolito who phoned La Esterman to inform her of the theft.”

“Obviously.”

“Maybe it was Firruzza.”

“Firruzza? Impossible.”

“So who was it, then?”

“Do you think it’s so important? May I continue?”

“Sorry.”

“So, Firruzza and the other two men immediately notice two open stalls and realize that two horses have been stolen.”

“Two?” said Montalbano, surprised.

“That’s right. Two. Rachele Esterman’s horse, and one of Lo Duca’s horses that bore a strong resemblance to it.”

“Want to bet that, when faced with the choice, they couldn’t make up their minds, and weighing their options, they decided to grab both?”

“That’s what I asked Pignataro, and he—”