Authors: Andrea Camilleri

The Track of Sand (21 page)

BOOK: The Track of Sand

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“How could they have known?”

“But everyone in Fiacca saw me ride a horse that wasn’t mine! And surely some people would have asked some questions. Super was a horse that had won many important races; he was very well known in equestrian circles.”

“Always ridden by you?”

Rachele laughed in her way.

“I wish!”

Then she stopped and asked:

“Tell me something: Have you ever actually witnessed a proper horse race, or a horse show?”

“Fiacca was the first time.”

“Are you a soccer fan?”

“When the national team plays, I’ll usually watch a few matches. But I prefer Formula 1 races, maybe because I’ve never been a very good driver.”

“But Ingrid told me you swim a lot.”

“Yes, but not for sport.”

They finished their whiskies.

“Has Lo Duca inquired at Montelusa Central on the progress of the investigation?”

“Yes.They told him there were no new developments. And I fear there are not going to be any.”

“You never know.Want another whisky?”

“No, thanks.”

“What do you want to do?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”

“Feeling sleepy?”

“No. I just want to get into bed and curl up for a long time with my memories of this evening.”

When it came time to say goodbye in the parking area of the Marinella Bar, they both very naturally embraced and kissed.

“Are you going to be staying much longer?”

“Another three days, at least. I’ll give a ring tomorrow to say goodbye. Is that all right?”

“Of course.”

When he opened his eyes, it was already broad daylight. But that morning he didn’t feel like closing them immediately, in rejection of the day ahead. Perhaps because he’d had a good night’s sleep, straight through from the moment he fell asleep to the moment he woke up, the rarest of things in recent times.

He remained in bed, watching the endlessly varying play of light and shadow that the sun’s rays, passing through the slats in the blind, projected onto the ceiling.A man walking on the beach became a Giacometti-like figure, looking as if he were made of interwoven strands of yarn.

He remembered how, as a little boy, he could keep his eye glued for a whole hour to a kaleidoscope his uncle had bought for him, spellbound by the continually changing forms and colors. His uncle had also bought him a tin revolver, whose bullets were caps, dark red strips with little black dots that passed under the hammer and went
pop! pop!
when struck.

This memory called to mind the shoot-out between Galluzzo and the two men who tried to burn down his house.

It occurred to him how strange it was that those people, who wanted something from him but didn’t say what, had let twenty-four hours pass without giving another sign of themselves. And to think they were in such a hurry! How could they suddenly let go of the reins around his neck?

Upon asking himself this question, he started laughing, because never before would he have thought of such a thing in terms relating to horses.

Was this due to the case he was investigating, or was it because, deep down, the evening he’d spent with Rachele was still on his mind?

No doubt about it, Rachele was a woman who—

The phone rang.

Montalbano leapt out of bed, more to escape the thought of Rachele at once than out of any anxiousness to answer the phone.

It was six-thirty.

“Ahh Chief, Chief! Iss Catarella!”

The inspector felt like screwing around.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he said, altering his voice.

“Iss Catarella, Chief !”

“This is Fire Station Number 2373. If you want to speak with the fire chief, you’ll have to call the fire department, during regular hours, of course.”

“
O matre santa!
I mussa gotta wrong number. Beckin’ y’ pardon, sir.”

He called right back.

“Hallo! Izz ’iss Fire Station 3723?”

“No, Cat. It’s Montalbano. Wait just a second, I’ll look up the fire station’s number for you.”

“No no no, Chief, I don’t want no fire station!”

“So why are you trying to phone them?”

“I donno. Sorry, Chief, I’m confused. Wanna hang up so’s I can start all over again?”

“All right.”

He rang a third time.

“Zzatt you, Chief ?”

“It’s me.”

“Wha’, was you asleep?”

“No, I was dancing the jitterbug.”

“Rilly? You know how to do that?”

“Cat, just tell me what’s up.”

“They found a corpus.”

How could you go wrong? If Catarella called at the crack of dawn, it always meant death in the morning.

“Male or female?”

“Iss o’ the male persuasion.”

“Where’d they find it?”

“In Spinoccia districk.”

“Where’s that?”

“Dunno, Chief. But Gallo’s on ’is way.”

“Where? To go look at the corpse?”

“No, Chief, sir, ’e’s comin’ a get you, poissonally in poisson. ’E’s gotta car an’s gonna betake you onna primisses, which’d be in Spinoccia districk.”

“But couldn’t Augello go instead?”

“Nossir, in as far as atta moment when that I made ’im the tiliphone call, ’is wife said as how he was outta the house.”

“But doesn’t he have a cell phone?”

“Yessir, ’e does. But iss ixtinguished.”

Like Mimì’s going to be out of the house at six in the morning! Obviously he was sleeping like a baby. And he’d told Beba to lie.

“And where’s Fazio?”

“’E’s already gone wit’ Galluzzo to the beforesaid allocation.”

When Gallo knocked at the door, the inspector had shaving cream all over his face.

“Come on in. I’ll be ready in five minutes. Where the hell is this Spinoccia, anyway?”

“In heaven, Chief. Out in the country, about six miles before Giardina.”

“Got any idea who was killed?”

“None, Chief. Fazio just phoned me and told me to come pick you up, so I came.”

“But do you know how to get there?”

“In theory, yes. I had a look at a map.”

“Look, Gallo, we’re on a dirt road, not on the racetrack at Monza.”

“I know, Chief.That’s why I’m going slow.”

Five minutes later:

“Gallo, I told you not to speed!”

“I’m going extremely slow, Chief !”

To Gallo, going extremely slowly, on a stinking dirt road full of potholes, crags, trenches, craters that looked like they’d been made by bombs, and dust galore, meant maintaining a speed of about fifty mph.

They were passing through desolate country, parched and yellow, with a few rare, scraggly trees. It was a landscape Montalbano was quite fond of.They had already left the last little white cube of a house behind them, about a mile back. All they had run across were a little pushcart climbing up towards Giardina from Vigàta, and a peasant with his mule, coming down in the opposite direction.

Rounding a bend, they saw the squad car in the distance and a donkey beside it. The ass, who was well aware that there was nothing to eat for miles around and just stood there, discouraged, looked at them with scant interest.

Gallo then launched the car off the dirt road with a swerve so sudden that the inspector lurched totally sideways, despite the seat belt, and felt his head come detached from the rest of his body. He started cursing.

“Couldn’t you stop the car a little further ahead?!”

“I’m stopping here to leave room for the other cars when they get here.”

When they got out of the car, they noticed that, beyond the squad car, on the left-hand side of the dirt road, near a clump of sorghum, Fazio, Galluzzo, and a peasant were sitting on the ground, eating. The peasant had taken a loaf of wheat bread and a round of tumazzo cheese from his haversack and divided them up.

They made an idyllic, bucolic foursome, a sort of Sicilian
déjeuner sur l’herbe
.

Since the sun was already beating down hard, they were all in shirtsleeves.

As soon as Fazio and Galluzzo saw the inspector approaching, they stood up and put their jackets on.The peasant remained seated. But he brought a hand to his cap, giving a sort of military salute. He must have been at least eighty years old.

The dead man, wearing only a pair of underpants, was lying facedown, parallel to the road. Clearly visible just under the left shoulder blade was one gunshot wound, with a little bit of blood around it. A chunk of flesh was missing from the right arm, the result of an animal bite. A hundred or so flies swarmed around the two wounds.

The inspector bent down to look at the bitten arm.

“’Zwas dogs,” said the peasant, swallowing his last mouthful of bread and tumazzo.Then he extracted a bottle of wine from the haversack, pulled out the cork, sucked on it once, and put everything back.

“Did you find the body yourself ?”

“Yessir. This mornin’ when I’s passin’ by with my donkey,” said the peasant, standing up.

“What’s your name?”

“Giuseppe Contrera, ’n’ my papers ’re spotless.”

He was keen to tell the cop that he had a clean record. But how had he been able to alert the police station from that desert? Via carrier pigeon?

“Was it you who phoned us?”

“Nossir, my son.”

“And where’s your son?”

“At home, in Giardina.”

“But was he with you when you discovered—”

“Nossir, he warn’t. He was at his home. He was still asleep, the little gent. He’s ’n accountant, you see.”

“But if he wasn’t with you—”

“May I, Chief ?” asked Fazio, interrupting. “Our friend here, Contrera, called his son as soon as he discovered the body, and—”

“Yes, but
how
did he call him?”

“With this,” said the peasant, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket.

Montalbano balked.The peasant was dressed like an old-time peasant: fustian trousers, hobnail boots, collarless shirt, and vest. The gadget seemed out of place in hands so callused they looked like a relief map of the Alps.

“So why didn’t you call us directly yourself ?”

“First of all,” replied the peasant,“alls I know how to call with this thing is my son; an’ seccunly, how’s I sposta know your phone number?”

“The cell phone,” Fazio again explained, “was a gift from Signor Contrera’s son, who’s afraid that his father, given his age—”

“My boy Cosimo’s a nitwit. ’N accountant an’ a nitwit. He oughta worry ’bout his own hide an’ not mine,” the peasant declared.

“Did you get this man’s name, address, and phone number?” Montalbano asked Fazio.

“Yeah, Chief.”

“Then you can go now,” Montalbano said to Contrera.

The peasant gave a military salute and mounted his donkey.

“Have you informed everyone?”

“Already done, Chief.”

“Let’s hope they arrive soon.”

“Chief, it’s gonna take another half hour at least, even if all goes well.”