The Track of Sand im-12 Read online

  “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!

  11

  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 hom
icide.

  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?

  Whatever the case, these people surely were not about to stop.They even showed signs of being in a hurry.

  Do what you’re supposed to do.

  Maybe Fazio was right. Everything that was happening to him must have some connection to the Licco trial. In the reconstruction of events the inspector had presented to send Licco to prison, there was one weak link, he remembered. But he was unable to bring it into focus. Surely Licco’s lawyers had noticed this weak point and discussed it with the Cuffaros, who had then sprung into action.

  The first thing he had to do next morning was get hold of the Licco file and reread it.

  The telephone rang. He let it ring. A minute later, it stopped ringing. If they were out there watching him, they would see that he was taking things easy. He wouldn’t even get up to answer the phone.

  When sleep started to come over him and he went back inside, he decided to leave the French door ajar.That way, if they were planning to pay him a visit during the night, they wouldn’t have to break it a third time.

  He went to the bathroom, lay down in bed, and no sooner had he slipped in between the sheets than the phone rang again.This time he got up and answered.

  It was Livia.

  “Why didn’t you answer the first time?”

  “What first time?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  So it was she who had called.

  “Maybe I was in the shower and didn’t hear.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “I’m fine. I wanted to ask you something.”

  That made two. First Ingrid, and now Livia. All the women had questions to ask him. Ingrid he had answered with a half lie. Would he have to do the same with Livia? He coined a new proverb: A hundred lies a day / keeps all the women at bay.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Are you busy in the coming days?”

  “Not exceedingly.”

  “I really feel like coming to Marinella to spend a few days with you. I could catch the plane at three o’clock tomorrow aftern—”

  “No!”

  He must have yelled it.

  “Thank you!” said Livia, after a pause.

  And she hung up.

  Matre santa! Now, how was he going to explain to her that that “No!” had escaped him because he was afraid to involve her in the nasty affair in which he was buried up to his neck?

  What if those guys got it in their heads to start shooting when Livia was with him, just to make a point? No, there was no way. Having Livia about the house at that moment was a terrible idea.

  He called her back. He was expecting her not to answer, but Livia actually picked up.

  “Just because I’m curious.”

  “About what?”

  “To see whether you can manage to justify the way you said no.”

  “I can see how you would be upset. But you have to understand, Livia, these are not excuses, you have to believe me.The fact is that in the last few days, burglars have broken into my house three times, and I—”

  Livia started laughing uncontrollably.

  What the fuck was so funny about it? Eh? You tell her that burglars go in and out of your house whenever the hell they feel like it, and not only does she not say anything to comfort you, she thinks it’s comical? How thoughtful! He started to feel angry.

  “Listen, Livia, I don’t see what—”

  “Burglars breaking into the home of the famous Inspector Montalbano! Ha ha ha!”

  “If you would just calm down a second . . .”

  “Ha ha ha ho ho ho!”

  What to do? Hang up? Wait it out? Luckily she started calming down.

  “I’m sorry, but it seems so funny to me!”

  Which was exactly the reaction other people would have if the thing came to be known about town.

  “Let me tell you what happened. It’s a strange story. Because, you know, they came back again this afternoon.”

  “What did they steal?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Tell me!”

  “Three days ago, Ingrid had come here for dinner . . .”

  He bit his tongue, but it was too late. The damage was done.

  At the other end of the line, the barometer must have signaled a gathering storm. Ever since the situation between them had returned to normal, Livia had been in the grips of a jealousy the likes of which she had never felt before.

  “And since when have you been in the habit?”

  “What habit?”

  “The habit of the two of you having dinner in Marinella. By moonlight. Speaking of which, do you light a candle on the table?”

  It ended badly.

  * * *

  And therefore, whether from the aggravation of the visit by the three men who wanted to burn down his house, or from the aggravation of the anonymous phone call, or from the aggravation of the squabble with Livia, he ended up sleeping hardly at all, and the little he did sleep was broken up into spells of twenty minutes or so. He woke up in a complete stupor. A half-hour shower and a half pint of espresso put him at least in a condition to tell his right hand from his left.

  “I’m not here for anyone,” he said as he passed in front of Catarella’s station.

  Catarella came running after him.

  “Not here telephonically or poissonally?”

  “I’m not here, can you get that through your head?”

  “Not even for the c’mishner?”

  For Catarella, the c’mishner was only one grade below the Almighty.

  “Not even.”

  He went into his office, locked the door, and, after half an hour of cursing, found the file on his investigation of Giacomo Licco.

  He studied it for two hours, taking notes.

  Then he called up Prosecutor Giarrizzo, who would be representing the state at the Licco trial.

  “Inspector Montalbano here. I’d like to speak with Prosecutor Giarrizzo.”

  “Dr. Giarrizzo is at the courthouse. He’ll be busy all morning,” replied a female voice.

  “Could you tell him to call me when he gets back? Thanks.”

  He put the sheet of p
aper with his notes in his pocket, then picked up the receiver again.

  “Catarella, is Fazio here?”

  “’E in’t onna premisses, Chief.”

  “What about Augello?”

  “’E’s ’ere.”

  “Tell him to come to my office.”

  Remembering he had locked the door, he got up, opened it, and found Mimì Augello standing in front of him with a magazine in his hand.

  “Why’d you lock yourself in?”

  Just because you do something, what gives others the right to ask why you did it? He hated this kind of question. Ingrid:Why won’t you call Rachele back? Livia:Why didn’t you answer the first time I called? And now Mimì.

  “Just between us, Mimì, I had half a mind to hang myself, but now that you’re here . . .”

  “Ah, well, if that’s your intention—which, incidentally, I approve of, unconditionally—then I’ll leave at once and you can continue.”

  “Come in and sit down.”

  Mimì noticed the file of the Licco trial on the desk.

  “You reviewing your lesson?”

  “Yes.You got any news?”

  “Yes.This magazine.”

  And he set it down on the inspector’s desk. It was a glossy, luxurious bimonthly magazine that oozed with the money of its contributors. It was called The Province, with the subtitle Art, Sport, and Beauty.

  Montalbano skimmed through it. Horrific paintings by amateur painters who considered themselves, at the very least, on a par with Picasso, ignoble poems signed by poetesses with double surnames (provincial poetesses always do this), the life and miracles of a certain Montelusan who had become deputy mayor of some lost town in Canada, and, lastly, in the sports section, no less than five pages devoted to “Saverio Lo Duca and His Horses.”

  “What’s the article say?”

  “A lot of crap. But you were interested in a photo of the stolen horse, no? It’s the third one. And which horse did Signora Esterman ride?”

  “Moonbeam.”

  “He’s the one in the fourth shot.”

  The photos were large and in color, and each had the name of the horse as caption.

  To have a better look, Montalbano reached into a drawer and pulled out a large magnifying glass.

  “You look like Sherlock Holmes,” said Mimì.