IM2 The Terra-Cotta Dog (2002) Page 8

  Go have a look at that little house. Do what you can to open the door, but dont break it in. Be careful, we may need

  to use it. See if there are any recent signs of life inside, if any- ones been living there in the last few days. But leave everything exactly as it was, as if youd never been there.

  The Jeep had meanwhile backed almost all the way up to the base of the boulder. The inspector took the end of the steel cable, inserted it easily into the hole and started pushing it inside. This required little effort, for the cable slid into the boulder as if following a well-greased, unobstructed groove. In fact, a few seconds later, the cable end popped out on the other side of the slab, looking like the head of a snake.

  Take this end, Montalbano told Fazio, affix it to the Jeep, put the car in gear and pull away, but very, very gently.

  As the Jeep began to move, so did the boulder, its right side starting to come detached from the rock face as if turning on invisible hinges.

  Open sesame . . . Germanurmured in amazement, recalling the childrens formula that magically served to open all doors.

  I assure you, Commissioner, that stone slab was turned into a door by a superb master craftsman. Just imagine, the iron hinges were totally invisible from the outside. Reclosing the door was as easy as opening it. We went in with flashlights. Inside, the cave was very carefully and intelligently fitted out. Theyd made a floor, for example, out of a dozen or so puncheons nailed together and set down on the bare earth.

  Whats a puncheon?

  I cant think of the proper word. Lets just say theyre very thick planks. They built a floor to keep the crates of weapons from coming into direct contact with the damp ground. The walls are covered with lighter boards. The whole inside of the cave is a sort of giant wooden box without a top. They obviously worked a long time on it.

  What about the weapons?

  A veritable arsenal. About thirty machine guns and sub- machine guns, a hundred or so pistols and revolvers, two bazookas, thousands of ammunition rounds, cases of every kind of explosive, from TNT to Semtex. And a large quantity of police and carabinieri uniforms, bulletproof vests, and various other things. All in perfect order, with each item wrapped in cellophane.

  Weve really dealt them a serious blow, eh?

  Absolutely. Tano avenged himself well, just enough to avoid looking like a traitor or repenter. I want you to know that I didnt sequester the weapons; I left them in the cave. Ive arranged for my men to stand guard, in two shifts, round the clock. Theyre in an uninhabited cottage a few hundred yards away from the arms depot.

  Youre hoping someone will come for supplies?

  Thats the idea.

  Good, I agree with that. Well wait a week, keep everything under close watch, and if nothing happens, well go ahead with the seizure. Ah, Montalbano, do you remember my dinner invitation for day after tomorrow?

  How could I forget?

  Im afraid well have to postpone it a few days. My wife has the flu...

  There was no need to wait a week. The third day after they had discovered the weapons, Catarella, having completed his midnight-to-midday shift on guard, went to report to Montalbano, asleep on his feet. The inspector had asked them all to do the same as soon as they went off duty.

  Any news?

  Nothing, Chief. All peacefulness and quietude.

  Good. Actually, bad. Go get some sleep.

  Uh, wait. Now that I put my head to it, there was something, nothing, really, I just thought Id tell you more out of consciousness than duty, but its nothing.

  What kind of nothing?

  A tourist came by.

  Explain a little better, Cat.

  It looked to be around twenty-one hundred hours in the morning.

  If it was morning, it was nine, Cat.

  Whatever you say. Then right then and there I heard the roar of a motorcycle. So I grabbed the binoculars around my neck and precautiously looked out the window for confirmation. The motorcycle was red.

  The color is of no importance. Then what?

  Then a tourist of the male sex descended from off said motorcycle.

  What made you think he was a tourist?

  He was wearing a camera around his neck, a really big camera, so big it looked like a cannon.

  Must have been a telephoto lens.

  Yessir, that it was. Then he started taking telephotos.

  Of what?

  Everything, Chief, everything. The countryside, the Crasticeddru, even the location I was located in.

  Did he get close to the Crasticeddru?

  Never, sir. But when he climbed back on his motorcycle to leave, he waved at me with his hands.

  He saw you?

  No. I stayed inside the whole time. But as I was saying, once he started up, he waved good-bye to the little house.

  Commissioner? Ive got some news, and its not good. Looks like they somehow got wind of our discovery and sent somebody on reconnaissance to confirm.

  And how do you know this?

  This morning the man on duty in the cottage saw some guy arrive on a motorcycle and take photographs of the whole area with a powerful telephoto. They must have set up a very specific marker around the boulder blocking the entrance, like, say, a stick pointing in a certain direction, a rock placed a certain distance away . . . It simply would not have been possible for us to put everything back exactly the way it was.

  Excuse me, but had you given precise instructions to the officer on duty?

  Of course. The man on duty should have stopped the motorcyclist, identified him, confiscated the camera, and brought him to the station . . .

  So why didnt he?

  For one very simple reason: the officer was Catarella, whom we both know well.

  Ah, was the commissioners laconic reply.

  What do we do now?

  Well go ahead and sequester the arms immediately, today. Palermo has ordered me to give it maximum coverage.

  Montalbano felt his armpits getting soaked in sweat.

  Another press conference?

  Im afraid so. Sorry.

  As he was about to leave for the Crasticeddru with two cars and a van, Montalbano noticed Galluzzo imploring him with his eyes, like a battered dog. He called him aside.

  Whats the problem?

  Think I could invite my brother-in-law, the newsman?

  No, Montalbano said at once, but he immediately reconsidered. Another idea had come into his mind, and he felt very pleased with himself for having thought of it. Listen, he said, okay, as a favor to you. Give him a call and tell him to come.

  The idea was that if Galluzzos brother-in-law was there on the spot and gave the discovery sufficient publicity, the need for the press conference might just go up in smoke.

  Montalbano not only allowed Galluzzos brother-in-law and his TeleVig cameraman a free hand; he actually helped them stage their scoop by acting as director. He had his men assemble a bazooka, which Fazio then mounted on his shoulder as if to fire, then had the cave brightly illuminated so that every cartridge clip, every magazine, could be filmed or photographed.

  After two hours of serious work, the cave was completely emptied of its cargo. The news reporter and his cameraman raced off to Montelusa to edit their feature, and Montalbano called the commissioner on a cell phone.

  Its all loaded up.

  Good. Send it here to me, in Montelusa. And one more thing: leave a man on duty. Jacomuzzi will soon be there with the crime lab team. Congratulations.

  It was Jacomuzzi, in the end, who took care of setting the idea of the press conference definitively to rest.Wholly involuntarily, of course, since Jacomuzzi was blissfully in his element in press conferences and interviews. In fact, before coming to the cave to gather evidence, the crime lab chief had taken the trouble to alert some twenty journalists from the press and

  television. Thus, while the report put together by Galluzzos brother-in-law quickly reverberated in the local news, the commotion unleashed by the stories on Jacomuzzi and hi
s men had national resonance. The commissioneras Montalbano had correctly foreseendecided to call off the press conference, since everyone already knew everything, and settled for issuing a detailed press release instead.

  At home in his underpants, and with a large bottle of beer in hand, Montalbano relished the sight of Jacomuzzis face on TV, the whole time in close-up, as the head of the crime lab explained how his men were dismantling the wooden construction inside the cave, piece by piece, searching for the slightest clue, any hint of a fingerprint, any trace of a footprint. When the cave was stripped bare, restored to its primordial state, the Free Channel cameraman did a long, slow pan of the whole interior. And in the course of this shot, the inspector saw something that didnt look right to him. It was just an impression, nothing more. But he might as well check it out. He phoned the Free Channel and asked for Nicolto, the Communist journalist and his friend.

  No problem, Ill have it sent over to you.

  But I havent got one of those thingamajigs, whatever the hell theyre called.

  Then come and watch it here.

  Would tomorrow morning around eleven be all right?

  Thats fine. I wont be here, but Ill leave word.

  111

  At nine oclock the next morning, Montalbano went to Montelusa, to the headquarters of the party that Cavaliere Misuraca had served. The plaque next to the main door indicated that the offices were on the fifth floor. But the treacherous sign did not specify that the only way to get there was on foot, since the building was not equipped with an elevator. After climbing at least ten flights of stairs, and a little out of breath, Montalbano knocked and knocked on a door that remained stubbornly closed. He went back down the stairs and out into the street. Right next door was a greengrocer; inside, an elderly man was serving a customer. The inspector waited until the grocer was alone.

  Did you know Cavaliere Misuraca?

  And who, may I ask, gives a fuck who I know and who I dont?

  I give a fuck. Im with the police.

  All right. And Im Lenin.

  Are you trying to be funny?

  Not at all. Thats really my name. My father named me Lenin and Im proud of it. But maybe youre of the same stripe as the people next door?

  No, Im not. Anyway, Im only here on a case. So Ill repeat my question: Did you know Cavaliere Misuraca?

  I certainly did. He spent his whole life going in and out of that door and busting my balls with his rattletrap Fiat 500.

  Did the car bother you?

  Did it bother me? He always parked it in front of my store! Even on the day he smashed into that truck!

  He parked it right here?

  Do I speak Turkish or something? Right here, he parked it. And I asked him to move it, but he went nuts and started yelling and said he didnt have any time to waste on me. So I got really mad and gave him hell. Anyway, to make a long story short, we were about to go at it when luckily some kid passed by and told the late cavaliere hed be happy to move the car for him. So Misuraca gave him the keys.

  Do you know where he parked it?

  No sir.

  You think you could recognize this kid? Had you ever seen him before?

  I seen him sometimes going in next door. Must be a member of their fancy club.

  The party chief s name is Biragh isnt it?

  Something like that. Hes from around Venice somewhere. Works at the Public Housing Office; hes probably there now. This place here wont reopen till after six; right now its too early.

  Mr. Biragh he shouted into the public phone. This is Inspector Montalbano of Vig Police. Sorry to disturb you at work.

  Not at all. What can I do for you?

  I need you to remember something for me. The last party meeting attended by Cavaliere Misuraca, what kind of meeting was it?

  I dont understand the question. No need to get touchy, sir, this is just a routine investi

  gation to clarify the circumstances of the cavalieres death. Why, was there something unclear about it? A real pain in the ass, this Ferdinando Biragh Its all clear as day, I assure you. So whats the problem? I have to close the file, understand? I cant leave a

  dossier incomplete.

  Upon hearing the words file and dossier, Biragh a bureaucrat from the Public Housing Office, changed his tune at once.

  Yes, of course, I know how it is. Well, it was a meeting of the local party leadership, which the cavaliere was not entitled to attend. But we stretched the rules a little.

  So it was a rather small meeting. About ten people. Did anyone come looking for the cavaliere? No. Wed locked the door. I would remember some

  thing like that. Actually, he did get a phone call. Pardon my asking, but I assume youre unfamiliar with the tenor of that conversation? Im not only familiar with the tenor, I also know the

  bass, the baritone, and the soprano! He laughed. Such a wit, this Ferdinando Biragh You know how the cavaliere spoke, of course, Bi

  raghcontinued. As if everyone else were deaf. It was hard

  not to overhear when he was talking. Just imagine, on one occasion

  Im sorry, sir, I havent got much time. So you were able to grasp the he stopped, discarding the word tenor to spare himself another dose of Biraghs tragic sense of humor...the gist of that phone call?

  Of course. Somebody had done the cavaliere the favor of moving his car. And by way of thanks, the cavaliere only scolded him for parking it too far away.

  Were you able to tell who it was that called?

  No. Why do you ask?

  Because, said Montalbano. And he hung up.

  So the kid, having completed his deadly little service in the shelter of some complicitous garage, had also decided, just for fun, to make the cavaliere get a little exercise.

  At the Free Channel studios, Montalbano explained to a polite young woman that he was utterly hopeless when it came to anything electronic. Turning on a television, yes, flipping the channels, turning it off, no problem. As for the rest, utter darkness. With patience and grace, the girl put in the cassette, then started to rewind it, stopping the image every time Montalbano asked. By the time he left the Free Channel offices, the inspector was convinced hed seen exactly what had aroused his interest. But what had aroused his interest seemed not to make any sense.

  10

  He stood outside the Trattoria San Calogero, undecided. It was indeed time to eat, and his stomach certainly felt empty; and yet an idea that had come to him while watching the videotape and which demanded to be verified was pushing him to continue on to the Crasticeddru. The scent of fried mullet coming from the restaurant won the duel. He ate a special appetizer of shellfish, then had them bring him two sea perches so fresh they seemed to be still swimming in the sea.

  Youre eating without conviction, Inspector.

  Its true. The fact is, Ive got something on my mind.

  The mind should be forgotten when the Lord in His grace puts such perches in front of you, Calogero said solemnly, walking away.

  He passed by the office to see if there was any news.

  Jacomuzzi called several times for you, Germannformed him.

  If he calls again, tell him Ill get back to him later. Do we have a very powerful flashlight?

  After turning off the main road and stopping near the Crasticeddru, he abandoned the car and decided to proceed on foot. It was a beautiful day, with a light breath of wind that cooled the air and lifted Montalbanos spirits. The ground around the rocky spur was marked by tire tracks apparently left by people who had come up there out of curiosity. The boulder that served as the door had been pulled open several yards, the cave entrance now entirely exposed. As he was about to enter, he stopped, pricking up his ears. From inside came a low murmur occasionally interrupted by some stifled moans. He became alarmed: want to bet theyre torturing someone in there? There wasnt time to run back to the car to get his pistol. He bounded inside, simultaneously turning on the powerful flashlight.

  Everybody freeze! Police!

  The t
wo people inside the cave froze, but the greatest chill was felt by Montalbano himself. They were a very young couple, completely nude, making love: she with her hands braced against the wall, arms extended, he glued to her from behind. In the glare of the flashlight they looked like statues, beautiful. The inspector felt his face burning with shame. Turning off the flashlight, he started to withdraw, awkwardly muttering:

  Im sorry...It was a mistake . . . Dont let me bother you.

  They came out less than a minute later. (It doesnt take long to put ones jeans and T-shirt back on.) Montalbano was truly sorry for having interrupted them. In their way, the two

  youths had been reconsecrating the cave, now that it was no longer a depository of death. The boy passed in front of him, head bowed and hands in his pockets; the girl instead glanced at him a moment, smiling faintly, an amused glint in her eye.

  A simple, superficial reconnaissance of the site was all the inspector needed to confirm that what he had noticed in the videotape corresponded to what he was seeing in reality: that while the sides of the cave were relatively smooth and solid, the lower part of the rear wall, that is, the surface opposite the entrance, was quite uneven in texture, with protuberances and recesses, and might at first glance appear sloppily chiseled. But there was nothing chiseled about it. In fact, it consisted of stones stacked one atop and beside the other. Time had since taken care of binding and cementing them, camouflaging them with dust, earth, seeping water, and saltpeter, finally transforming the rough surface into an almost natural wall.

  He continued looking very closely, exploring inch by inch, and in the end he no longer had any doubt: at the back of the cave, there must be an opening at least three feet square that had been covered over quite a few years ago.

  Jacomuzzi? Montalbano here. I absolutely need you to

  Do you mind telling me where youve been hiding your ass? I spent the whole morning looking for you!

  Well, Im here now.