The Track of Sand im-12

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Just answer yes or no, Doc, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Do you swear?”

  “I swear. Did the skull of the body from Spinoccia show any signs of having been drilled or something similar?”

  “Yes,” said Pasquano.

  “Thanks,” said the inspector.

  And he ran away. He had the confirmation he wanted.

  * * *

  “Ahh Chief! I wannata report ’at—”

  “You can tell me later. Get me Fazio at once and don’t put any calls through to me! I’m not here for anyone!”

  Fazio came running.

  “What’s up, Chief ?”

  “Come in, shut the door, and take a seat.”

  “I’m all ears, Chief.”

  “I know who the dead man from Spinoccia is.”

  “Really?!”

  “Gurreri. And I also know who killed him.”

  “Who?”

  “Galluzzo.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Exactly.”

  “So the body’s Gurreri’s? That would make him one of the two guys who tried to set your house on fire on Monday.”

  “Right.”

  “But are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Dr. Pasquano told me he found signs of the operation that was performed on Gurreri’s head three years ago.”

  “But who told you the dead man might be Gurreri?”

  “Nobody told me. I had an intuition.”

  He told Fazio about his meeting with the commissioner and Arquà.

  “This means we’re in deep shit, Chief.”

  “No. The shit’s there, and we’re close, but we’re not in it yet.”

  “But if Dr. Arquà insists on seeing that gun—”

  “I don’t think he will. In fact I’m sure the commissioner will tell him to drop it. I made a terrible scene. However . . . Excuse me, but when we have weapons that need adjusting, we send them to Montelusa, right?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And has Weapons sent Galluzzo’s gun to be fixed yet?”

  “No, not yet. But I only found out by chance this morning. I wanted to give them Patrolman Ferrara’s gun, too, which also jammed, but since neither Turturici nor Manzella were there, and they’re in charge of—”

  “That little shit Arquà won’t have to ask me for the weapon. Since I said Galluzzo’s gun jammed, he’s going to check every pistol that comes in from our station.We absolutely need to screw him before he screws us.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “I just had an idea. Have you still got Ferrara’s pistol?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Wait. I need to make a phone call.”

  He raised the receiver.

  “Catarella? Please call the c’mishner, then put him through to me.”

  The call went through at once. He turned on the speakerphone.

  “What can I do for you, Montalbano?”

  “Mr. Commissioner, I’d like to say first of all that I feel deeply mortified for letting myself get carried away in your presence, with a terrible, nervous outburst that—”

  “Well, I’m pleased that you—”

  “I also wanted to inform you that I’ll be sending Dr. Arquà the weapon in question . . .”—weapon in question wasn’t bad—“without delay, for any verifications or tests he deems necessary. And I beg you again, Mr. Commissioner, to forgive me and accept my deepest, humblest—”

  “Apologies accepted. I am glad it’s all turned out for the better between you and Arquà. Goodbye, Montalbano.”

  “My very best wishes, Mr. Commissioner.”

  He hung up.

  “What on earth are you up to?” asked Fazio.

  “Go get Ferrara’s weapon, remove two cartridges from the clip, and hide them well.We’ll need them later.Then put it in a box all nicely wrapped up as a present and take it to Dr. Arquà with my compliments.”

  “And what do I tell Ferrara? If he doesn’t turn in his jammed pistol, they won’t give him another.”

  “Get Weapons to give you back Galluzzo’s, too. Tell them I need it. Figure out a way to tell them that you also gave me Ferrara’s gun, so they can give you a replacement for him. If Manzella and Turturici ask me to explain, I’ll say I want to bring them to Montelusa myself to protest. The key is to let three or four days pass.”

  “So how do we deal with Galluzzo?”

  “If he’s here, send him in.”

  Five minutes later, Galluzzo appeared.

  “You wanted me, Chief?”

  “Sit down, killer.”

  * * *

  When he had finished talking to Galluzzo, he looked at his watch and realized he had taken too long. At that hour, Enzo the restaurateur had already lowered the metal shutter.

  So he decided to make his last remaining move now, without wasting any more time. He took a photo of Gurreri, put it in his pocket, went out, got in his car, and drove off.

  Via Nicotera was not really a street, properly speaking, but a long, narrow alleyway in Piano Lanterna, the elevated part of town. Number 38 was a delapidated little two-story building with a locked front door. Across from it was a greengrocer’s shop that must have been Don Minicuzzu’s. Given the hour, however, it was closed. The little building had an intercom system. He pressed the button next to where the name Gurreri was written. A moment later the door clicked open, without anyone having asked who was ringing.

  There was no elevator, but the house, after all, was small. There were two apartments on each floor. Gurreri lived on the top floor.The front door was open.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “Please come in,” said a woman’s voice.

  A tiny little vestibule with two doors, one leading to the dining room, the other to the bedroom. At once Montalbano smelled an odor of heartbreaking poverty. A woman of about thirty, shabby and disheveled, was waiting for him in the dining room. She must have married Gurreri when still a very young girl, and she must have been beautiful, since, in spite of everything, something of her lost beauty still remained in her face and body.

  “Whattya want?” she asked.

  Montalbano could see the fear in her eyes.

  “I’m a police inspector, Signora Gurreri. My name is Montalbano.”

  “I a’ready tol’ everything to the carabineri.”

  “I know, signora.Why don’t we sit down?”

  They sat down. She on the edge of her chair, tense, ready to run away.

  “I know you’ve been called upon to testify at the Licco trial.”

  “Yessir.”

  “But that’s not why I came here.”

  She immediately seemed a bit relieved. But the fear remained deep in her eyes.

  “So whattya want?”

  Montalbano found himself at a crossroads. He didn’t feel like being brutal with her; he felt too sorry for her. Now that she was sitting there before him, he was positive the young woman had been persuaded to become Licco’s mistress not by money, but by beatings and threats.

  On the other hand, it was possible he wouldn’t get anywhere with kindness and moderation. Perhaps the best thing was to shock her.

  “How long has it been since you last saw your husband?”

  “Three months, give or take a few days.”

  “And you haven’t heard from him since?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You don’t have any children, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know someone by the name of Ciccio Bellavia?”

  The fear returned, animal-like, to her eyes. Montalbano noticed that her hands were trembling slightly.

  “Yessir.”

  “Has he come here?”

  “Yessir.”

  “How many times?”

  “Twice. Both times with my husband.”

  “I think you should come with me, signora.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Where to?”

  “To the morgue
.”

  “Whass that?”

  “It’s where they put dead people.”

  “Why should I go there?”

  “We need you to make an identification.”

  He took the photograph out of his pocket.

  “Is this your husband?”

  “Yessir. When ’d they take this? Why do I have to come? . . .”

  “Because we’re convinced that Ciccio Bellavia killed your husband.”

  She bolted upright.Then she staggered, her body swaying back and forth, and grabbed on to the table.

  “Damn him! Damn that Bellavia! He swore to me he wouldn’t do nothin’ to him!”

  She couldn’t go on. Her legs buckled and she fell to the floor, unconscious.

  17

  “Look, I haven’t got much time.And don’t get into the habit of dropping in without an appointment,” said Prosecutor Giarrizzo.

  “You’re right, sir. I’m sorry to barge in like this.”

  “You’ve got five minutes. Speak.”

  Montalbano glanced at his watch.

  “I’ve come to give you the second episode of the adventures of Inspector Martinez. I think you’ll find it quite interesting.”

  Giarrizzo looked baffled.

  “And who is this Martinez?”

  “Have you forgotten? Don’t you remember the hypothetical police inspector you spoke to me about hypothetically, the last time I was here? The one handling the investigation of Salinas, the shakedown artist who had shot and wounded a shop owner, and so on and so forth?”

  Giarrizzo, feeling a little like he was being made a fool of, gave him a dirty look.Then he said coldly:

  “Now I remember. Go on.”

  “Salinas claimed he had an alibi, but didn’t say what.You discovered that his defenders would assert that at the moment that Alvarez was sh—”

  “Good God! Who is Alvarez?”

  “The shop owner wounded by Salinas. So, the defense would assert that Salinas, at that moment, was at the home of a certain Dolores, his mistress. And they were going to call Dolores’s husband, and Dolores herself, to the witness stand.You told me the prosecution maintained they could pick apart the alibi, but you yourself weren’t absolutely certain. As it turns out, however, Inspector Martinez finds himself handling the case of a murdered man, who he discovers is a certain Pepito, a small-time crook working for the Mafia who also happened to be Dolores’s husband.”

  “And who killed him?”

  “Martinez assumes he was bumped off by a mafioso by the name of Bellavia—sorry, Sanchez. For some time now, Martinez has been asking himself why Dolores would agree to provide Salinas with an alibi. She certainly was not his mistress. So why would she do it? For money? Was she threatened? Was she coerced by violence? Then he has a brilliant idea. He goes to see Dolores at home, shows her the photo of the murdered Pepito, and tells her it was Sanchez who did it.At this point the woman has an unexpected reaction, which makes Martinez realize the incredible truth.”

  “Namely?”

  “That Dolores did what she did for love.”

  “Love of whom?”

  “Her husband. I repeat: It seems hard to believe, but it’s true. Pepito is a scoundrel, he mistreats her, beats her, but she loves him and puts up with it all. Sanchez told her, meeting with her alone: Either you provide the alibi, or we kill Pepito, whom they’ve practically kidnapped.When Dolores learns from Martinez that he has been killed anyway, even though she has accepted the blackmail, she caves in, decides to avenge herself, and confesses. And there you have it.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “That took four and a half minutes,” he said.

  “All right, Montalbano, but, you see, Dolores confessed to a hypothetical police inspector who—”

  “But she is ready to repeat everything to a concrete, nonhypothetical prosecutor. Shall we call this prosecutor by his proper name, Giarrizzo?”

  “Then that changes everything. I’m going to call the carabinieri,” said Giarrizzo, “and send them—”

  “—to the courtyard.”

  Giarrizzo balked.

  “What courtyard?”

  “The courthouse courtyard, right here. Signora Siragusa—ah, sorry, I mean Dolores—is in one of my squad cars, under the escort of my chief sergeant Fazio. Martinez didn’t want to leave her alone for even a second. Now that she’s talked, she fears for her life. She’s got a small suitcase with her, with her few personal effects. It should be easy for you, sir, to understand that the poor woman can no longer go home. They would bump her off in no time. Inspector Martinez hopes that Signora Siragusa, sorry, I mean Dolores, will be protected as she deserves. Good day.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the bar to eat a panino.”

  * * *

  “So Licco is fucked, once and for all,” said Fazio, when they were all back at the station.

  “Right.”

  “Aren’t you pleased?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t arrive at the truth until after many mistakes, too many.”

  “What mistakes?”

  “I’ll tell you just once, okay? Gurreri was never really taken on by the Mafia, as you put it, and as I put it to Giarrizzo, knowing it wasn’t true.They merely held him hostage, letting him think they had taken him in.Whereas in fact he was constantly under the control of Ciccio Bellavia, who told him what he was supposed to do. And if his wife did not testify as they wanted her to do, they would kill him with no questions asked.”

  “So how does that change anything?”

  “It changes everything, Fazio, everything. For example, stealing the horses. It could not have been Gurreri’s idea.At most, he took part in the operation. That shoots down Lo Duca’s hypothesis, which is that it was a vendetta on Gurreri’s part.And now it’s even less possible it was Gurreri who phoned Signora Esterman.”

  “Maybe it was Bellavia?”

  “Maybe, but I’m convinced that even Bellavia is doing somebody else’s bidding. And I’m certain that of the two men who wanted to set fire to my house, the other one, the one who shot at Galluzzo, was Bellavia.”

  “So you think it’s the Cuffaros who are behind all this.”

  “I no longer have any doubt. Augello was right when he said Gurreri’s brain wasn’t sharp enough to organize this kind of scheme, and you were right when you maintained that the Cuffaros wanted me to act a certain way at the trial. But they, too, have made a mistake.They have bothered the sleeping dog. And the dog, that is, me, has woken up and bitten them.”

  “Oh, Chief, I forgot to ask: How did Galluzzo take it?”

  “Pretty well, all things considered. After all, he fired in self-defense.”

  “Sorry, but you told Concetta Siragusa that it was Bellavia who killed her husband?”

  “As far as that goes, I told Prosecutor Giarrizzo the same thing.”

  “Fine, but we know he didn’t do it.”

  “You have qualms about a criminal like Bellavia, who we know has got at least three homicides under his belt? Three or four?”

  “I don’t have any qualms, Chief, but the guy’s gonna say he didn’t do it.”

  “And who’s gonna believe him?”

  “But what if he tells them what really happened? That it was someone from the police who shot Gurreri?”

  “Then he’ll have to tell them how and why. He’d have to say they came to my house to burn it down so I would act a certain way at the Licco trial. In other words he would have to bring the Cuffaros into the picture.Think he’s gonna want to do that?”

  * * *

  On the way back to Marinella, a wolflike hunger assailed him. In the fridge he found a bowl of caponata whose scent filled the soul, and a plate of little wild asparagus, the kind that are bitter as poison, dressed only in olive oil and salt. In the oven was a loaf of wheat bread. He set the table on the veranda and enjoyed himself.The night was pitch-black. A short distance fr
om shore shone the jacklamp of a fishing boat. Seeing it there, he felt relieved, since he was now certain that nobody aboard the boat was spying on him.

  He got into bed and started reading one of the Swedish books he had bought. Its protagonist was a colleague of his, Inspector Martin Beck, whose manner of investigation he found very appealing.When he had finished the novel and turned out the light, it was four o’clock in the morning.

  * * *

  As a result, he woke up at nine, but only because Adelina had made noise in the kitchen.

  “Could you bring me a coffee, Adelì?”

  “Iss ready, Isspector.”

  He drank it in little sips, savoring it, then set fire to a cigarette.When he finished it, he got up and went into the bathroom.

  Later, all dressed and ready to go out, he went into the kitchen to have a second cup, as was his wont.

  “Oh, signore, I got somethin f’ you I keepa fuhgettin’ a give you,” said Adelina.

  “What is it?”

  “They gave itta me atta dry cleaner when I went a get you’ trousers.They foun’ it inna pocket.”

  Her purse was on a chair. She opened it, extracted something, and held it out to the inspector.

  It was a horseshoe.

  As the coffee was spilling onto his shirt, Montalbano felt the ground open up beneath his feet.Twice in twenty-four hours! It was really too much.

  “Whass ’appenin’, signore? You staina you’ shirt.”

  He couldn’t open his mouth. He kept staring, bug-eyed, at the horseshoe, benumbed, bewildered, flummoxed, and flabbergasted.

  “Isspector, you make a me frighten! Whass’ wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” he managed to articulate.

  He grabbed a glass, filled it with water, drank it down in one gulp.

  “Nuthin’, nuthin’,” Adelina repeated, still looking at him, worried, with the horseshoe still in her hand.

  “Gimme that,” he said, taking off his shirt. “And make me another pot of coffee.”

  “But isn’t alla this coffee gonna make a you sick?”

  He didn’t answer. He drifted into the dining room as though sleepwalking and, still holding the horseshoe, picked up the receiver with one hand and dialed the number of the police station.

  “Halloo! Vigàta Po—”

  “Catarella, Montalbano here.”