consummate acting skills. Pretending to have been surprised awake, he leapt to his feet cursing and hurled himself towards the Kalishnikov, which was now leaning against the table and therefore far from the cot. Montalbano was ready to recite his lines as the foil, as they say in the theater.
Stop in the name of the law! Stop or Ill shoot! he shouted at the top of his lungs, then fired four shots into the ceiling. Tano froze, hands raised. Convinced that someone must be hiding upstairs, Galluzzo fired a burst from his machine gun at the wooden staircase. Outside, Fazio and Gallo, upon hearing all the shooting, opened fire on the little window to discourage anyone from trying that route. With everyone inside the cottage still deaf from the roar of the gunshots, Germanurst in with the final flourish:
Dont anybody move or Ill shoot!
He barely had time to finish uttering his threat when he was bumped from behind by Fazio and Gallo and pushed directly between Montalbano and Galluzzo, who, having set down his weapon, was dabbing his nose with a handkerchief he had taken out of his pocket, the blood having already dripped onto his shirt, tie, and jacket. At the sight of him, Gallo became agitated.
Did he shoot you? The bastard shot you, didnt he? he yelled in rage, turning towards Tano, who was still standing patient as a saint in the middle of the room, hands raised, waiting for the forces of order to put some order to the great confusion they were creating.
No, he didnt shoot me. I ran into the wall, Galluzzo managed to say with some difficulty. Tano avoided their eyes, looking down at his shoes.
He thinks its funny, thought Montalbano, then he brusquely ordered Galluzzo:
Handcuff him.
Is it him? asked Fazio in a soft voice.
Sure its him. Dont you recognize him? said Montalbano.
What do we do now?
Put him in the car and take him to police headquarters in Montelusa. On the way, ring up the commissioner and explain everything. Make sure nobody sees or recognizes the prisoner. The arrest, for the moment, has to remain top secret. Now go.
What about you?
Im going to have a look around, search the house. You never know.
Fazio and the officers, holding the handcuffed Tano between them, started moving towards the door, with German holding the prisoners Kalishnikov in his hand. Only then did Tano the Greek raise his head and look momentarily at Montalbano. The inspector noticed that the statuelike gaze was gone. Now those eyes were animated, almost smiling.
When the group of five vanished from sight at the bottom of the path, Montalbano went back inside the cottage to begin his search. In fact, he opened the cupboard, grabbed
the bottle of wine, which was still half-full, and went and sat in the shade of an olive tree, to drink it down in peace. The capture of a dangerous fugitive had been brought to a successful conclusion.
As soon as he saw Montalbano come into the office, Mim Augello, looking possessed by the devil, put him through the meat grinder:
Where the hell have you been?! Whereve you been hiding? What happened to everybody else? What the fuck is going on here, anyway?
He must have been really angry to speak so frankly. In the three years they had been working together, the inspector had never heard his assistant use obscenities. Actually, no: the time some asshole shot Tortorella in the stomach,Augello had reacted the same way.
Mimwhats got into you?
Whats got into me? I got scared, thats what!
Scared? Of what?
At least six people have phoned here. Their stories all differed as to the details, but they were all in agreement as to the substance: a gunfight with dead and wounded. One of them even called it a bloodbath. You werent at home. Fazio and the others had gone out with the car without saying a word to anyone . . . So I just put two and two together. Was I wrong?
No, you werent wrong. But you shouldnt blame me, you should blame the telephone. Its the telephones fault.
Whats the telephone got to do with it?
Its got everything to do with it! Nowadays youve got telephones even in the most godforsaken country haylofts. So what do people do, when theres a phone within reach? They phone. And they say things. True things, imagined things, possible things, impossible things, dreamed-up things like in that Eduardo de Filippo comedy, whats it called, oh yes, The Voices Insidethey inflate things and deflate things but never give you their name and surname. They dial emergency numbers where anyone can say the craziest bullshit in the world without ever assuming any responsibility for it! And meanwhile the Mafia experts get all excited because they think omerts on the decline in Sicily! No more complicity! No more fear! Hah! Ill tell you whats on the decline: my ass is on the decline, and meanwhile the phone bill is on the rise.
Montalbano! Stop confusing me with your chatter! Were there any dead and wounded or not?
Of course not. There was no gunfight. We just fired a few shots into the air, Galluzzo smashed his nose all by himself, and the guy surrendered.
What guy?
A fugitive.
Yeah, but who?
Catarella arrived breathless and spared him the embarrassment of answering.
Chief, that would be his honor the commissioner on the phone.
Ill tell you later, said Montalbano, fleeing into his office.
My dear friend, I want to give you my most heartfelt con
gratulations.
Thank you.
You really hit the bulls-eye this time.
We got lucky.
Apparently the man in question is even more important than he himself let on.
Where is he now?
On his way to Palermo. The Anti-Mafia Commission insisted; they wouldnt take no for an answer. Your men werent even allowed to stop in Montelusa; they had to drive on. I sent along an escort car with four of my men to keep them company.
So you didnt speak with Fazio?
I didnt have the time or the chance. I know almost nothing about this case. So, actually, Id appreciate it if you could pass by my office this afternoon and fill me in on the details.
Ay, theres the hitch, thought Montalbano, remembering a nineteenth-century translation of Hamlets monologue. But he merely asked:
At what time?
Lets say around five. Ah, also, Palermo wants absolute secrecy about the operation, at least for now.
If it was only up to me...
I wasnt referring to you, since I know you well and can say that compared to you, even fish are a talkative species. Listen, by the way...
There was a pause. The commissioner had broken off and Montalbano didnt feel like saying anything: a troubling alarm bell had gone off in his head at the sound of that laudatory I know you well.
Listen, Montalbano, the commissioner hesitantly started over, and with that hesitation the alarm began to ring more loudly.
Yes, Commissioner.
Im afraid that this time theres no way I can prevent your promotion to assistant commissioner.
Madunnuzza biniditta! Why not?
Dont be silly, Montalbano.
Well, Im sorry, but why should I be promoted?
What a question! Because of what you did this morning.
Montalbano felt simultaneously hot and cold: he had sweat on his forehead and chills down his spine. The prospect terrorized him.
I didnt do anything different from what my colleagues do every day, Commissioner.
I dont doubt it. But this particular arrest, when it comes to be known, will cause quite a stir.
So theres no hope? Come on, dont be childish. The inspector felt like a tuna caught in the net, the
chamber of death. He began to feel short of breath, mouth opening and closing on emptiness. Then he tried a desperate suggestion:
Couldnt we blame Fazio? Blame? Im sorry, I meant couldnt we give him the credit? See you later, Montalbano.
Augello, who was lurking behind the door, made a question
ing face. Whatd the commissioner say? We spoke about the situation. Oh, r
ight! You should see the look on your face! What look? Like youve been to a funeral. I had trouble digesting what I ate last night. Anything interesting? Three pounds of mostaccioli. Augello looked at him in dismay. Montalbano, sensing
that he was about to ask him the name of the arrested fugitive, used the opportunity to change the subject and put him on another track.
Did you guys ever find the night watchman?
The one in the supermarket? Yeah, I found him myself. The thieves bashed him in the head, then bound and gagged him and threw him in a great big freezer.
Is he dead?
No, but I dont think hes feeling very alive either. When we pulled him out, he looked like a giant frozen stockfish.
Any idea which way they went?
Ive got half an idea myself and the carabinieri lieutenant has another. But one thing is certain: to haul all that stuff, they had to use a heavy truck. And there must have been a team of at least six people to load it, under the command of some professional.
Listen, MimI have to run home and change my clothes. Ill be right back.
Near Marinella he noticed that the reserve light for the gas tank was flashing. He stopped at the same filling station where thered been a drive-by shooting a while back, when hed had to bring in the attendant to get him to talk. Upon seeing the inspector, the attendant, who bore him no grudge, greeted him in his usual high-pitched voice, which made Montalbano shudder. After filling the tank, the attendant counted the money and eyed the inspector.
Whats wrong? Didnt I give you enough?
No sir. Theres enough money here, all right. I just wanted to tell you something.
Lets have it, Montalbano said impatiently. If the guy went on talking, even a little, his nerves would give out.
Look at that truck over there.
And he pointed at a large tractor-trailer parked in the lot behind the filling station, tarps pulled down tight to hide the cargo.
It was already here early this morning, he continued, when I opened up. Now its been four hours and still no- bodys come to get it.
Did you look to see if anyones sleeping in the cab?
Yessir, I looked, theres nobody. And another weird thing: the keys are still in the ignition. The first soul to come along could start it up and drive it away.
Show me, said Montalbano, suddenly interested.
4
A tiny man with rat-tail mustaches, an unpleasant smile, gold-framed eyeglasses, brown shoes, brown socks, brown suit, brown shirt, brown tie, a veritable nightmare in brown, Carmelo Ingrassia, owner of the supermarket, pressed the crease in his trousers with his fingers, right leg crossed over the left, and repeated his succinct interpretation of events for the third time.
It was a joke, Inspector, a practical joke that somebody, I guess, wanted to play on me.
Montalbano was lost in contemplation of the ballpoint pen he held in his hand. Concentrating his attention on the cap, he removed it, examined it inside and out as though he had never seen so strange a gizmo, blew into it as if to cleanse it of some invisible speck of dust, looked at it again, remained unsatisfied, blew into it again, put it down on the desk, unscrewed the pens metal tip, thought about this for a moment, set it down alongside the cap, carefully considered the piece remaining in his hand, lined this up near the other two pieces, and sighed deeply. This allowed him to calm down
and check the impulsewhich for a second had nearly overwhelmed himto get up, go over to Ingrassia, punch him in the face, and ask: Now tell me truthfully: in your opinion, am I joking or am I serious?
Tortorella, who was present for the interview and knew his chief s reactions well, visibly relaxed.
Let me try and understand, said Montalbano, in full control of himself.
Whats to understand, Inspector? Its all clear as day. The stolen goods were all in the truck that you found. Not one toothpick was missing, not a single lollipop. So, if they didnt do it to rob me, they musta done it as a joke, for fun.
Youll have to be patient with me, Mr. Ingrassia, Im a little slow in the head. So: eight days ago, from a depot in Cataniathat is, on the other side of the islandtwo people steal a truck with a trailer belonging to the Sferlazza company. At that moment the truck is empty. For eight days they keep this truck out of sight, hiding it somewhere between Catania and Vig, since it wasnt seen in circulation. Logically speaking, therefore, the only reason that truck was stolen and hidden was to take it out of circulation, when the time was right, to play a joke on you. Let me continue. Last night the truck rematerializes and around one a.m.,when theres almost nobody on the streets, it stops in front of your supermarket. The night watchman thinks its there to bring in new stocks, even at that odd hour. We dont know exactly how things went, the watchman still cant talk, but we do
know that they put him out of commission, took his keys, and went inside. One of the thieves stripped the watchman and put on his uniform. This, I must say, was a brilliant move. The next brilliant move was that the others turned on the lights and got down to work in plain sight, taking no precau- tionsin broad daylight, one might say, if it wasnt night. Ingenious, no doubt about it. Because a stranger passing through the neighborhood, noticing the watchman in uniform overseeing a few people loading a truck, would never dream that he was actually witnessing a robbery. This is the reconstruction of events offered by my colleague Augello; it was confirmed by the testimony of Cavaliere Misuraca, who was on his way home at the time.
At the mention of that name, Ingrassia, who had seemed to be losing interest as the inspector went on, sat up in his chair as if stung by a wasp.
Misuraca?!
Yes, the one who used to work at the Records Office.
But hes a Fascist!
I dont see what the cavalieres political beliefs have to do with the case were discussing.
They have everything to do with it! Because when I used to be involved in politics, he was my enemy.
Youre no longer involved in politics?
Whats to be involved in anymore! With that handful of Milanese judges whove decided to ruin politics, commerce, and industry, all at the same time!
Listen, the cavaliere merely gave a testimonial establishing the modus operandi of the thieves.
I dont give a shit what the cavaliere was establishing. Hes an old geezer who cant even remember when he turned eighty. Hes so senile hes liable to see a cat and say its an elephant. What was he doing out at that time of the night anyway?
I dont know, Ill ask him. Shall we get back to the subject?
Fine.
Once it was loaded, at your supermarket, after at least two hours of labor, the truck leaves. It drives three or four miles, turns around, parks in the lot behind the gas station, and remains there until I find it. And, in your opinion, someone went through this whole elaborate setup, committed half a dozen crimes, risking years in jail, just so he, or you, could have a good laugh?
Inspector, we could stay here all day arguing, but I swear to you that I cant imagine how it could have been anything but a joke.
In the refrigerator Montalbano found a plate of cold pasta with tomatoes, basil, and black passuluna olives that gave off an aroma to wake the dead, and a second course of fresh anchovies with onions and vinegar. Montalbano was in the habit of trusting entirely in the simple but zestful culinary
imagination of Adelina, the housekeeper who came once a day to see to his needs, a mother of two irremediably delinquent sons, one of whom was still in jail, put there by Montalbano. And this day, too, she did not disappoint him. Every time he was about to open the oven or fridge, he still felt the same trepidation he used to feel as a little boy when, on the second of November, he would look for the wicker basket in which the dead had left their gifts during the nighta celebration now lost, obliterated by the banality of presents under the Christmas tree, obliterated like the memory of the dead themselves. The only ones who did not forget their dead, and who indeed tenaciously kept their memory burning, were the mafiosi; but the presen
ts they sent in remembrance were certainly not little tin trains or marzipan fruits.
Surprise, in short, was an indispensable spice in Adelinas dishes.
He took his two courses, a bottle of wine, and some bread to the table, turned on the television, and sat down to dinner. He loved to eat alone, relishing every bite in silence. This was yet another bond that tied him to Livia, who never opened her mouth when she ate. It occurred to him that in matters of taste he was closer to Maigret than to Pepe Carvalho, the protagonist of Montalbs novels, who stuffed himself with dishes that would have set a sharks belly on fire.
On the national television stations, an ill wind of malaise was blowing. The governing majority found itself split over a law that would deny early prison release to those who had eaten up half the country; the magistrates who had laid bare
the dirty secrets of political corruption were resigning in protest; and there was a faint breeze of revolt animating the interviews with people in the street.
He switched to the first of the two local TV stations. TeleVig was progovernment by congenital faith, whether the government was red, black, or sky blue. The news reporter made no mention of the capture of Tano the Greek, stating only that a few conscientious citizens had alerted the Vig police of a lively but mysterious shoot-out at dawn in the rural area known as the Walnut, and that investigators, after arriving promptly at the scene, had found nothing unusual. The newscaster for the Free Channel, Nicolto, who did not hide his Communist sympathies, likewise failed to mention Tanos arrest. Which seemed to indicate that the news, fortunately, had not leaked out. But then, out of the blue, Zito started talking about the bizarre robbery at the Ingrassia supermarket and the inexplicable rediscovery of the truck with all the stolen merchandise. The common opinion, reported Zito, was that the vehicle must have been abandoned following an argument between the robbers over how to divide up the loot. Zito, however, did not agree. In his opinion, things had gone differently; the real explanation was surely far more complicated.
And so I appeal directly to you, Inspector Montalbano. Is it not true that there must be more to this story than meets the eye? the newsman asked, closing his report.
IM2 The Terra-Cotta Dog (2002) Page 3
