There was about half an hour of daylight left when Soneri took the road to Villa del Greppo for the second time. Dolly trotted faithfully behind him, evidently having no idea that she was facing another separation. Only when they were at the gates did she betray any sign of recognising the place, and began to sniff about and growl. The commissario pressed the bell and this time heard a hollow ring inside. After a minute, the Philippino arrived and looked unwelcomingly at him.
“The Signora not here. Out. Car.”
“I’ve brought the dog back. She ran away the last time.”
“Always run. Not want here.”
“She’s young. She needs exercise, so if you keep her in a pound…”
“Used to Signor Palmiro. His dog dead, so took this one.”
“Wasn’t it Paride’s?”
“Yes, but he not go shoot. This dog good, very good.”
“Did Palmiro always take his rifle with him in the evening?”
The Philippino blushed, and Soneri realised he had touched a nerve. The servant waved his hands about him as though he were losing his balance and was struggling, with his limited vocabulary, to find the right words.
“I can ask the gamekeeper,” Soneri said.
“He said it only pleasure left,” the Philippino said, relieved at being allowed to give an indirect reply.
“I agree,” Soneri said, looking at Dolly. “Take her to her kennel.”
The servant called to Dolly, who kept her eyes on Soneri and did not move. Feeling painfully churlish, he had to turn away from those imploring eyes which seemed to be requesting an explanation. The Philippino took Dolly by the collar and dragged her in. When he heard the lock click shut, he turned towards the village. From where he was standing, it looked like a brazier flickering in the dark.
“Just down from the villa?” Maini said.
Soneri nodded.
“I saw you coming back without the dog.”
“I had to give her back, but the visit was worthwhile.”
Maini looked at him blankly, but did not seek further elucidation. “Paride’s wife wasn’t there.”
“So the Philippino told me, but maybe it was only a way of getting rid of me,” Soneri said.
“No, she’s in Parma. Her son’s had a car accident.”
“Did he hurt himself playing with his toy?”
“It seems he was drunk and drugged up to the eyeballs, but he didn’t do himself much damage.”
“Drunk? There’s a surprise. Not the best of times for the Rodolfis.”
“Not just for them. Have you heard what’s happened in the village?”
“What now?”
“Somebody took a knife to Biavardi. His daughter was Paride’s secretary.”
“Who was it?”
“Nobody knows. They attacked him at home, but possibly they were after the girl.”
“Have the carabinieri been told?”
Maini’s gesture implied that the matter was of no interest to him. “It took them two hours to get there because they’re all searching for the Woodsman. Nobody wants to talk, and they don’t exactly trust the carabinieri.”
“Until a couple of days ago, Crisafulli was playing cards in the village bars.”
“The general view is that the Woodsman was quite right. Paride was never popular and he cheated everybody.”
“But it was Palmiro who collected the cash.”
“They believe Paride deceived him as well, and that by hanging himself the old man confirmed it. He was ashamed and that was his only way out.”
“It was obvious to him that they were all backing the Woodsman.”
“He’s only doing what they’d all have liked to do, if they had the courage.”
Several people were leaving the Rivara, but in the gathering dusk in the piazza the commissario could not make out who they were. The sun was going down, giving way to the freezing air which crumpled the few leaves left on the branches. All along the Montelupo valley, the mist was growing thicker, making the night darker. At that moment, some lights appeared on the path above Boldara, half way up the mountainside. About a dozen torches were swaying rhythmically as the men marched back. The carabinieri, clearly having mistimed nightfall, were returning to the village.
“If we were at war, I’d say that was unwise,” Maini said.
“They’re abandoning the field to the Woodsman — if they’d won it in the first place,” Soneri agreed.
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the sound of gunfire, sudden shots blasted out to disturb the peace of the valley. It seemed almost possible to see flashes as they dispelled the darkness in the foliage and cut through the evening mists, or perhaps it was the torches fanning out in search of the source of the volley. The first salvo was followed by the rifles’ angry retort. Other shots rang out in quick succession, or simultaneously, from many angles, it seemed. It was clear the carabinieri were firing blindly, more in the hope of neutralising the threat than of hitting their target.
“Good God! He’s firing like a devil.” Soneri recognised Volpi’s voice in the middle of the group that rushed out from the Rivara. “He’s attacking them in the dark to scare them off.”
Confused shouts came drifting down. Someone could be heard bawling out an order intended to restore discipline in the ranks. The favourable wind carried indistinct sounds, not intelligible words.
“He’s trying to wear them down with these ambushes,” Volpi said.
“It’s stupid. He’d have worn them down more quickly if he’d simply kept out of their way,” Soneri said. At that moment, an image of Captain Bovolenta came into his mind: all military stiffness and ingrained stubbornness, his head filled with notions of honour.
“He feels sure of himself and he’s bursting with rage. If you ask me, I don’t think that what Gualerzi did deserves so much as a fine,” Delrio said.
“It’s the reaction of a man who’s been ruined.” It was Rivara who spoke. “His brother once kept a regiment of Germans at bay at Badignana with nothing more than a Sten gun.”
“And he was at his brother’s side.”
“He’s not even afraid of tanks.”
The carabinieri had switched off their torches so as not to provide their enemy with an easy target. They appeared to have spread out in the woods, waiting. Everything settled into an unnatural calm. Not even the hoot of an owl could be heard. They too had been silenced by the shots cutting through the air.
“If they get too far off the path, one of those boys is going to get lost, and if the Woodsman finds him, he could finish him off with a single punch,” Delrio said.
“Do you remember that time at the San Matteo fair when he stunned a cow with one blow between the horns?” Rivara said.
At that moment, the firing started again, this time further up the mountain, among the chestnut trees at Campogrande.
“He’s moved. He wants them to know he can attack them anywhere he likes,” Maini said, his voice almost drowned out by a new volley. The bullets seemed to fly across the valley, a whistling sound followed by a bang.
“That’s the Woodsman’s Beretta alright,” Volpi said.
He was presumably firing in the air, since his objective seemed to be to frighten them, not to hit them. Bullets sailed through the trees, snapping off branches as they passed, and Soneri imagined a shower of bark falling on the crouching carabinieri. Suddenly, they returned fire from several different positions, all aiming in the direction where they believed the Woodsman was. They had allowed him to shoot at will, but they were now obeying orders to open fire in unison, like an execution squad. The valley shook to the terrible roar of the guns, the woodland was lit up by brief flashes as rifle fire was concentrated on a ten-metre range where the breaking of branches and the thud of bullets against tree trunks was the only sound heard.
“They’re focusing on the one zone, but they’re covering a wide front. They hope they’ll get him that way,” Delrio said.
There was a sinister silence, a lull before another storm, and then an explosion, this time from some hundred metres above the carabiniere position. The wind from the blast once again ripped through the village at gale force. The Woodsman had lowered his sights and was firing into the woods. The carabinieri replied immediately, but with staggered shots which sounded like firecrackers. It was now a skirmish among the trees, fought blindly, the outcome dependent on the vagaries of chance. The trees alone provided a certain target, the wood crumbling as each bullet impacted.
Soneri shook his head. “He couldn’t have done anything more stupid.”
The others turned to him in disbelief, and for the first time he had the sensation of really being a policeman.
“You’d have to be there in the middle of it,” Rivara said, in an almost hostile tone.
“All he had to do was keep away from them. He could have led them on a merry dance for months.”
“They won’t let him go back home and his wife is ill,” Volpi said. This news plainly came as a surprise to the others.
“The Woodsman’s made that way. When he’s in a rage, he behaves like a charging boar,” Rivara said.
“His wife is seriously ill.” The speaker again was Volpi.
“Isn’t her daughter there to look after her?” Soneri said.
“She’s doing all she can, but with the carabinieri always in the house… She has got to go regularly to the hospital to be kept under observation.” Volpi was keen to let it be known that he was well informed, and the group listened attentively. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with the same patience as a hunter stalking his prey. He was dressed in a heavy green jacket with many pockets, which made him look stouter.
They stayed there another quarter of an hour, listening for more exchanges of fire. There might have been bodies lying in the woods, but none of them cared. More time went by, then they heard trucks starting up and they made out the headlights shining over the reservoir. The carabinieri drove swiftly down the path through the woods and accelerated when they reached the road. The vehicles came into the piazza at speed, one behind the other. As they passed, everyone could see an officer in the front of one of the trucks holding a bandage to his forehead. Rivara announced that he saw blood flowing. “There was one taken to the hospital this morning, and now he’s shot another one,” he said. The vehicles did not head for the hospital, but drew up at the police station, ignored by the few bystanders.
The group outside the Rivara broke up, one after the other drifting off without the usual goodbyes. Indifference and passivity seemed to have infected the community, and a dull hatred lurked among the cluster of houses. In the centre of the village, the Olmo played host to its veterans, spectators at a drama whose latest act was unknown to them. When the commissario passed by, Magnani appeared at the door. He stubbed his cigarette out on the road, giving the impression he had been listening to all that had been said until then.
“Fine battle, eh?” he said.
“It’s war now.”
“If you know that captain, tell him to steer clear of the Woodsman. His chances of capturing him are slight, but the chances of Gualerzi putting a bullet in some carabiniere’s head are considerable. If you tread on his toes, he won’t think twice.”
“I’ll be sure to pass the word on, but the Woodsman is doing one crass thing after another.”
“One good thing he did do, get rid of Paride.”
“If it was him. But he had good reason.”
“I agree the whole business is odd. Unless Rodolfi really did ruin him.”
“He did the same to a lot of people.”
“It was different with the Woodsman. There was nothing about Palmiro he didn’t know. He could have landed him in the shit any time he wanted.”
“Because he went to bed with his son’s wife?”
“Lusts, desires, nothing more.” Magnani was not interested in this aspect. “There were more important things. It seems there was some kind of pact between Palmiro and Gualerzi. They were both men of the woods, and men of that sort understand each other by smell alone.”
“He did fix his daughter up with a job at the Rodolfi factory.”
“I have an idea they used to meet on Montelupo and when they were there, they went back to being boys together. When you get right down to it, Palmiro had no idea what his business had become. Finance, stock exchange… these words reduced him to a babbling wreck. His son more or less shut him out of all the dealings, and he was none too pleased about that.”
“From what I hear, they didn’t even seem like members of the same family.”
“Paride took after his mother. She was frail, fearful, very nervous and had never enjoyed good health. In her last years, she wouldn’t even sleep with her husband, because she couldn’t cope with his colossal virility. They say Palmiro was a bull of a man.”
By some sort of conditioned reflex which pitched the brutal reality against the gentle image, the Rodolfi trademark, with its smiling pork butcher and the pig at his side, came back to Soneri. As the commissario felt many of his most deeply held convictions and memories disintegrate, Magnani, standing with the door ajar behind him, went on: “Don’t get the idea that it was all plain sailing for Palmiro, as they believe here in the village. Nor was it all Paride’s fault, even if he wasn’t exactly guiltless.”
“It’s always easier to be forgiving about times past, and in many ways Palmiro belonged to a different world.”
“I’m not nostalgic about the past. I know what it is to suffer hunger and poverty. What Palmiro’s story proves is that the arrogant and unscrupulous always come out on top. Like in wartime.”
“Around here he was treated as a saint.”
“By people with small minds, or those who were dependent on him. That’s all there is to it. They make out they don’t remember how he made his money. He dealt with both the Fascists and the partisans. He was an expert at keeping a foot in both camps. He used to do what the immigrants do today, black marketeering. He never did drugs, just foodstuffs. He had a stranglehold over the peasants, but once the Americans turned up, there he was hand in glove with them. He even betrayed a couple of boys in their twenties to the Fascists, in ’44. Not people from around here, because he would have been wary of the villagers.”
Soneri lit a cigar to calm himself as Magnani continued, “What’s at the root of the Rodolfi fortune? Greed, bullying and a fair bit of outright theft. The same as with anybody who makes money in this world. They’re treated with respect, people grovel out of fear, and all their dirty tricks are forgotten. But then, even with the most beautiful animal at large in these woods, slit open their bellies and what do you find? Gore and shit.”
“Until recently, the Rodolfis were still up to what you call ‘dirty tricks’.”
“They all are. The Rodolfis were caught out. Do you really believe that other companies are not up to their eyes in debt, and that they don’t get up to the same kind of underhand dealings? The difference is that they’re cleverer and have a little more style.”
“Or more effective political cover.”
“Politicians don’t count for anything any more. Take Aimi. He was no more than a middle man, but he had to flee the village like a thief. Maybe the real mistake the Rodolfis made was to bet on politics, and to think that politicians were still major players. They gargle ideas and ideologies in public, but it’s cash that counts nowadays. Financiers, bankers and industrialists, these are the men who pay the piper, and they toss a few crumbs to the politicians to keep them quiet, the way you toss a dog a bone.”
“The Woodsman was one of the partisans and he must have known all this.”
Magnani nodded, deep in thought. His face was flushed, perhaps because what he had been saying had made him agitated. They both remained silent, until the wife of the old man who had been Palmiro’s assistant came down the street, pushing the wheelchair
“Here’s another one who saw it all but found it convenient to keep his mouth shut,” Magnani said. He stood out of the way to let them pass. The husband, forcibly removed by his wife from the company of his peers, was cursing her loudly, but she remained impassive. The commissario helped her lift the wheelchair over the entrance, bending down so that his face was level with man’s as he did so.
“Give me a cigar,” the man whispered.
His wife intervened peremptorily. “He’s not allowed to smoke. Doctor’s orders.”
She spoke as though her husband were not there, but he persisted. Soneri got the impression that if he had been able to rise, he would have slapped her. Without warning, he changed the subject. His mind leaped from one topic to another, particularly concerning the past.
“If you want to know where Palmiro used to go, I’ll tell you,” the old man said. The subject was plainly an obsession with him. The commissario could not tell if he was aware that his ex-employer was dead. Perhaps at that moment he had forgotten.
“We used to go to Malpasso, Badignana, then on to Monte Matto and Bragalata in summer, if we had time or if we were out hunting. In the evening, we would sometimes walk along the Croce path with the dogs. That was a shorter walk,” he mumbled, the saliva running over his chin.
With the zeal of a nurse, his ever-vigilant wife bent over to clean round his mouth, cutting off the final words and provoking a fresh spasm of impotent rage. She proceeded to push the wheelchair forward, preventing further conversation, but as she was doing so, the old man turned his head to the side and managed to utter one more sentence which, from what he heard, Soneri worked out had something to do with full baskets. He took it from the pride with which the old man expressed himself that they had both been excellent hunters.
Magnani shook his head. “It’d be far better to end it all rather than live like that, a burden to yourself and those around you.”
Soneri was thinking of Palmiro’s walks and of the fact that he had not stopped going to the woods even when he had been left on his own, totally isolated inside his company and alone in life, apart from the Woodsman with whom he continued to have mysterious, fleeting encounters, and Manuela, with whom he shared a bed.
“They should give him a pill. I’m sure he’d prefer that if he was still lucid. I’ve no doubt he would do the same as his old boss if he could,” Magnani said. He turned on his heel, pushed open the door and without another word went back into the bar.
Soneri walked through the village to the Scoiattolo. He found Sante, pacing anxiously up and down in the courtyard. “There’s that carabiniere in there waiting for you,” he announced.
“The maresciallo?”
“Not him. The officer, his superior.”
“Bovolenta, the captain.”
“That’ll be the one. I asked him when Palmiro’s funeral is to take place, and he told me the magistrate has now given authorisation. It could be tomorrow afternoon, but they’ve nothing to do with it any more. It’s the family’s responsibility, and if you ask my opinion, they’ll want it done quietly.”
Bovolenta got up when he saw Soneri come in. He seemed exhausted, but was keen to maintain his military bearing. “If I’m ever to have you as my guest at dinner, I’ve got to come to your den.”
“After a day like you’ve had, you must have something really important to tell me. By the way,” Soneri added hurriedly, “how are the wounded officers?”
Bovolenta put on a serious expression. He was clearly very worried. “One is in hospital. Nearly lost his forearm. The other man is only concussed. He was hit on the forehead by a huge branch.”
“So all in all, it wasn’t too bad, considering the number of shots that were exchanged.”
“He’s mad. He seemed to be everywhere at once. He was out to kill us all.”
“Mad he may be, but he didn’t want to kill anyone. He was deliberately firing into the air.”
Sante came over to ask what they wanted to eat. Bovolenta chose the anolini in brodo, and Soneri did the same.
“We’ve lost face over this.”
“Don’t look at it that way. It’s not a duel, and your honour’s not at stake. The Woodsman’s on his home ground and Montelupo is difficult terrain.”
“A lot of them don’t want to go back up there. They’re scared stiff. A couple of my men went completely berserk and started screaming. I think he heard it.”
Soneri tried to think back to when he had been in a similar position, with bullets whistling around him and not much cover. He remembered an armed robbery in Milan when huge bullets pierced the doors of his Alfa Romeo, leaving the shattered metal looking like a cheese grater. The shots had missed him by a whisker. Half a degree more one way or the other and he would not be there now addressing an angry policeman.
“You’re not likely to take home any prizes from this hunting trip,” the commissario warned him.
Bovolenta looked at him and was close to agreeing, but he said, “I have no choice.”
“Are you quite sure it was the Woodsman?”
“His wife’s seriously ill with diabetes and he needs to get back the money he lent the elder Rodolfi to pay for her treatment. Does that not seem to you motive enough?”
“Then why didn’t he kill Palmiro?”
“Who says he didn’t try? Who else could have been responsible for all those shots fired in recent days? And anyway, Palmiro did away with himself.” The captain dipped his spoon deep into the plate and picked out some of the anolini from the soup. He must have gone without his lunch, since only hunger could have made him forget military etiquette to that extent. After a few minutes, he cleaned his mouth and looked Soneri in the face. “You’re not convinced, are you?”
The commissario, his mouth full, shrugged.
“I came here to ask you for some advice,” Bovolenta said.
“I don’t really know much about it.”
“We cannot continue to move about in a herd, as we did today. Gualerzi would hear us from a long way off and he’d have all the time in the world to hide until we got within range. We’ll have to use his tactics, hit and run. The problem is we don’t know where to find him.”
“There I can’t help you. There’s not a man around here, even if he knows the woods, who would know where to find the Woodsman.”
“He must have enemies.”
“That may be, but no-one would dare stand up against him. Anyway, everybody in the village is on his side.”
“He’s mad and he has to be stopped,” Bovolenta said, stretching across the table to grab the bottle of Gutturnio, an act of rudeness which definitively ended any pretence at good manners. “A desperate lunatic who’s playing his last card.”
“Gualerzi’s always been like that. He’s a savage with a code of honour.”
“I don’t believe he has the slightest interest in honour. He’s desperate and capable of anything.”
“You’re wrong there. Granted he can be ruthless, but he’s not the bastard you make him out to be.”
“In the past, maybe not, but he’s got cancer. Did you know that?”
Soneri stopped and would have liked to say that was the only thing which would make him surrender, but he had no wish to irritate the captain further. “How do you know that?” he said.
“We searched his house and we found the tests.”
“If that’s so, what’s the point of trying to ambush him? All you have to do is wait.”
“If we were monks, we could, but we’re carabinieri.”
“I don’t see any other way out. Don’t kid yourselves that the Woodsman is going to let himself be captured like a common criminal. That’s one thing he’s not.”
“He shot at us.”
“If you carry on pursuing him, he’ll take one of you out. But he’ll keep the last bullet for himself.”
Bovolenta appeared deep in thought. For a few seconds there was a brightness in his eyes, before weariness made them cloud over again.
“Listen to me,” Soneri said. “Scale down your operations to patrolling Montelupo. Leave him in charge of the territory, and he might even come round. Otherwise it’s going to end badly. He’s not a man for compromises, not even with himself.”
“If it were up to me… Headquarters have decreed… I obey orders.”
The commissario felt some sympathy for Bovolenta. He was subject to the unsubtlety of higher command, to a primitive vision which divided the world into two, friends and enemies, victories and defeats. “Tell your superiors that to wring one chicken’s neck there’s no need to knock the whole hen-run down,” he said, in an attempt to reduce the tension.
“There may be no way out for the Woodsman, but there isn’t for me either. How will he cope with that? That last bullet you were talking about might be for me.”
“I’m afraid that’s true. If your life’s at stake, stand up to them. This time the game is worth the candle.”
“I can’t.”
The commissario let his impatience get the better of him. He had never had any sympathy with irrational conduct, even when he understood its origins. “One of the things I have learned is that there are times when you have to say No, because otherwise there’s no difference between us and the peasants here who knew what was going on but put up no fight. In their own way, they too were obeying orders, orders of self-interest. They ended up ruined.”
Bovolenta sat bolt upright against the back of the chair, saying nothing, facing the bottle he had emptied almost by himself. There was real humanity under the uniform, but it was the uniform which carried the day. Soneri felt disappointment rise from deep inside him.
“God save us all,” murmured the captain, and it occurred to Soneri that he was as well to put his trust in the Almighty since he lacked the will to make use of reason.
Bovolenta put on his cap with the silver flame, symbol of the carabinieri, at the front. He held out his hand to the commissario. “I’m grateful to you. You’ve been my guest, even if this is your home.”
Soneri followed him to the door. He intended to take a walk before going to bed. They walked side by side for a little way, in silence, until they reached the piazza. The captain said goodbye once more, but he stood facing him, plainly pursuing some line of thought. “Among the Woodsman’s papers, we found your father’s name. I didn’t know he’d been a partisan.”
Soneri nodded, doing his best to conceal his agitation. “What paper was that?”
“A chart giving the names of the Garibaldi brigade in this locality. Your father was political commissioner.”
“He was anxious to keep well away from gunfire.”
“You’re the first police officer I have met whose parents were Communists.” Bovolenta smiled. “Did they not make things difficult at H.Q.? Not so long ago, it would not have been easy with a background like yours.”
“I’ve had my problems. Was there anything else about my father?”
The captain realised he had opened a subject of some importance, and indicated to Soneri that he understood. “I’ll get my men to have a look. Or maybe I should attend to it myself. Yes, I think that would be better.”
He walked off and Soneri, although confused, realised that, in spite of everything, he had formed a favourable opinion of Bovolenta, and that was something that did not happen too often. His thoughts turned to the papers the captain had found in the Madoni hills. They were not likely to contain anything he did not already know, but then again there might be something new. Perhaps they would provide the key to his father’s relations with the Rodolfis.
He did not realise that he was walking towards Villa del Greppo until he became aware of the deepening darkness on the road leading to the fields. He turned and saw beneath him the roofs of the village, beyond which the vast, empty spaces of the valley stretched into the distance. He looked closely at the piazza, deserted at that hour, the lighted window of the Rivara and the lamp-posts lining the narrow streets. Anyone chancing upon the village without knowing what was going on there would have decided that it was a tranquil enough spot in which to spend a week searching for mushrooms. He lit a cigar, took out his mobile and dialled Angela’s number.
“I’ve just had dinner with Bovolenta.”
“Whom do you prefer, him or me?”
“He told me that the Woodsman is on his last legs.”
“Is he surrounded?”
“No, he’s got cancer.”
Angela sighed. “A person in that condition is capable of anything.”
“Precisely. I think that’s the case with him. So far the shots he’s fired at the carabinieri have only been to scare them, but if they go on hunting him down…”
“If he no longer cares what happens to him, why should he care about other people?”
Soneri changed the subject abruptly. “The captain has found some papers concerning my father in the Woodsman’s house.”
“Are you back on that hobby-horse of yours?”
“Don’t you want to know what he said?”
“Maybe that woman was talking nonsense. Maybe she made the whole thing up.”
“So much the better if she did,” Soneri said, cutting her short.
At that same moment, he heard a dog bark, and the bark was familiar. He interrupted the conversation with Angela to listen. It came from the mountain, from the path which led from Greppo to Campogrande. He stood still for a few moments, keeping his mind clear as though he were afraid his thoughts might make a noise. Everything was peaceful, apart from the hoot of an owl in the depths of the woods.
“You still there?” Angela said.
“I thought I’d picked up a sound in the trees.”
No sooner had he spoken than he heard the dog bark again, this time from lower down. The animal was coming closer. Just a few paces more and, if the wind was in the right direction, it would pick up his scent.
“Where are you?” Angela said.
“Near the Rodolfis’ place. I think there’s something going on down there.”
This time there was no possible doubt. A dog was racing in his direction.
“I am glad I called you,” Soneri said, already guessing which dog it was.
“I always bring good luck,” Angela said, but without any idea of what was going on.
The dog emerged from the brush a few moments later and came bounding down the road. Soneri felt its tongue lick his hands, and when he bent down to rub it behind the ears, he had all the confirmation he needed that this was Dolly. There was no way of knowing why she was on the road which led from Campogrande to the uplands of Croce. He walked on until the villa appeared ahead of him. He committed to memory the position of the mule-track, but he could not see the whole track from where he was standing, since it turned into a small gorge before climbing up to Greppo. It was then that he heard a low whistle. Dolly heard it too and stiffened, making no movement, standing as still as a hunting dog about to put a flock of partridges to flight. So she had not run away. Someone was with her. The commissario looked in the same direction as Dolly and noticed she was staring down the path. Shortly afterwards, a faint light appeared — perhaps a torch — and moved about. Then it disappeared and the whistle was blown again.
Someone was searching for Dolly further along the path, but she had heard Soneri talk on the phone and had come looking for him, or perhaps she had picked up the scent of his cigar. The commissario thought of going over to the mule-track but he worried that whoever was there might hear him. He was also constrained by memories of tales he had been told in his childhood about that path, where “strange things” could be seen and “stranger things” heard. At night-time, the path was lit by lights which appeared and disappeared, while indistinct whispers and laments were carried on the wind.
He decided to wait close to the villa. He struggled to keep Dolly quiet, as she whined and tried to snuggle under the hem of his duffle coat. He hoped to see someone emerge along the path, even if he was not clear who that someone might be. For a while he thought it might be Manuela, but the more he pictured her with all the airs and graces of a gran signora, the less plausible did it seem that she would be out in the woods at night. So he remained where he was, in the company of Dolly in the pitch black of a moonless night, the stars invisible above the dense, damp air.
An hour later, when it was evident that no-one would be coming, he set off. He wondered what had become of that nocturnal presence, made manifest in whistles and faint lights, which seemed only to confirm the truth of the old legends. He walked into the village, escorted by Dolly, stopped in the piazza and took a seat on the wall. The dog stood facing him, looking up and wagging her tail. Her eyes were shining with a trust and devotion which he found deeply affecting. He tried to imagine what life would be like with Dolly at his side. The very thought was a novelty, but all of a sudden he saw a custard coloured brightness in the form of a huge candle swell up before him.
A bright light and the acrid smell of burning rubber came from the lower part of the village. Out of the darkness, an enormous funnel of smoke ascended into the night sky, then stretched like a giant mushroom as it moved in the direction of Montelupo. Soneri raced down the deserted streets until, in the square overlooking the new town, he saw a car in flames. There was no-one there to make any attempt to extinguish the fire — although there was nothing that could now be saved. Behind the shutters, whispered voices and the sound of bolts being drawn could be heard, but as the fire died down, silence again fell on the village. The commissario stood watching as the flames turned to glowing embers. Only the rubber of the tyres and the plastics were still burning. Finally the carabinieri arrived.
Crisafulli had the dishevelled look of a man who had fallen asleep at his desk. “After a day like the one I’ve had, this was all I needed,” he moaned in Neapolitan.
“It must have been half an hour ago,” Soneri told him. “It could have been a slow fuse in a petrol can. The whole thing was over in a couple of minutes.”
The maresciallo walked round the burned-out wreck.
“Do you know whose it is?” the commissario said. “All I can make out is that it was a Ford.”
Crisafulli nodded. “It belongs to the mayor’s son. I thought this sort of thing only happened in Naples.”
The maresciallo ordered his assistant to take down all the details and to call in the Special Forensic squad who were still in the village investigating Paride’s death. “Who knows? They might come up with something interesting,” he said, but he sounded doubtful.
“That Romanian, the one who was found with Rodolfi’s mobile, do you still have him in your cells?”
“The magistrate has authorised an extension of the period of custody. You never know.”
They both looked again at the car, still burning but no longer fiercely. Neither had anything more to say. From time to time the steel of the chassis made a crackling sound as it buckled in the heat.
“When is the funeral of the two Rodolfis?”
Crisafulli gave him an embarrassed glance from under the peak of his cap, and shivered. He must have been frozen standing about in the cold. “Tomorrow at dawn. Paride’s wife fixed the time and the only ones who know about it are Don Bruno and us.”
“What are they afraid of? The villagers have been quiet up till now and they’ll stay that way.”
“There are other people not from here who feel cheated as well. People from the city, for example, and they always make more fuss. And then,” Crisafulli said, lowering his voice, “the Rodolfis are ashamed of being seen in public.”
The commissario winked at Crisafulli and put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to bed. And you’re out hunting again tomorrow.”
“Commissario, we’re not hunters. We’re the hunted.”