“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 from 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.”
“Whass wrong, Chief? You gotta weird voice!”
“Listen, I’m not coming in this morning. Is Fazio there?”
“No, sir, ’e in’t onna premisses.”
“Have him call me when he gets in.”
He opened the French door, went out on the veranda, sat down, laid the horseshoe on the table, and started staring at it as if he had never seen such a thing in his life. Slowly, he felt his brain resume functioning.
And the first thing that came back to him were the words of Dr. Pasquano.
Montalbano, this is a clear sign of old age. A sign that your brain cells are disintegrating with increasing speed.The first symptom is memory loss. Did you know that? For example, does it sometimes happen that you’ll do something one minute, and the next minute you’ll forget that you did it?
It had happened. Man, had it ever happened! He had taken the horseshoe and put it in his pocket, forgetting completely about it. But when? And where?
“Here you’ coffee, sir,” said Adelina, setting a tray, with pot, cup, and sugar, on the table.
He drank a cup, scalding hot and bitter, while staring at the empty beach.
And all at once a dead horse appeared on the beach, lying on its side. And he saw himself belly-down in front of the animal, reaching out and touching a horseshoe almost completely detached from the hoof, held in place by a single nail sticking halfway out . . .
And what happened next?
What happened was that something . . . something . . . Ah! That was it! Fazio, Gallo, and Galluzzo had appeared on the veranda, and he had stood up, slipping the horseshoe mechanically into his pocket.
Afterwards, he had gone to change his trousers, tossing them into the dirty clothes hamper.
And after this, he had taken a shower, chatted with Fazio, and when the astronauts had arrived, the carcass was gone. Keep your cool, Montalbà. You need another cup of coffee.
So, let’s start at the beginning. During the slaughter, the poor dying horse manages to escape, running desperately across the sand—Good God! Want to bet that this, in fact, was the track of sand in the bad dream he’d had? And that he had misinterpreted the dream?—and ending up outside his window, where it collapses and dies. But its killers need to get rid of the carcass. So they get organized and come back with a handcart and a van, or small truck, or whatever.When they arrive a short while later to retrieve the carcass, they realize he has woken up, seen the horse, and come down onto the beach.And so they hide and wait for the right moment. Which comes when he and Fazio go into the kitchen, which has no windows facing the sea.They send a man out for reconnaissance. The man sees them in the kitchen, blithely chatting, and gives the others the go-ahead signal, all the while keeping his eye on him and Fazio. And in the twinkling of an eye, the carcass disappears. But then . . .
Was there another cup?
There wasn’t any left in the pot, and he didn’t have the courage to ask Adelina to make him another. So he stood up, went inside, grabbed a bottle of whisky and a glass, and turned to go back out on the veranda.
“First ting inna morning, Isspector?” came the voice of Adelina, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching him.
He froze. But he didn’t answer her this time, either. He poured the whisky and started to drink.
But then, if those guys were watching him when he was taking a close look at the animal, they must have seen him take the horseshoe and put it in his pocket. Which meant that . . .
. . . you got it all wrong, Montalbà. All wrong.
They weren’t trying to influence your behavior at the Licco trial, Montalbà. The Licco trial doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with any of this.
They wanted the horseshoe. That was what they were looking for when they searched his house. And they had even returned his watch to let him know that it wasn’t a case of burglary.
But why was that horseshoe so important to them?
The only logical answer was that as long as it was in his possession, it rendered the disappearance of the carcass useless.
But if it was so important to them, why, then, after the failed attempt to burn down his house, had they stopped trying?
Quite simple, Montalbà. Because Galluzzo had shot Gurreri, who then died. An unforeseen hitch. So surely they would be back, in one way or another.
He picked up the horseshoe again and started examining it. It was a perfectly normal horseshoe, like dozens of others he had seen.
What was so important about it that it should already have cost a man his life?
He raised his eyes to look out at the sea and was momentarily blinded by a flash of light. No, there wasn’t anyone on a boat watching him through a pair of binoculars. The flash had gone off in his head.
He bolted upright, ran to the phone, and dialed Ingrid’s number.
“Hillu? Who colling?”
“Is Signora Rachele there?”
“You wait.”
“Hello, who is this?”
“Montalbano here.”
“Salvo! What a lovely surprise! I was just about to call you, you know. Ingrid and I thought of inviting you out to dinner tonight.”
“All right, but—”
“Where would you like to go?”
“Come over to my place, you can be my guests. I’ll ask Adelina to . . . But . . .”
“What are all these ‘buts’?”
“Tell me something.Your horse . . .”
“Yes?” said Rachele, expectant.
“Did your horse’s shoes have anything unusual about them?”
“In what sense?”
“I don’t know, I’m not very familiar with this sort of thing, as you know . . . Was there anything engraved in them, some sort of sign or symbol . . . ?”
“Yes.Why do you want to know?”
“A silly idea of mine.What kind of symbol?”
“Right at the center of the arch, on top, there is a small W, engraved in the metal. There’s a blacksmith in Rome who makes them specially for me. His name is—”
“And does Lo Duca use the same smith for his—”
“Of course not!”
“Too bad,” he said, appearing disappointed.
He hung up. He didn’t want Rachele to start asking questions.The last piece of the puzzle that had first started to come together in his head on the evening in Fiacca had fallen into place and given a meaning to the whole scheme.
He started singing. Who was there to stop him? He broke into “Che gelida manina” in a loud voice.[15]
“Signore! Signore! Wha’ss got inna you this morning?” asked the housekeeper, who had come running from the kitchen.
“Nothing, Adelì. Ah, listen. Make some good things for tonight. I’ve got two guests coming to dinner.”
The phone rang. It was Rachele.
“We got cut off,” the inspector said at once.
“Listen, what time do you want us to come?”
“Would nine o’clock be all right with you?”
“Nine is perfect. See you then.”
He hung up and the telephone rang again.
“It’s Fazio.”
“No, no, I’ve changed my mind. I’m on my way there. Wait for me.”
He sang all the way to the station. By this point he couldn’t get those notes and words out of his head. And when he reached the part where he couldn’t remember them, he started over again from the top.
“Se la lasci riscaldare ...”
He pulled up, got out, passed by Catarella, who, hearing him sing, sat there spellbound and open-mouthed.
“Cercar che giova . . . Cat, tell Fazio to come to my office straightaway. Se al buio non si trovaaa . . .”
He went into his room, sat down, leaned back in his chair.
“Ma per fortunaaa . . .”
“What’s happened, Chief ?”
“Close the door, Fazio, and have a seat.”
He took the horseshoe out of his pocket and set it down on the desk.
“Take a good look at it.”
“Can I pick it up?”
“Sure.”
As Fazio was studying the horseshoe, the inspector kept singing under his breath.
“È una notte di luuuna . . .”
Fazio gave him a questioning look.
“It’s a perfectly ordinary horseshoe,” he said.
“Exactly. And that’s why they did everything within their power to get it back: They broke into my home, they tried to burn the place down, Gurreri lost his life . . .”
Fazio’s eyes widened.
“All for this horseshoe . . . ?”
“Yessirree.”
“And you had it all the while.”
“Yessirree. And I’d completely forgotten about it.”
“But it’s an ordinary horseshoe with no distinguishing characteristics!”
“And that is exactly what distinguishes it: the fact that it has no distinguishing characteristics.”
“But what does that mean?”
“It means that the horse that was slaughtered did not belong to Rachele Esterman.”
And he resumed in a low voice:
“Vivo in povertà mia lieta . . .”
He broke into “Che gelida manina” in a loud voice: A famous aria from Act I of Giacomo Puccini’s opera La Bohème (1896), sung by Rodolfo, the destitute poet and male lead, to Mimì, the beautiful seamstress and lead female role, when the girl loses her key in the dark during a visit to the poet’s garret, and he helps her to look for it. I quote below the first half of the aria, the part from which Montalbano sings a few lines (and not always correctly). I have provided a translation for the non-Italian reader of the passage from which the inspector sings.Che gelida manina,se la lasci riscaldar.Cercar che giova?Al buio non si trova.Ma per fortunaè una notte di luna,e qui la lunal’abbiamo vicina.Aspetti, signorina,le dirò con due parolechi son, e che faccio,come vivo.Vuole?Chi son? Sono un poeta.Che cosa faccio? Scrivo.E come vivo? Vivo.In povertà mia lietascialo da gran signorerimi e inni d’amore.* * *[What a cold little hand,let me warm it for you.Why bother to search?We won’t find it in the dark,But luckilyit is a moonlit nightand we have the moonnear us tonight.Wait, signorina,will tell you in two wordswho I am, what I do,and how I live. Shall I?Who am I? I am a poet.What do I do? I write.How do I live? I live.In my happy povertylike a great lordI lavish rhymes and hymns of love ...]