The Track of Sand

by Andrea Camilleri

  “It seems clear to me that—” Prestia began.

  “Nothing is clear. Excuse me a moment. I’ll right back.”

  He stood up, left the room, closed the door, and went to see Lavaccara.With him in Catarella’s closet was also Galluzzo, waiting for him.

  “Is he here yet?”

  “Yessir. I just now brought him to Fazio,” said Lavaccara.

  “Galluzzo, come with me.”

  He went back into his office, followed by Galluzzo and wearing an expression of mortification. He left the door open.

  “I am terribly sorry, Signor Prestia.This is a case of mistaken identity. I beg your pardon for any trouble I may have caused you. Go with Corporal Galluzzo, who will have you sign your release. Good day.”

  He held out his hand to him. Prestia muttered something and left the room, preceded by Galluzzo. Montalbano felt himself turn into a statue.This was the critical moment. Prestia took two steps into the corridor and found himself face-to-face with Lo Duca, who was coming out of Fazio’s office in turn, followed by Fazio himself. Montalbano saw the two men freeze for a moment, paralyzed. Galluzzo had a sudden flash of genius and said, coplike:

  “Let’s go, Prestia! Keep moving!”

  Prestia resumed walking. Fazio lightly shoved Lo Duca, who was in a daze.Their strategy was working perfectly.

  “Chief, Signor Lo Duca is here,” said Fazio.

  “Come in, come in. And you can stay, Fazio, if you like. Please make yourself comfortable, Signor Lo Duca.”

  Lo Duca sat down. He was pale and clearly had not yet recovered from having seen Prestia come out of the inspector’s office.

  “I do not understand why you have so rashly—”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. But first I must ask you officially: Signor Lo Duca, do you want a lawyer?”

  “No! Why should I need a lawyer?”

  “As you wish. Signor Lo Duca, I have summoned you here because I need to ask you some questions concerning the stolen horses.”

  Lo Duca gave a tense smile.

  “Oh, for that? Go right ahead.”

  “The evening we spoke to each other, in Fiacca, you told me that the theft of the horses, and the killing of the one we presumed to be Signora Esterman’s horse, was a vendetta on the part of a certain Gerlando Gurreri, whom you, a few years ago, had struck with an iron rod, permanently disabling him. Which was why the lady’s horse was bludgeoned to death with iron rods. A sort of tit for tat, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes . . . I think I said something like that.”

  “Excellent. Who was it that told you, Signor Lo Duca, that the horse was killed with iron rods?”

  Lo Duca looked disoriented.

  “Well . . . I think it was Rachele Esterman . . . or maybe somebody else. But why does it matter?”

  “It matters, Signor Lo Duca. Because I never told Signora Esterman how her horse was killed.And nobody else could have known; I only told one other person, someone who has no relations with you.”

  “But this is a minor point which—”

  “—which triggered my first suspicion. You, I must admit, were very shrewd that evening.You played a subtle game.You not only gave me Gurreri’s name, but you even expressed doubt that the slaughtered horse was Rachele Esterman’s.”

  “Listen, Inspector—”

  “No, you listen to me. A second suspicion was triggered when I learned from Signora Esterman that you had insisted her horse be kept in your stable.”

  “But that was a simple courtesy!”

  “Signor Lo Duca, before you go any further, I should warn you that I’ve just had a long and fruitful conversation with Michele Prestia. Who, in exchange for a certain, well, benevolence on our part towards him, has given me some precious information on the theft of the horses.”

  Touché! Bull’s-eye! Lo Duca turned even paler, started sweating, and squirmed in his chair. He had seen Prestia, with his own eyes, come out after talking to the inspector, and he had heard him being treated roughly by another policeman. He therefore believed the lie. But he tried nevertheless to defend himself.

  “I have no idea what that individual may have—”

  “Allow me to continue. And guess what? I finally found what you were looking for.”

  “What I was looking for? And what was that?”

  “This,” said Montalbano.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out the horseshoe, and set it down on the desk. It was the coup de grâce. Lo Duca teetered so severely, he risked falling out of his chair. A string of spittle trickled from his open mouth. He realized he was finished.

  “This is a perfectly ordinary horseshoe, with no distinguishing marks. I removed it myself from the hoof of the dead horse. The shoes of Signora Esterman’s horse, on the other hand, had a little W on them. Who could have been aware of this detail? Certainly not Prestia or Bellavia, or the late lamented Gurreri; but you, sir, you were aware of it. And you alerted your accomplices. And so, in addition to the carcass, you absolutely needed to retrieve the horseshoe as well, which I had taken. Because that shoe, you see, could prove that the slaughtered horse was not the lady’s—as you wanted everyone to believe—but yours, which was, among other things, very sick and slated to be put down. Just now Prestia explained to me that a horse like Esterman’s would bring in millions to the organizers of the illegal horse-racing circuit. But you, I’m sure, didn’t do it for money. So why, then? Were you being blackmailed?”

  Lo Duca, who could no longer speak and was drenched in sweat, dropped his head and nodded yes. Then he drew as much breath as he could and said:

  “They wanted one of my horses for the illegal races, and when I refused . . . they showed me a photo . . . of me . . . with a little boy.”

  “That’s enough, Signor Lo Duca. I’ll take it from here. So, since Signora Esterman’s horse bore a great resemblance to one of yours, who was slated soon to die, you came up with the plan of the bogus theft and the bloody slaughter of your horse, so that it would look like a vendetta. But how could you have the heart to do it?”

  Lo Duca buried his face in his hands. Big teardrops started seeping through his fingers.

  “I was desperate . . . I ran off to Rome so I wouldn’t have to . . .”

  “All right,” said Montalbano.“Listen to me. It’s over. I’ll ask you one more question, and then you’re free to go.”

  “Free . . .?”

  “I’m not in charge of this investigation.You filed your report at Montelusa Central, no? Therefore I’m leaving the matter up to your conscience. You act as you think best. But take my advice: You must go and confess everything to my colleagues in Montelusa.They’ll try to keep the business of the photograph under wraps, I’m sure of it. If you don’t do this, you will be surrendering yourself, bound hand and foot, to the Cuffaros, who will squeeze you like a lemon and then throw you away. So my question is this: Do you know where Prestia is hiding Signora Esterman’s horse?”

  This question, as Montalbano knew all too well, was the one weak joint in the whole architecture he had constructed. If Prestia had actually talked, he would certainly have also told him where the horse was being kept. But Lo Duca was too upset, too annihilated, to notice what a strange question it was.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Fazio had to help Lo Duca rise from his chair, and then walked him to his car, holding him up all the while.

  “But, are you up to driving?”

  “Y . . . yes.”

  He watched the car drive off after nearly crashing into another, and then went back to the inspector’s office.

  “What do you think? Will he go to the Montelusa police?”

  “I think so. Ring up Augello and pass me the phone.”

  Mimì answered at once.

  “Are you following Prestia?”

  “Yes. He’s heading towards Siliana.”

  “Mimì, we’ve just learned that he’s hiding the horse about four kilometers past Siliana, at a stable in the count
ry. And I’m sure he’s left someone on guard there. How many men have you got with you?”

  “Four in a Jeep and two in a little van.”

  “Stay on the alert, Mimì. And if anything happens, call Fazio.”

  He hung up.

  “Is the car with Gallo and Galluzzo ready?”

  “Yessir.”

  “All right, then, you stay here, in my office. Tell Lavaccara to put all calls through to you.We’ll report back to you. Repeat the address to me, I can’t find it.”

  “Via Crispi, number 10. It’s a ground-floor office with two rooms. The bodyguard’s in the first room. And he’s always in the second—that is, when he’s not out killing someone.”

  “Gallo, let’s get one thing straight. And this time, mind you, I’m serious. I don’t want any sirens or screeching tires. We have to catch him by surprise. And I don’t want you to pull up at number 10, but a little before.”

  “But won’t you be with us, Chief?”

  “No, I’ll follow you in my car.”

  It took them about ten minutes to get there. Montalbano parked behind the squad car and got out. Galluzzo came up to him.

  “Chief, Fazio ordered me to tell you to get your gun.”

  “I’m getting it.”

  He opened the glove compartment, grabbed the weapon, and put it in his pocket.

  “Gallo, you stay behind in the first room and keep an eye on the guard. You, Galluzzo, are coming with me into the second room.There’s no way out in back, so he can’t escape. I’ll go in first.And I mean it: as little racket as possible.”

  It was a short street, and there were about ten cars parked in it. There were no shops. A man and a dog were the only living beings visible.

  Montalbano went in. A man of about thirty was sitting behind a desk reading the sports pages. He looked up, saw Montalbano, recognized him, and sprang to his feet, opening his jacket with his right hand to reach for a revolver he had tucked into his belt.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” said Gallo in a low voice, pointing his gun at him.

  The man put his hand on the desk. Montalbano and Galluzzo looked at one another, and then the inspector turned the knob of the door to the second room and opened it, going in with Galluzzo following behind.

  “Ah!” said a bald man of about fifty in shirtsleeves, with a shifty-looking face and slits for eyes, setting down the telephone receiver he had in his hand. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

  “I am Inspector Montalbano.”

  “I know you well, Inspector. And him, aren’t you going to introduce him to me?” he said ironically, never taking his eyes off of Galluzzo.“I have the feeling I’ve seen this gentleman before.”

  “Are you Francesco Bellavia?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are under arrest. And I should warn you that whatever you say in your defense, nobody will believe you.”

  “That’s not the right formula,” said Bellavia, who started laughing.

  Then he settled down and said:

  “Don’t worry, Galluzzo, I won’t say I killed Gurreri, but I won’t say you killed him, either. So why are you arresting me?”

  “For the theft of two horses.”

  Bellavia started laughing even harder.

  “You can imagine how scared I am! And what’s your proof ?”

  “Lo Duca and Prestia have confessed,” said Montalbano.

  “A fine pair, those two! One goes with little children, and the other is a doormat!”

  He got up and held out his wrists for Galluzzo:

  “Go on, handcuff me yourself ! That way the farce is complete!”

  Without looking into Bellavia’s eyes, which were boring into him, Galluzzo put the handcuffs on him.

  “Where are we taking him?”

  “To Prosecutor Tommaseo.When you set off for Montelusa, I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”

  He returned to headquarters and went into his office.

  “Any news?” he asked Fazio.

  “Nothing yet.What about you?”

  “We’ve arrested Bellavia. He didn’t put up any resistance. I’m going to call Tommaseo from Mimì’s office.”

  The prosecutor was still at his desk. He protested, reproaching the inspector for not telling him a thing about the case.

  “It all happened in the space of a few hours, sir. There was simply no time whatsoever to—”

  “And you arrested him under what charge?”

  “The theft of two horses.”

  “Well, for a figure like Bellavia it’s a pretty paltry charge.”

  “You know what they say where I come from, sir? That every bit of fly shit counts. Anyway, I’m sure it was Bellavia who killed Gurreri. If we work him hard enough, and he’s a tough one, he’ll end up admitting to something.”

  He went back into his office and found Fazio on the telephone.

  “Yes . . . yes . . . All right. I’ll relay that to the chief.”

  He set down the receiver and said to Montalbano:

  “Inspector Augello told me they saw Prestia go into a house that has a stable next to it. But since there are four cars aside from Prestia’s parked outside the house, Augello thinks there may be a meeting going on inside. He wants to avoid a shoot-out: says it’s better to wait for the others to leave.”

  “He’s right.”

  A good hour went by without any phone calls coming in. Apparently it was a long meeting. Montalbano couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Call Mimì and ask him what’s happening.”

  Fazio spoke to Augello.

  “He says they’re still inside, and there are at least eight of them. It’s best to wait a little longer.”

  Montalbano glanced at his watch and leapt to his feet. It was already eight-thirty.

  “Listen, Fazio, I absolutely have to go to Marinella. As soon as there’s any news, ring me.”

  He raced home, opened up the French door, and set the table on the veranda.

  He had barely finished when the doorbell rang. He went to answer. There were Ingrid and Rachele, loaded down with three bottles of wine, two of whisky, and a parcel.

  “It’s a cassata,” Ingrid explained.

  They therefore had serious intentions. Montalbano went into the kitchen to uncork the bottles when he heard the phone ring. It must be Fazio.

  “One of you get that!” he said.

  He heard Rachele’s voice say:

  “Hello?”

  Then:

  “Yes, this is the home of Inspector Montalbano.Who is this?”

  He suddenly had an inkling that sent chills down his spine. He dashed into the dining room. Rachele had just set down the receiver.

  “Who was it?”

  “A woman. She didn’t say her name. She hung up.”

  He didn’t sink underground like the other times, but felt the ceiling come crashing down on his head. Surely that was Livia who had called! And now how was he going to explain to her that it was a perfectly innocent gathering? Damn the moment when he decided to invite them to dinner! He foresaw a bitter night ahead, spent mostly on the telephone. Chagrined, he returned to the kitchen, and the phone rang again.

  “I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” he yelled.

  This time it was Fazio.

  “Chief ? It’s all done. Inspector Augello has arrested Prestia and is taking him to the prosecutor’s.They’ve recovered Esterman’s horse. It appears to be in excellent shape. They’ve put it into the van.”

  “Where are they taking it?”

  “To the stable of a friend of Inspector Augello’s.Augello has also informed Montelusa of everything.”

  “Thanks, Fazio.We’ve really done a very fine job.”

  “It was all your doing, Chief.”

  He went out on the veranda. Leaning against the French door, he said to the two women:

  “After we’ve eaten, I have something to tell you.”

  He didn’t want to ruin the meal that was waiting for him with the
tremendous bother of hugs, tears, emotions, and thanks.

  “Let’s go see what Adelina has prepared for us,” he said.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Like the other novels with Inspector Montalbano as protagonist, the present one was suggested to me by two news items: a horse found slaughtered on a beach near Catania, and the theft of two horses from a stable in Grosseto province, in Tuscany.

  By this point I think it useless to say—but I’ll do so anyway—that the names of the characters and the situations in which they find themselves have been entirely invented by me, and therefore have no connection whatsoever with any actual, living persons.

  Should anyone happen to recognize him- or herself in this story, it only means they have a better imagination than I do.

  NOTES

  9 “Tu che a dio spiegasti l’ali”: This is the title, and first line, of the final aria of Gaetano Donizzetti’s Lucia di Lamermoor (1835). It is sung by Edgardo, the heroine’s lover, after he learns that Lucia has died. The title means, “You who have spread your wings to God,” and the aria sings of the lovers’ imminent reunion in heaven.

  17 all the vocumprà in the province: Vocumprà are the foreign peddlers, usually of North African or sub-Saharan origin, that one often encounters on the streets of today’s Italy.The name is derived from the question Vuoi comprare? (or Vuole comprare?—Do you want to buy?), which the peddlers shorten to Vocumprà (sometimes to Vucumprà), an abbrevation also redolent of the Neapolitan and Roman dialects, which may be where they first picked it up.

  21 The bright-eyed goddess . . . : A common epithet for Greek goddess Pallas Athena.

  33 cipuddrata: Sicilian for cipollata, that is, onion sauce.

  49 “No,Vario’s his given name”: In Italian bureaucratic usage, the surname is always placed before the first name, giving rise to some confusion in cases such as the present one,Vario Ippolito, where both names could be first names.

  76 wearing an expression fit for All Souls’ Day: In Italy, as in the Spanish-speaking world, All Souls’ Day (November 2, immediately following All Saints’ Day) is called the Day of the Dead, and commemorates the faithful departed. The Sicilian expression used by Camilleri actually translates literally as “a November-the-second face.”