The Potter's Field

by Andrea Camilleri

  “What about here in Vigàta?”

  “At this point Giovanni has very few friends in Vigàta. He moved to Colombia with his parents when he was still very young, did his studies there, and then, when his father died, a relative from Vigàta helped him out until he took ship for the first time as a professional. He’s lived more abroad than here.”

  “Do you know the names and addresses of any of these friends?”

  “Of course.”

  “You can give them to Fazio later. When Giovanni’s father died, did you and Giovanni already know each other?”

  The memory made her smile ever so faintly.

  “Yes, we’d been together for three months. He took me into Papa’s studio and—”

  “Okay, okay. When was your husband supposed to have taken ship?”

  “On the fourth of September.”

  “Where?”

  “At Gioia Tauro.”

  “When did he leave here?”

  “Very early the day before, on the third.”

  “How?”

  “By car.”

  “Wait a minute. That means he was definitely in Gioia Tauro on the evening of the third. We need to find out what hotel he went to. And what he did.”

  “But that’s not what happened, Inspector. I left with him on the morning of the third. We took my car, in fact. We got there in the evening and went straight to his room.”

  “His room?”

  “Yes, for the last two years or so he’s been renting a oneroom flat with a bathroom and kitchenette.”

  “Why?”

  “Because very often Giovanni didn’t have time to come and see me here. He would call at port for only two or three days . . . And so he would let me know so that, when he came ashore, I would be there waiting for him.”

  “I see. And what did you do on the evening of the third?”

  “We ate and then we—”

  “Out? Did you eat out at a restaurant?”

  “No, we ate at home. We’d bought some provisions. And then we went to bed early. This time it was going to be a long journey.”

  Better skip the nocturnal details. How was it possible that after years of marriage those two could think of nothing but engaging in that particular act? Maybe it was a Colombian thing.

  “Did you receive any telephone calls?”

  “There’s no phone there. But nobody called on the cell phone, either.”

  “And the following morning?”

  “Giovanni left at eight o’clock. I tidied up and left immediately afterwards. Which was a mistake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I had no idea how tired I was. I had hardly slept a wink the night before and so, as I was driving, all at once I woke up as I was about to run into the sign for the bypass for Lido di Palmi. Two men who were in the car behind me and who came to my aid said I had also run into the median and made no sign of braking. They realized I was falling asleep.”

  “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “No, luckily. I went and rested at a motel nearby as my car was being repaired. They hoped to have it ready for me by the afternoon but didn’t manage. So I spent the night at the motel and left the next day.”

  “Have you been back to Gioia Tauro at any time since?”

  She gave him a quizzical look.

  “No. Why would I do that?”

  “Therefore the place should be in the condition you left it on the morning of September the fourth.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have the keys?”

  “Of course.”

  “And your husband has his own set?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a cleaning woman who—”

  “I always leave everything in order. And when I go back, I make sure that Giovanni finds the place all clean.”

  “Give me the address.”

  “Via Gerace 15, ground floor. You enter from the rear; there’s a little gate.”

  “Give Fazio the keys before he leaves.”

  “Why?”

  “Signora, we don’t know how or why your husband disappeared. If he did it of his own free will, he very likely went back to that room after you left for Vigàta. And even if he disappeared at the hands of someone else, it’s possible that he was held in that room, against his will, by someone who knew him well.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, for the moment I think that’s all.”

  “Don’t you want to pick a photo of Giovanni?”

  “Ah yes, that’s right.”

  “Come with me into the bedroom. They’re in there.”

  At the sound of the word “bedroom,” Fazio, whom the inspector had brought along as a watchdog, sprang to his feet.

  “I’m coming too,” he said.

  “No, you stay here,” said Montalbano.

  Fazio sat back down, looking worried.

  “Call me if you need me,” he muttered.

  “Need you for what?” asked Dolores, genuinely puzzled.

  “Well, in case there are too many photos, you know...,” the inspector improvised.

  In the bedroom the scent of cinnamon was so strong, it made him want to cough.

  The bed was one of the biggest Montalbano had ever seen, a veritable drill ground. You could have held maneuvers, parades, and marches in it. At the foot of the bed there was a huge television and dozens of memory discs. On top of the television was a video camera.

  Montalbano was convinced that Dolores and her husband filmed themselves during certain exercises in the drill ground, and then watched themselves afterward so they could perfect them.

  11

  Dolores, meanwhile, had opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out a packet of photographs that she spread out on the bed.

  “These are the most recent, the ones we took at the home of that distant relative of Giovanni’s. Take whichever ones you want.”

  Montalbano picked up a few. In order to have a look at them herself, Dolores came up beside him, so close that her hip touched the inspector’s.

  They must have been taken at the end of a day in late August. The light was extraordinary. Two or three showed Dolores in a bikini. The inspector felt the point of contact between their two bodies heat up. When he moved slightly away to one side, she drew near again. Was she doing it on purpose, or did she really need at all times to have physical contact with a man?

  “This is a really good one of Giovanni,” said Dolores, picking out a photo.

  He was a good-looking man of about forty, tall and dark, with intelligent eyes, and an open, smiling face.

  “All right, I’ll take this one,” said the inspector. “Don’t forget to give Fazio the information on your husband: when he was born, where—”

  “Okay.”

  “And whose beautiful house is this?” Montalbano asked, looking at a snapshot that showed Dolores, Giovanni, and some other people on a large terrace with a great many potted plants. He knew full well whose house it was, but he wanted to hear her say it.

  “Oh, that’s my husband’s relative’s house. His name is Don Balduccio Sinagra.”

  Indeed there he was in the photo: Don Balduccio, sitting in a deck chair.

  He was smiling. But Dolores had said his name with near-total indifference.

  “Will that be enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you help me put things away?”

  “Okay.”

  She picked up the envelope and held it open for him, and he slipped in a first handful of photos. He had just inserted the second and last handful when she leaned slightly forward, grabbed his right hand, and planted her lips on its back. The inspector recoiled dramatically and was in danger of falling lengthwise onto the bed. Dolores, however, managed to keep her lips glued to his hand. Montalbano, meanwhile, felt suddenly drained of all strength, all ability to resist. How many degrees had the temperature in the room gone up?

  Luckily Dolores raised her head and looked him straight in the e
ye. He could have drowned in that gaze.

  “Help me,” she said. “Without him, I’m . . . Help me.”

  Montalbano freed his hand, turned his back to her, and went into the living room, speaking perhaps too loudly.

  “You, Fazio, take down her declaration, then have the lady give you the list of friends, the address in Gioia Tauro, and the keys.”

  Fazio said nothing.

  He was staring, spellbound, at the imprint of lipstick the woman’s lips had left on the inspector’s hand. The stigmata of Saint Salvo, who was certainly not a virgin but no less a martyr. Montalbano rubbed it with his other hand to make it disappear.

  Dolores came in.

  “I must be going now, Signora. I think we’ll have to meet again.”

  “I’ll show you out,” said Dolores.

  “For heaven’s sake, please don’t bother!” said Montalbano, fleeing.

  “Macannuco? Montalbano here.”

  “Montalbano! Good to hear from you! How are you?”

  “Not too bad. And

  “You remember that song we used to sing in class? Whatever I say, whatever I do, / I always take it up the wazoo. The situation hasn’t changed.”

  “Listen, Macannuco, I need you to do me a big favor.”

  “For you, I’ll do that and more.”

  Macannuco headed the commissariat in the port of Gioia Tauro. Montalbano explained what he needed from him.

  “Lemme get this straight, Montalbà. You’re asking me to break down the door of an apartment in Via Gerace 15, photograph the place, and e-mail you the photos?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Without a warrant?”

  “That’s right.”

  Fazio straggled back less than half an hour later.

  “Jesus, what a dame!”

  “Did you get everything we needed from her?”

  “Yessir. There’s only three names on the list of friends.”

  “Listen, tell me in a little more detail the story of Balduccio and the Alfano guy he sent to Colombia.”

  “Chief, did you notice how the lady kept talking about a ‘distant relative’ without ever mentioning Balduccio Sinagra by name?”

  “Actually, she did mention him by name. When we were in the bedroom looking through the photos. But she did it very offhandedly, as if she didn’t know who Balduccio was. Do you think it’s possible she doesn’t know?”

  “No. So, anyway, one day some twenty-odd years ago, Don Balduccio sends a second cousin, Filippo Alfano, to Colombia, to maintain direct contact with the big coke producers there. Filippo Alfano brings along his family, which consists of his wife and son, Giovanni, who at the time is fifteen. Then, sometime later, Filippo Alfano is shot and killed.”

  “By the Colombians?”

  “By someone from Colombia, definitely. But some people tell another version of this story. Some people, mind you.”

  “I read you, go on.”

  “They say it was Don Balduccio himself who had him killed.”

  “And why?”

  “I dunno, there were a lot of rumors. The most commonly accepted explanation is that Filippo Alfano took advantage of the situation, expanded his operations, and started thinking more about his own business than about Don Balduccio’s, hoping to replace him.”

  “And Balduccio prevented him. But he kept looking after the widow and son, according to what Dolores told us.”

  “Which makes sense. It’s in keeping with Don Balduccio’s mentality.”

  “So the son, Giovanni, has always kept his nose clean?”

  “Chief, the guy’s been in the sights of the narcotics authorities of at least two continents his whole life! With the line of work he’s in? No, he’s never tripped up, not even once.”

  “Oh, listen, take this photo of Giovanni Alfano and have ten copies of it made for me. They may come in handy. Then have the three friends come in for questioning tomorrow morning, one hour apart. Oh, and one other thing. I want to know the exact date Balduccio Sinagra went into the hospital.”

  “Is it important?”

  “Yes and no. I’m thinking of that anonymous letter that claimed Balduccio gave the order to have one of his couriers killed. If I’m not mistaken, Ballerini told Musante that Balduccio was hospitalized and in a coma in Palermo, and so Musante decided that Balduccio had nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re not mistaken.”

  “Except that Dolores showed me a photo of Balduccio in which he looked just fine. I managed to get a glimpse of the date on the back: August 28. Therefore Balduccio could have had all the time in the world to order a hit on whoever he liked before going into the hospital. Make sense?”

  “Makes sense.”

  The inspector had just finished eating the way God had intended and was getting up from the table when Enzo approached.

  “Inspector, where are you going to spend Christmas and New Year’s this year?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I wanted to let you know that if by any chance you’re staying in Vigàta, the trattoria will be closed on the night of the thirty-first. But if you want to come to my place that night, I’d be honored and pleased to have you.”

  So now the tremendous pain in the ass of the holidays was about to begin! He couldn’t stand them anymore—not so much the holidays in themselves, but the annoying rituals of best wishes, presents, lunches, dinners, invitations and return invitations. And then the greeting cards expressing the hope that the coming year would be better than the one just ended—a vain hope, since every new year in the end turned out to be slightly worse than the one before.

  Enzo’s question had managed, in the end, to block his digestion like a blast of cold air. In vain he took his customary walk to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty. The effect was nil, his stomach still felt heavy.

  As the final blow, he imagined the inevitable, imminent arguments with Livia—Will you be coming to Boccadasse? No, you come to Vigàta—on and on to the point of exhaustion or bickering.

  “Ahh Chief Chief! Misser Giacchetta called! He says it wadn’t so important ’n’ so iss not so important f ’you to call’im cuz he’s gonna call back.”

  Fabio Giacchetti, the bank manager and new father. What might he have to say?

  “When he calls back, put ’im through to me.”

  “Ahh, Chief, I almos’ forgot. Fazio called an’ tol’ me to tell yiz ’e knows when ’e’s goin’ inna haspitol.”

  “Fazio’s going into the hospital?!” said Montalbano, alarmed.

  “No, no, Chief, don’ worry, I prolly din’t say it right. So I’ll try agin, so jus’ bear wit’ me a seccun. So, Fazio tol’ me to tell yiz ’e knows when ’e—but he ain’t Fazio, ’e’s summon ellis—when ’e’s gone inna haspitol.”

  At last he understood: Fazio had learned the date of Balduccio Sinagra’s admission to the hospital.

  “And when was it?”

  “’E says it was the turd o’ September.”

  Confirmed. So Don Balduccio would have had time to give as many execution orders as he wanted. But why hadn’t the people at Antimafia reached the same conclusion as he?

  Why had they taken the information given them by Narcotics as valid? Why were they so convinced the anonymous letter wasn’t true? Or had they in fact investigated but didn’t want anyone to know?

  “Montalbano? This is Macannuco.”

  “Hi. What’s up? Did you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “First I have to ask you something.”

  From his tone of voice, he seemed on edge. Maybe something had gone wrong. Or he’d had problems with some superior.

  “Go on, ask your question.”

  “Could you have a copy of a search warrant sent to me within an hour?”

  “Within an hour? I can try.”

  “Do it right away, I’m telling you.”

  “Do you need to cover your rear?”

  “Yes. I can’t not tell
our prosecutor, who’s quite the formalist, that I entered the Via Gerace apartment completely illegally.”

  “Why do you have to tell him?!”

  “Because.”

  Maybe someone had seen them breaking down the door. It would have been amusing to watch if they’d been arrested by the carabinieri.

  “Did you go there yourself?”

  “Of course. Without a warrant, I had to be the one to take responsibility. Get me that warrant, and I’ll let you know why I have to report everything to the prosecutor.”

  “All right, but in the meantime, did you take any photos? Could you send them to me?”

  “There are four photos, and you’ll be receiving them at any moment. Bye, talk to you soon.”

  By the time Fazio returned, Montalbano had already spoken to Prosecutor Tommaseo, told him about Alfano’s disappearance, obtained a warrant, and had it faxed from Montelusa to Macannuco.

  Fazio looked befuddled.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong, Chief, is we were wrong.”

  “Can you speak a little more clearly?”

  “I compared the data on Giovanni Alfano that Dolores gave me with the missing persons data. You remember when I said there wasn’t anybody whose data matched up with the body we found in the critaru?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, now there is somebody, and his information matches up with Alfano’s. In every respect: age, height, probable weight.”

  Now it was Montalbano’s turn to look befuddled.

  And as they were looking at each other, the door flew open with a crash that might have been a bomb. Montalbano and Fazio cursed in unison, while Catarella remained in the doorway, looking pensive.

  “Well, aren’t you going to come in?”

  “Chief, I’s thinkin’ that maybe I oughta try knockin wit’ my feet, since my ’and always slips.”

  “No, instead you ought to try this: when you’re in front of the door, instead of knocking, take out your gun and shoot once in the air. I’m sure it would make less noise. What is it?”