The Potter's Field

by Andrea Camilleri

  “So I was supposed to pick up the shit with my own hands?”

  Guttadauro shrugged.

  “It’s what we were hoping. However, at that point, you stepped back and put your deputy into the mix,” he said.

  “Who is making . . . big . . . mistake,” the old man chimed in.

  “But we can’t let him continue in his mistake for very long,” the lawyer said by way of conclusion.

  “I’m very tired,” said Don Balduccio, closing his eyes.

  Montalbano stood up and left the room, followed by Guttadauro.

  “I didn’t like your last statement one bit,” the inspector said harshly.

  “I didn’t either, having said it,” the lawyer replied. “But don’t take it as a threat. Don Balduccio doesn’t know yet, because I asked that he not be told. But I know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That your deputy and Dolores have been . . . well, let’s say ‘meeting.’ It is in everyone’s best interests that this affair end as soon as possible.”

  He showed him to the car, opened the door for him, closed it when Montalbano got in, and bowed when the car drove off.

  It was late, but the inspector didn’t feel the least bit like sleeping. He had a lot of thinking to do. Going into the kitchen, he prepared the usual six-cup pot of coffee. So Guttadauro knew about Dolores and Mimì. And the lawyer had given him a sort of deadline that was no joking matter. How would Balduccio react if he found out about the love affair between his adoptive daughter-in-law and the deputy inspector who was investigating him? Badly, no doubt. Because he would be convinced that Mimì was working in Dolores’s favor. He would never believe that Mimì was acting in good faith. And the whole thing might take a dangerous turn. The coffee bubbled up. Montalbano poured himself a mugful and sipped it slowly. Sitting out on the veranda was out of the question, as it was too cold, and so he sat down at the small diningroom table, paper and pen within reach. So what, in essence, had Balduccio told him? First of all, the old man had made a genuine confession to him—namely, that it was he who had Filippo Alfano killed in Colombia, convinced that Alfano had betrayed him. He had put himself in Montalbano’s hands by admitting to the murder. But surely Balduccio had made that confession for a second purpose. What? The inspector wrote:

  Find out when and how Filippo Alfano was murdered. Have Catarella do a search.

  Second—and this was very important—the old man had told him that, realizing his mistake, he had taken it upon himself to care for Giovanni, Filippo’s son, supporting his studies and making sure the boy lived “a clean life.” In other words, he had kept him out of Mafia circles. Therefore Giovanni had not been a courier. This was one of the reasons Balduccio had wanted to meet with the inspector: to tell him this in person. It bothered the old gangster to see Giovanni’s memory tarnished. But then what did those traces of cocaine in the shoebox mean? The coke couldn’t have been for personal use, since Giovanni’s friends maintained he never took any. Maybe Dolores liked a snort now and then. Then there was what Don Balduccio left unsaid. He never once uttered the name of his daughter-in-law Dolores. And this surely meant something. The silences of mafiosi often say much more than words could ever do. Another point: Balduccio was convinced that Giovanni couldn’t deliver the letter because he had never crossed the strait. In his opinion, he had gone no farther than Catania. But how could he claim this, when the blood in the sink proved that Giovanni had been in Gioia Tauro? Last point: Balduccio, in judging the whole matter to be “shit” and declaring his unwillingness to concern himself with it, was leaving it up to the law for a precise (but undeclared) purpose. (In the mouths of mafiosi, the real purpose is always hidden behind another apparent, but false, primary purpose.) Balduccio wanted those responsible for Giovanni’s murder to end up in prison after a public trial that would expose their filth and ferocity to everyone. If he had taken matters into his own hands, the culprits would, of course, have paid for their actions, but they would have quietly disappeared, killed by lupara bianca. He was, in short, using the law as a refined form of vendetta: public disgrace.

  In conclusion, Balduccio was certain that Giovanni had been killed the moment he learned that the letter had never been delivered. That failure spoke more clearly to him than any hard evidence. Because, if one thought about it, the whole story was full of objects either absent or present. A hand-delivered letter that never arrives. A bouquet of roses that by evening hasn’t been picked up, but which is gone the following morning. The dust that shouldn’t have been there, on the little table in the entrance. A garbage bin that should have contained the remains of a meal but was empty. An unpaid electric bill. A bloody syringe . . .

  Wait a minute, Montalbano! Stop right there!

  The garbage bin at Via Gerace was made of plastic! Positive ? Positive. And if it was plastic, it couldn’t have a rusted bottom. What a collossal moron! What he’d seen wasn’t rust, but dried blood! Blood that had leaked out of the syringe when it was thrown into the bin!

  Phone Esterina Trippodo in the morning.

  He now understood the next moves he had to make. He kept writing.

  Call up Macannuco, bring him up to speed on everything, suggest to him what needs to be done.

  As soon as he finished this sentence, he felt a little tired. Tired but satisfied. And he was sure that, if he lay down, he would fall immediately asleep.

  He was woken up by a noise in the kitchen. He looked at the clock: nine-thirty. Matre santa, it was late!

  “Adelina!”

  “Wha’d I do, ’Spector, d’I wake a you up? You’s asleepin’ like an angel!”

  “Could you make me a nice, proper cup of coffee?”

  He got up and, instead of locking himself in the bathroom, went into the dining room and dialed directory assistance. A horrendous, recorded woman’s voice answered. In the end the robotess gave him the number he wanted. Before dialing it, he drank his coffee. And before anyone answered at the other end, he had time to review the multiplication tables for seven, eight, and nine. At last a female voice picked up.

  “Hello!”

  “Hello, is this Signora Esterina Trippodo?”

  “Who the fuck do you think it would be when you dial my home phone number?”

  Always so gracious and refined, that woman!

  “Inspector Montalbano here. Do you remember me?”

  “How could I forget? Long live the king!”

  “Long live the king! I have a little favor to ask of you, signora.”

  “At your service. If we of the same faith don’t help one another . . .”

  “I need for you to go and get the Alfanos’ garbage bin, exactly as it is, and bring it to your place. And for heaven’s sake don’t clean it! And don’t remove the lid. My colleague Macannuco will come sometime today to pick it up.”

  “No, Macannuco, no!”

  “Please, Esterina, in the name of our common faith.”

  It took him a good fifteen minutes to persuade her, all the while cursing inside every time he had to sing the praises of the House of Savoy. Afterwards, he called the station.

  “Your orders, Chief!”

  “Cat, I’ll be coming in late.”

  “You’re the boss, sir.”

  “If Fazio’s there, put him on.”

  Tables for three.

  “Hello, Chief ?”

  “Fazio, is Mimì in his office?”

  “No, he went to Montelusa to see Musante.”

  “Listen, there’s something I want resolved by the end of the morning, but I don’t want Mimì to know about it. All right?”

  “Whatever you say, Chief.”

  “I want you to find me the exact date Filippo Alfano was murdered in Colombia.”

  “The records office here must certainly have the death notice.”

  “Good. When you’ve got everything in hand, give it to Catarella. Before the morning’s over, I want him to find out, via the Internet, what newspapers there were in Colombia at the
time and to get in touch with one of them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know the exact circumstances of the death of Filippo Alfano.”

  Fazio remained silent for a moment.

  “I know it won’t be easy, Fazio, but—”

  “Chief, I think I remember that the person who told me the story of Filippo Alfano also mentioned that the papers here talked about it too.”

  “So much the better. In short, one way or another, I want an answer.”

  Next, he called Macannuco. And he spoke with him for half an hour. In the end, they were in agreement on everything except one small detail.

  “No, I refuse to say ‘Long live the king’ to that woman!”

  “C’mon, Macannù, what the hell do you care? Just say it, and you’ll see, she’ll open up to you.”

  Now he had to prepare his third move, which would be a shot in the dark and therefore the riskiest of all. But if he was on the mark, it would be the one that resolved everything.

  “Adelina!”

  “Wha ’s it, signore?”

  “Grab a sheet of paper and start writing.”

  “Me? You know I don’ write...”

  “It doesn’t matter. Let’s do this. I’ll write something for you on a sheet of paper, and you copy it over onto another clean sheet. Okay?”

  He took a sheet and wrote in block letters:

  I’VE GOT THAT SYRINGE YOU KNOW ABOUT. GUESS WHO I AM AND GET IN TOUCH, AND WE CAN MAKE A DEAL.

  “Matre santa!” said Adelina. “Tha’ss a long writing!”

  “Take your time. I’m going into the bathroom.”

  He stayed in there for almost an hour, purposely taking things slow. And, in fact, when he came out, Adelina had just finished.

  “I’m all asweaty, signore. Jeez, ’at was hard! Whaddya wan’ me a do, sign it?”

  “No, Adelì, it’s an anonymous letter!”

  Adelina looked at him with surprise.

  “Wha? You’s a man o’ the law, sir, an’ you mekka me write a ’nonymous letter?”

  “You know what Machiavelli said?”

  “No, sir, I don’ know ’im. Wha’d ’e say?”

  “He said the end justifies the means.”

  “I don’ unnastann, I think I go becka the kitchen.”

  I GOTTA SYRINCE YOU KNOW ABOUT. GESS WHO I AM AND GET IN TUCH, AND WE MAKE A DEEL.

  It was perfect. He took an envelope, put the anonymous letter inside, and sealed it. Then he wrote a short note.

  Dear Macannuco,

  I want you to send the attached letter by express mail from Gioia Tauro to the following address: Dolores Alfano, Via Guttuso 12, Vigàta.

  Thanks,

  Salvo

  He inserted the note and letter into a bigger envelope, wrote Macannuco’s address on this, and put it in his jacket pocket.

  “Goodbye, Adelì, I’m going out.”

  “Whaddya wan’ me a make a you to eat?”

  “Whatever you want. After all, everything you make is good.”

  He stopped at the first tobacco shop he passed, bought a pack of cigarettes and a priority-mail stamp, pasted this on the envelope, and put it in a mailbox, hoping the postal service wouldn’t take eight days, as it usually did, to deliver a letter over a distance of a hundred and twenty miles.

  Catarella was so engrossed at the computer that he didn’t even notice when Montalbano came in. In the corridor the inspector nearly collided with Fazio.

  “Come into my office and close the door,” he said. “So?”

  “I was right, Chief. Filippo Alfano’s murder was reported by the Giornale dell’Isola. He was killed on February the second, twenty-three years ago, at least that’s the date the records office gives for his death.”

  “And the upshot?”

  “The upshot, for now, is that Catarella has accessed the magazine’s archives.”

  “Let’s hope for the best. Any news of Mimì?”

  “He’s not back yet.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  But Fazio didn’t budge.

  “Chief, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “First you turn the investigation over to Augello and now you’re conducting a parallel investigation on your own.”

  “But I’m not conducting any parallel investigation! I just got an idea that I thought might be useful. Or should I forbid myself to think just because I turned the investigation over to Mimì?”

  Fazio seemed unconvinced.

  “Chief, I still can’t get it through my head that it was just a coincidence that you asked me about Dolores Alfano before the woman came here to tell us about her husband . . . And I can’t stop thinking about the fact that you asked me about Pecorini before we knew he was involved with Dolores. Don’t you think it’s time you told me how things really stand?”

  What a damn good cop Fazio was! Montalbano weighed his options and arrived at the conclusion that the best course was to tell Fazio part of the truth.

  “If I asked you about Dolores and Pecorini, it wasn’t because of the murder of Giovanni Alfano, but for another reason.”

  “What’s the reason?”

  “I’d found out that Mimì has been carrying on, for over two months, with another woman.”

  Fazio chuckled.

  “Well, knowing him, it’s a surprise it didn’t happen sooner.”

  “Yes, but I discovered that Mimì’s lover is Dolores Alfano and that they meet in a house owned by Pecorini.”

  “Holy shit! And are they still lovers now?”

  “Yes.”

  Fazio was speechless.

  “And you . . . you . . . knowing this . . . you assigned him the investigation anyway?”

  “Well, what’s so strange about that? It was the Mafia that killed Alfano, wasn’t it? Don’t you agree?”

  “So it seems.”

  “If we suspected Dolores of having anything to do with her husband’s murder, then that would change everything, and Mimì would find himself in a difficult position, to say the least.”

  “Wait a minute, Chief. Does Inspector Augello know that you know?”

  “That he has a lover and that this lover is Dolores? No, he doesn’t.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Fazio. “The woman seemed so in love with her husband! Was she with Augello even before she began to worry that her husband had disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it was all an act she put on with us!”

  “Yes, and she’s still reciting it.”

  “I’m sorry, but I think I’m losing my mind. Why was Inspector Augello so keen on leading this investigation? To do his girlfriend a favor? But at the time we didn’t even know who the dead man was! Unless...”

  “Very good! Unless Mimì himself already knew, because Dolores had told him who she thought the dead man might be.”

  “But that means—”

  “Wait. Somebody’s scratching at the door,” Montalbano interrupted him. “Go see who it is.”

  Fazio got up and opened the door. It was Catarella.

  “I’s knockin’ wit’ my fingernails and din’t crash the door!” he said, chortling with satisfaction.

  He laid a sheet of paper on the desk.

  “Iss a copy o’ the arcticle.”

  As Catarella left, Montalbano started reading the article aloud.

  HORRIFIC CRIME IN PUTUMAYO

  Vigatese businessman murdered and dismembered

  A fifty-two-year-old Vigatese businessman, Filippo Alfano, was murdered yesterday in his office at 28 Amatriz. The body was found by Señora Rosa Almú, who went there every evening around 8 pm to clean the premises. Upon entering the bathroom and seeing the contents of the bathtub, Mrs. Almú fainted. After regaining consciousness, she called the police. Although Filippo Alfano was clearly murdered, it is not known how, since the body was hacked to pieces with extraordinary ferocity. Authorities hope to establish the cause of death after the autopsy
. Mr. Alfano, who left Sicily for Colombia about two years ago, leaves a wife and young son.

  “Shall we bet he was hacked into thirty pieces?” asked Montalbano.

  “So our murder looks pretty much like Balduccio’s follow-up act,” said Fazio.

  Montalbano was thinking that, yes, Balduccio had confessed to the murder of Filippo Alfano, but he had neglected that little detail about having had him chopped up into thirty pieces, the same number as Judas’s silver coins. That was why he had admitted to the crime, certain that Montalbano would look into it. He had omitted that detail on purpose. Once the inspector discovered the shambles that had been made of Filippo Alfano’s body, he would understand that the repetition of the carnage was like forging his signature.

  “Take this article and put it away somewhere.”

  “Shouldn’t I show it to Inspector Augello?”

  “Only when I tell you to.”

  “I’m sorry, Chief, but this article looks to me like proof that it was definitely Balduccio who—”

  “Only when I tell you to,” Montalbano repeated coldly.

  Fazio put the sheet of paper in his pocket, but seemed more doubtful than ever.

  “So how should I act with Inspector Augello?”

  “How do you feel like acting? Just act the way you always do.”

  “Chief, I’ve still got hundreds more questions for you.”

  “So many? We’ll have plenty of time for that later.”

  “You coming back in the afternoon?”

  “Yes, but late. After lunch I’m going home. You can reach me there if you need me.”

  Lost in all the potential complications of what he had decided to do, the inspector ate so listlessly that Enzo noticed.

  “What’s wrong, Inspector? No appetite?”

  “I’ve got some worries on my mind.”

  “That’s bad, Inspector. Eating, like sex, wants no worries.”

  Montalbano took his customary stroll, but, when he got to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty, he didn’t sit down on his rock, but turned back and went home.