The Track of Sand im-12

by Andrea Camilleri

  “You ever seen this guy?”

  “Is that the dead man from Spinoccia?”

  “Yes.”

  Mimì put on his glasses. Montalbano squirmed uneasily in his chair.

  “Never seen him before,” said Augello, laying the photos and envelope on the desk and putting the glasses back in his shirt pocket.

  “Could I try them?”

  “Try what?”

  “The glasses.”

  Augello handed them to him. Montalbano put them on, and everything suddenly looked like a blurry photograph. He took them off and gave them back to Mimì.

  “I can see better with my father’s pair.”

  “But you can’t ask everyone you meet with glasses if you can try them on! You simply have to go see an eye doctor! He’ll examine you and prescribe—”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go one of these days.Tell me, how is it I didn’t see you all day yesterday?”

  “I spent the whole morning and afternoon looking into the business of that little boy, Angelo Verruso. Remember?”

  A little boy not six years old, returning home from school, had started crying and refused to eat. Finally, after much insistence, his mother had succeeded in getting the child to tell her that his teacher had forced him into a closet and made him do “dirty things.” When the mother asked him for details, the kid said the teacher had taken his thingy out and made him touch it. A sensible woman, Signora Verruso did not believe that the teacher, a family man of about fifty, was capable of such behavior; on the other hand, neither did she want to disbelieve her son.

  Since she was a friend of Beba, she spoke to her about it.And Beba, in turn, had talked to her husband, Mimì, about it.Who had then related the whole matter to Montalbano.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Listen, we’re better off dealing with criminals than with these little kids. It’s impossible to tell when they’re telling the truth and when they’re fibbing. And I also have to proceed with caution; I don’t want to destroy the teacher. All it takes is for a rumor to start circulating, and he’s ruined . . .”

  “But what was your impression?”

  “That the teacher didn’t do anything. I didn’t hear a single bad thing about him.Anyway, the closet the kid mentions is barely big enough to hold a bucket and two brooms.”

  “So why, then, would the kid make up a story like that?”

  “In my opinion, to get back at the teacher, who he thinks is mean to him.”

  “Deliberately?”

  “Are you kidding? Want to know what Angelo’s latest exploit was? He shat on a newspaper, folded it up into a little package, and slipped it into one of the drawers in the teacher’s desk.”

  “So why did they name him Angelo?”

  “When he was born, the parents obviously had no idea how the little imp would turn out.”

  “Is he still going to school?”

  “No, I advised the mother to report him sick.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Good morning, Inspectors,” said Fazio, coming in.

  He saw the photos of the dead man.

  “Can I take one of these?” he asked.“I’d like to show it around.”

  “Go ahead.What did you do yesterday afternoon?”

  “I kept asking around about Gurreri.”

  “Did you go talk to his wife?”

  “Not yet. I’ll be going later today.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Chief, what Lo Duca told you is true, at least in part.”

  “What part?”

  “That Gurreri left his home over three months ago. All the neighbors heard him.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Heard him yelling at his wife, calling her a whore and a slut, and saying he was never coming back.”

  “Did he say he wanted to take revenge on Lo Duca?”

  “No, they didn’t hear him say that. But they also can’t swear he didn’t say it.”

  “Did the neighbor lady tell you anything else?”

  “No, the neighbor lady didn’t, but Don Minicuzzu did.”

  “And who is Don Minicuzzu?”

  “A guy who sells fruits and vegetables directly in front of where Gurreri lives and can see who goes in and out of the building.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “Chief, according to Minicuzzu, Licco has never set foot in that building. So how could he be Gurreri’s wife’s lover?”

  “But does he know Licco well?”

  “Does he know him well? Licco’s the one he used to pay the racket money to! And he told me something important, too. One night he was worried he hadn’t properly locked the metal shutter. So he got out of bed and went outside to check.When he was in front of his shop, the door to Gurreri’s building opens, and out comes Ciccio Bellavia, whom he knows well.”

  Imagine Ciccio Bellavia not crawling out of the sewer in this affair!

  “And when was this?”

  “Over three months ago.”

  “So our hypothesis is correct. Bellavia goes to Gurreri and offers him a deal. If his wife provides Licco with an alibi, saying she’s his mistress, Gurreri gets taken on as a permanent member of the Cuffaros. Gurreri thinks it over a bit and then accepts, putting on the show about leaving home forever because his wife is cheating on him.”

  “You gotta admit, it’s a pretty good scheme,” Mimì commented. “But is Minicuzzu willing to testify?”

  “Not on your life,” said Fazio.

  “So we’re left with nothing,” said Augello.

  “There is one thing, however, that we should explore further,” said Montalbano.

  “What’s that?”

  “We know nothing about Gurreri’s wife. Did she immediately go along because they offered her money? Or was she threatened? And how would she react to the possibility of ending up in jail for perjury? Does she know she’s running that risk?”

  “Chief,” said Fazio,“if you ask me, Concetta Siragusa is an honest woman who had the bad luck to marry a crook. I haven’t heard any malicious gossip about her conduct. I am sure they forced her to play along. Between her husband’s slaps, punches, and kicks and whatever Ciccio Bellavia told her, the poor thing probably had no choice but to accept.”

  “You know what I say, Fazio? Maybe we’re lucky you haven’t talked to her yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need to think of a way to trip her up.”

  “I could go talk to her,” said Mimì.

  “And what would you say to her?”

  “That I’m a lawyer sent by the Cuffaros to instruct her as to what she should say at the trial. That way, as we’re talking . . .”

  “Mimì, what if they’ve already sent their lawyer, and she gets suspicious?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Well then let’s send her an anonymous letter.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t know how to read or write,” said Fazio.

  “I’ve got it!” Mimì persisted. “I’ll dress up as a priest and—”

  “You wanna cut the shit, Mimì? For the moment, nobody is going to go talk to Concetta Siragusa.We’ll think it over a bit, and when one of us has a good idea . . . We’re not in such a hurry.”

  “I thought priest was a good idea,” said Mimì.

  The telephone rang.

  “Ahh Chief, Chief! Ahh Chief, Chief!”

  Four chiefs? It must be the commissioner.

  “Is it the commissioner?”

  “Yessir, Chief.”

  “Put him on,” he said, turning on the speakerphone.

  “Montalbano?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Commissioner, what can I do for you?”

  “Could you come to my office right now? I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s something very serious, and I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

  The tone of the commissioner’s voice made him consent at once.

  He hung up, and they all looked at one another.

  “If he’s
talking like that, it really must be something serious,” said Mimì.

  16

  In the commissioner’s waiting room, he inevitably ran into Dr. Lattes, the priestlike, unctuous cabinet chief. But why was the guy always fiddling about in the waiting room? Did he have too much time on his hands? Didn’t he have an office of his own? Couldn’t he go scratch his balls behind his own desk? The mere sight of him put Montalbano on edge. Upon spotting the inspector, Lattes’s face lit up as if he’d just found out he won a few billion in the lottery.

  “Ah, what a pleasure! What a joy! How are you, dear inspector?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “And the missus?”

  “She’s getting by.”

  “And the children?”

  “Growing, with thanks to the Madonna.”

  “Let us always give thanks.”

  Lattes was stuck on this idea that Montalbano was married with at least two children. After a hundred or so vain attempts to explain that he was a bachelor, the inspector had given up.The phrase “with thanks to the Madonna” was also de rigueur with Lattes.

  “The commissioner asked me to—”

  “Just knock and go right in. He’s waiting for you.”

  He rapped and entered.

  But he froze for a moment in the doorway, taken aback to see Vanni Arquà seated in front of the commissioner’s desk.What the hell was the chief of Forensics doing there? Was he going to take part in this meeting, too? Why? In a twinkling, his antipathy towards Arquà shot up to maximum level.

  “Please come in, close the door, and sit down.”

  On other occasions, Bonetti-Alderighi had purposely made him stand. So that he could appreciate the distance between him, the commissioner, and a lowly chief inspector of a small-town police department.This time, however, the commissioner behaved differently. Indeed, just as Montalbano was about to sit down, his boss actually stood up and held out his hand. The inspector started to get literally scared.What could have happened for the commissioner to treat him so politely, like a normal person? Was he about to read him his death sentence?

  Montalbano and Arquà greeted each other with a slight nod. Given their relationship, this was a major thaw.

  “Montalbano, I wanted to see you because we have a rather delicate matter on our hands, and it has me very worried.”

  “I’m listening, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “All right. As you already know, perhaps, Dr. Pasquano has performed the autopsy on the body found in Spinoccia.”

  “Yes, I know. But I haven’t yet read the re—”

  “I’ve requested it, actually, and shall have it this afternoon. But that’s not the matter. The fact is that Dr. Pasquano, with admirable speed, has already sent the bullet he extracted to the Forensics lab.”

  “He told me that, too.”

  “Good. Well, when examining it, Dr. Arquà, to his great surprise, found . . . but perhaps it’s better if I let him tell you.”

  Vanni Arquà, however, did not open his mouth. He merely extracted a sealed cellophane packet from his pocket and handed it to the inspector. The bullet inside was quite visible; rather misshapen, but basically whole.

  Montalbano found nothing strange about it.

  “So?”

  “It’s a nine-caliber Parabellum,” said Arquà.

  “I could see that myself,” said Montalbano, slightly resentful. “So what?”

  “It’s a caliber exclusive to our equipment,” said Arquà.

  “No, allow me to correct you. It is not exclusive to police equipment. It also happens to be the caliber used by the carabinieri, the finance police, the armed forces—”

  “All right, all right,” the commissioner interrupted him.

  But the inspector pretended not to hear him:

  “—and also all the crooks, and there are many of them—indeed the majority, I’d say—who have managed in one way or another to get their hands on military-grade weapons.”

  “I am very well aware of that,” said Arquà, with a little smile that invited a pummeling.

  “So what is the problem?”

  “Let us proceed in orderly fashion, Montalbano,” said the commissioner.“What you say is absolutely right, but we must absolutely clear the air of any possible suspicion.”

  “Suspicion of what?”

  “That it might be one of our men who killed him. Do you know of any exchange of gunfire that took place during the day last Monday?”

  “Not that I’m aware of . . .”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.This complicates matters,” said the commissioner.

  “Why?”

  “Because if some journalist gets wind of this, can you imagine all the suspicions, insinuations, all the mud they’ll hurl at us?”

  “Well, let’s not let them find out.”

  “It’s not so simple. And if it turns out that this man was killed by one of ours for, let’s say, personal reasons, I want to know. It really upsets me, it chagrins me, it disgusts me to think that there might be a killer among us.”

  At this point Montalbano rebelled.

  “I understand how you feel, Mr. Commissioner. But could you please tell me why I alone have been summoned to your office? Do you think perhaps that if there is a killer among us, he must be necessarily from my force and not from somewhere else?”

  “It’s because the body was found in an area between Vigàta and Giardina, and both Vigàta and Giardina are territorially part of your jurisdiction,” said Arquà. “It is therefore logical to presume that—”

  “It’s not the least bit logical! That body could easily have been brought there from Fiacca, from Fela, from Gallotta, from Montelusa—”

  “There’s no need to get upset, Montalbano,” the commissioner intervened.“What you say is absolutely true. But we’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t we?”

  “But why are you so fu . . . so stuck on this idea that it was someone from the police who did it?”

  “That’s not my idea at all,” said the commissioner.“My goal is to prove incontrovertibly that it was not a member of the police who killed that man.And before the malicious rumors start circulating.”

  He was right, no doubt about it.

  “That’s going to take a while, you know.”

  “No matter. We’ll take all the time we need; nobody’s coming after us,” said Bonetti-Alderighi.

  “So how should I proceed?”

  “You, in the meantime, should check, as discreetly as possible, to see if any cartridges are missing from the clips of the pistols used by the men in your department.”

  At that exact moment, without a sound, the ground beneath Montalbano’s feet suddenly opened up, and he plummeted inside, chair and all. He had just remembered something. He managed, however, not to move, not to sweat, not to turn pale. He even managed, through an effort that cost him a year of his life, to smile faintly.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because on Monday morning Corporal Galluzzo fired two shots at a dog that attacked me. Galluzzo had driven me home to Marinella, and the moment I got out of the car, this dog . . . Sergeant Fazio was also there.”

  “Did he kill him?” Arquà inquired.

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “If he killed the animal, we’ll try to track it down, remove the bullet, and we’ll know—”

  “What do you mean, ‘if ’? Are you trying to say my men don’t know how to shoot?”

  “Answer me, Montalbano,” the commissioner intervened. “Did he hit the dog or not?”

  “No, he missed it, and couldn’t get off any more shots because the weapon jammed.”

  “Could I have it?” Arquà asked icily.

  “Have what?”

  “The weapon.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to make a comparison.”

  If Arquà made his comparison by firing a shot from that pistol, they were all fucked—him, Galluzzo, and Fazio. He had to prevent this,
at all costs.

  “Ask the Weapons Department for it. I think they’ve still got it,” said Montalbano.

  Then he stood up, pale, hands shaking, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing, and said in a voice cracking with rage:

  “Mr. Commissioner, Dr. Arquà has deeply offended me!”

  “Come now, Montalbano!”

  “Oh, yes, sir, deeply offended me! And you are a witness, Mr. Commissioner! And I shall ask you to testify! With his request, Dr. Arquà has cast my words into doubt.The gun is at his disposal; but now he, Dr. Arquà, must put himself, in turn, at my disposal.”

  Arquà seemed to fear he was actually being challenged to a duel.

  “But I didn’t mean . . .” he began.

  “Come now, Montalbano ...” Bonetti-Alderighi repeated.

  Montalbano clenched his fists, turning them white.

  “No, Mr. Commissioner, I am sorry. I maintain that I have been gravely offended. I shall conduct every examination you have ordered me to do. But if Dr. Arquà requests my corporal’s weapon, I will submit my resignation forthwith. With all the ensuing publicity. Good day.”

  And before Bonetti-Alderighi had time to reply, the inspector turned his back to the two men, opened the door, and left, congratulating himself on the resounding success of the tragic scene he had just staged. He could certainly have had a career in Hollywood.

  * * *

  He needed to confirm something at once. He got in his car and went straight to Pasquano’s office.

  “Is the doctor in?”

  “He’s in, but . . .”

  “No problem, I’ll go see him myself.”

  There were two round windows in the door to the room in which Pasquano worked.

  The inspector had a look before going inside. Pasquano was washing his hands, but still wearing his bloodstained smock.The table on which he performed his autopsies was empty. Montalbano pushed the door open. Seeing him, the doctor started cursing.

  “Holy fucking Christ! Can’t I get away from you even here? Just lay yourself down on this table, I’ll take care of you in a jiffy.”

  He grabbed some sort of bone-cutting saw. Montalbano took a few steps back.With Pasquano it was always best to be careful.