“Did you get him? I was certain he was hiding somewhere in the construction site. I didn’t tow his car so as to use it as bait. I was sure he would have taken it, and that you would have been there to reel him in.”
For a moment, the inspector had a blasphemous thought: what a team they would have made, that carabinieri marshall and himself!
“I had to shoot him.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you exactly?”
The inspector explained.
“Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so. None of the windows opened. Everyone preferred to go back to sleep.”
“Better that way. Don’t move. I’ll be in Gallotta in fifteen minutes.”
He got in the car, too. Now Catarella was shaking.
“I’m cold, so cold, sir.”
Montalbano put his arm over his shoulder.
“Lean on me.”
Catarella curled up against the inspector’s body and started to cry.
“Matre santa! Matre santa! What a horrible thing to see, a man killed!”
Seeing a man killed had been too much for Catarella. And what about killing one, how bad was that?
Verruso didn’t waste any time, he pulled up next to the inspector’s car and spoke to them through an open window.
“You should leave immediately; you shouldn’t be involved in this at all. I was the one who killed Dimora, in a gunfight. Is that clear? As soon as you leave, I’ll call it in. Oh, for your information: Dimora’s two accomplices started talking, they confessed that ’u zu Cecè ordered the murders and, in spite of all his political connections, I believe this time he is fucked, as you would put it.”
Were Verruso’s words meant to be ironic? Indeed they were, but the inspector preferred not to dwell on them.
He drove Catarella home. When he got out, his knees were weak, and he leaned against the window on Montalbano’s side of the car.
“This means that this is our fourth secret, doesn’t it?”
And this time, there wasn’t any happiness on his face, quite the opposite. Montalbano felt like patting his head, like you do with a dog.
“Yes, unfortunately.”
When he got to Marinella, he jumped in the shower and didn’t get out.
He couldn’t help himself; he soaped up, rinsed, and started all over again. He used all the water in the emergency tank. One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t sleep a wink that night.
And that’s exactly how it went.
The next morning, with the sun already high in the sky, he swam for an hour in the ice-cold water. But when he got out, he still felt dirty. How did Lady Macbeth put it? Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hands? He got dressed, put the big coffeepot on the stove and then, sitting on the patio, drinking one coffee after the next, he waited for a civilized hour to make a phone call.
“It’s Montalbano. I’d like to speak with Signora …”
“Ah, it’s you, sir! Catarina called and said she wouldn’t be in the office today. She told me to have you call her at home. Do you have the number?”
This time, Catarina picked up the phone immediately.
“Thank you! Thank you! They said on the radio that they arrested ’u zu Cecè! Thank you!”
“Why are you thanking me? I had nothing to do with it. Marshal Verruso was the one who …”
“Listen, I wanted to tell you that tonight I can’t make it for dinner. We’ll have to do it another time.”
“Not feeling well?”
“No, nothing too serious. Last night, I slipped and twisted my ankle. I can’t walk.”
Lean on me, Montalbano would have liked to tell her. I know a wonderful old lady who’ll give you a magical ointment. You’ll feel better in a few hours and then …
Instead he only said: “Sorry to hear that.”
He went back to his patio and bathed in the sun like a lizard. You can’t go out with a woman the day after you killed a man. Sometimes it happens, but only in American movies.
About the Author
Andrea Camilleri was born in 1925 in Porto Empedocle, Sicily. He won the 2012 CWA International Dagger for The Potter's Field, translated by Stephen Sartarelli.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
© 2014 Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A., Milan, Italy.
Originally published in Italy in La paura di Montalbano.
© 2002 Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A., Milan, Italy.
Translated from Italian by Gianluca Rizzo and Dominic Siracusa.
Cover art director: Giacomo Callo
Cover graphic design by Desanguine/Camusso
Cover illustration by Andy Bridge
Ebook ISBN 978-1-4976-8648-9
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