IM2 The Terra-Cotta Dog (2002)

by Andrea Camilleri

  This time too, after parking in the Marinella Bars lot, he noticed that her car was already there, beside a Porsche convertible that looked like a rocket and was painted a tasteless shade of yellow that offended the eyes.

  When he entered the bar, Ingrid was standing at the counter drinking a whisky. Beside her was a fortyish man

  dressed in a fancy canary-yellow suit, sporting a Rolex and ponytail, and talking to her confidentially.

  When he has to change clothes, thought the inspector, does he also change cars?

  As soon as she saw him, Ingrid came running and embraced him, kissing him lightly on the lips. She was obviously happy to see him. Montalbano, too, was pleased: Ingrid looked like a gift from God, with her jeans painted on her very long legs, her sandals, her light-blue see-through blouse affording a glimpse of her round breasts, her blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders.

  Sorry, he said to the canary who was with her. See you around.

  They went and sat down at a table. Montalbano didnt feel like drinking anything. The man with the Rolex and ponytail took his whisky out to the seaside terrace. Ingrid and the inspector smiled at each other.

  Youre looking well, she said. A lot better than you did on TV today.

  Yeah, said Montalbano, then changed the subject: You look like youre doing all right yourself.

  Did you want to see me to exchange compliments?

  I wanted to ask a favor of you.

  Here I am.

  The man with the ponytail was eyeing them from the terrace.

  Whos that?

  Somebody I know. I passed him on my way here. He followed and offered me a drink.

  In what sense do you know him?

  Ingrid turned serious, a line creasing her forehead.

  Are you jealous?

  No, you know better than that. Anyway, thered be no reason, with him. Its just that he got on my nerves from the minute I saw him. Whats his name?

  Come on, Salvo. What do you care?

  Tell me his name.

  Beppe . . . Beppe De Vito.

  And what does he do to earn his Rolex, Porsche, and everything else?

  Trades in leather goods.

  Ever slept with him?

  Yes, about a year ago, only once. And he was just suggesting we do it again. But I dont have a very pleasant memory of it.

  Some kind of degenerate?

  Ingrid eyed him for a moment, then let out a laugh that made the bartender jump.

  Whats so funny?

  The face you just made: the good cop full of indignation. No, Salvo, hes just the opposite. Totally lacking in imagination. All I can remember is that it seemed suffocating and pointless.

  Montalbano gestured for the man with the ponytail to

  come over to their table, and as he approached, smiling, Ingrid gave the inspector a worried look.

  Hello. Dont I know you? Youre Inspector Montalbano, arent you?

  Unfortunately for you, youre going to get to know me even better.

  The other became flustered, his whisky trembling in his glass, ice cubes tinkling.

  Why unfortunately?

  Your name is Giuseppe De Vito and you deal in leather goods, am I correct?

  Yes, but...I dont understand.

  Youll understand in due time. One of these days youre going to be called in to Montelusa police headquarters. Ill be there, too. I think well have a lot to talk about.

  The man with the ponytail, face suddenly pale, set his glass down on the table, unable to hold it any longer.

  Couldnt you ...at least give me a hint . . . some explanation ...?

  Montalbano assumed the expression of someone just overcome by an irresistible wave of generosity.

  All right, but only because youre a friend of the lady. Do you know a German man by the name of Kurt Suckert?

  Never heard of him, I swear, the man said, digging a canary-colored handkerchief out of his pocket and mopping his brow with it.

  Well, if thats your answer, I have nothing more to say

  to you, the inspector said icily. He looked him up and down, then gestured for him to come closer. Ill give you my advice: Dont try to be too clever. Good-bye.

  Good-bye, De Vito replied mechanically. And without

  even looking back at Ingrid, he raced out of the bar. Youre a shit, Ingrid said calmly, and an asshole. Yes, youre right. Every now and then something comes

  over me, and I get that way. Does this Suckert really exist? He used to. But he called himself Curzio Malaparte. He

  was a writer. They heard the roar of the Porsche, burning rubber as it

  pulled out. So did you get it out of your system? Ingrid asked. I think so. I could tell right away, you know, that you were in a bad

  mood. What is it? Can you tell me? I could, but its not worth going into. Problems at work.

  Montalbano suggested that Ingrid leave her car in the bars parking lot; they would come back later to get it. Ingrid didnt ask him where they were going, nor what they were going to do. All of a sudden Montalbano asked her:

  Hows it going with your father-in-law? Fine! Ingrid said cheerfully. Im sorry, I should have

  mentioned it sooner. Things are fine with my father-in-law. Hes left me in peace for two months now. Hes no longer after me.

  What happened?

  I dont know. He hasnt told me anything. The last time was on our way back from Fela, where wed been to a wedding. My husband couldnt make it and my mother-in-law wasnt feeling well, so the two of us were left alone again. At some point he turned off onto a side road, continued for a mile or two, then stopped in a wooded area. He made me get out of the car, tore off my clothes, threw me to the ground, and fucked me with his usual brutality. The next day I left for Palermo with my husband, and when I got back a week later, my father-in-law seemed like hed aged. He was trembling. Since then, hes sort of been avoiding me. Now when I find myself face-to-face with him in some corridor of the house, Im no longer afraid hes going to push me up against the wall with one hand on my tits and the other on my cunt.

  Its better this way, isnt it?

  The story Ingrid had just told him Montalbano knew better than she did. The inspector had learned of Ingrids relations with her father-in-law the very first time he met her. Then one night, as they were talking, without warning, Ingrid had burst into convulsive sobs; she could no longer bear the situation with her husbands father. An absolutely liberated woman, she felt soiled, demeaned by this quasi-incestuous re

  lationship that was being forced on her. She thought of leaving her husband and returning to Sweden. Being an excellent mechanic, she would manage to earn a living.

  That was when Montalbano had made up his mind to help get her out of that mess. The following day, hed invited Corporal Anna Ferrara to his house for dinner. Young Anna was in love with him and convinced that he and Ingrid were lovers.

  Im desperate, he had told her, opening the evening with a face worthy of a great tragic actor.

  Oh my God, whats wrong? asked Anna, squeezing one of his hands in hers.

  Ingrid is cheating on me.

  He let his head fall to her breast and by some miracle managed to make his eyes grow moist.

  Anna suppressed an exclamation of triumph. Shed been right all along! Meanwhile the inspector was hiding his face in his hands, and the girl felt overwhelmed by this exhibition of despair.

  You know, I never told you anything because I didnt want to upset you, but I did a little investigation about Ingrid. Youre not the only man.

  But I knew that! said the inspector, his hands still over his face.

  What is it, then?

  Its different this time! Its not some little fling like all the rest, which I could even forgive. Shes in love, and he feels the same way!

  Do you know who shes in love with?

  Yes: her father-in-law.

  Oh, Christ! said Anna, giving a start. She told you herself ?

  No, I found out on my own. Actually, she denies it.
She denies everything. I need some kind of irrefutable proof, something to throw in her face. Do you know what I mean?

  Anna had offered to provide him with this irrefutable proof. And shed gone to such lengths that she even managed to take some pictures of that rustic episode in the woods. Shed had them enlarged by a trusted girlfriend of hers in the crime lab and then turned them over to the inspector. In- grids father-in-law, aside from being chief physician at Montelusa Hospital, was also a prominent local politician. And so Montalbano sent the man some eloquent initial documentation at his provincial party office, the hospital, and home. On the back of each photo were only the words: Weve got you now. The barrage of images had apparently scared him to death: in a flash hed seen his career and family jeopardized. In case of need, the inspector had another twenty or so photographs. Hed said nothing about this to Ingrid. The woman might throw a fit if she knew her Swedish sense of privacy had been violated.

  Montalbano accelerated, now satisfied that the complex machinations hed set in motion had achieved their desired goal.

  96

  You bring the car inside, said Montalbano, getting out and starting to raise the metal grating of the police garage. Once shed pulled in, he turned on the lights and lowered the grate.

  What do you want me to do? Ingrid asked.

  See that wrecked Fiat 500 over there? I want to know if its brakes have been tampered with.

  I dont know if Ill be able to tell.

  Try.

  There goes my blouse.

  No, wait. I brought something.

  He reached into the backseat of his car and pulled out a shirt and pair of jeans that belonged to him.

  Here. Put these on.

  While Ingrid was changing, he went to look for a portable mechanics lamp, found one on the counter, and plugged it in. Without saying a word, Ingrid took the lamp, a monkey wrench, and a screwdriver and slid under the little Fiats twisted chassis. It took her only about ten minutes. She came out from under the car covered with dust and grease.

  I was lucky.The brake cable was partly cut, Im sure of it.

  What do you mean partly?

  I mean, it wasnt cut all the way through. They left just enough so the car wouldnt crash right away. But with the first hard pull, the cable would certainly have snapped.

  Are you positive it didnt break all by itself ? It was a very old car.

  The cut is too clean. Theres no shredding. Or very little.

  Now listen closely, said Montalbano. The man who was at the wheel drove from Vig to Montelusa, stopped there a little while, then headed back to Vig. The accident occurred on the steep descent right before you come into town, the Catena hillside. He slammed straight into a truck, and that was that. Clear so far?

  Yes.

  What I want to know is this: in your opinion, was this slick little job done in Vig or in Montelusa?

  In Montelusa, said Ingrid. If theyd done it in Vig, he would definitely have crashed much sooner. Anything else?

  No. Thanks.

  Ingrid didnt change her clothes, and didnt even wash her hands.

  Ill do it at your house.

  Ingrid got out in the bars parking lot, took her car, and followed the inspector. It was a warm evening, not yet midnight.

  You want to take a shower? he asked her when they got to his place.

  No, Id rather go for a swim. Ill shower later, if I feel like it.

  She took off the grease-stained clothes of Montalbanos that she was wearing and slipped out of her panties. The in

  spector meanwhile had to make some effort to reassume his

  much-suffered guise as spiritual adviser.

  Come on. Take your clothes off and join me, she said.

  No. I like watching you from the veranda.

  The full moon was actually too bright. Montalbano remained in his deck chair, enjoying the sight of Ingrids silhouette as she reached the waters edge and began a dance of little hops in the water, arms extended. He saw her dive in, following awhile the small black dot that was her head, and then, suddenly, he fell asleep.

  When he awoke, day was already dawning. He got up, slightly chilled, made coffee and drank three cups in a row. Before leaving, Ingrid had cleaned the house: there was no trace of her having been there. Ingrid was worth her weight in gold: shed done everything hed asked of her and hadnt even wanted an explanation. As far as curiosity was concerned, she was certainly not female. But only as far as curiosity was concerned.

  Feeling a pang of hunger, he opened the refrigerator. The eggplant Parmesan he hadnt eaten at lunchtime was gone, dispatched by Ingrid. He had to content himself with a piece of bread and some processed cheese. Better than nothing. He took a shower and put on the clothes he had lent to Ingrid. They still bore a trace of her scent.

  As was his habit, he arrived at headquarters about ten

  minutes late. His men were all ready with one squad car and the Jeep on loan from Vintis, which was loaded up with shovels, mattocks, pickaxes, and spades. They looked like laborers on their way to earn a days pay working the land.

  The Crasto mountain, which for its part would never have dreamed of calling itself a mountain, was a rather bald little hill that rose up west of Vig barely five hundred yards from the sea. It had been carefully pierced by a tunnel, now boarded up, that was supposed to have been an integral part of a road that started nowhere and led nowhere, a very useful bypass route for diverting funds into bottomless pockets. It was, in fact, called the bypass. Legend had it that deep in the mountains bowels was a crasto, a ram, made of solid gold. The tunnel- diggers never found it, but those who won the bid for the government contract certainly did. Attached to the mountain, on the landward side, was a kind of stronghold of rock called the Crasticeddru, the little Crasto. The earthmovers and trucks had never reached this area, and it preserved an untamed beauty.

  Having come down some impassable roads to avoid attracting attention, the two cars headed straight for the Crasticeddru. In the absence of any further path or trail, it was very hard to go on, but the inspector insisted that the cars pull right up to the foot of the rocky spur.

  Montalbano ordered everyone out of the cars. The air was cool, the morning bright.

  What do you want us to do? asked Fazio.

  Search the Crasticeddru, all of you, very carefully. Look everywhere, and look hard. Theres supposed to be an entrance to a cave somewhere. Its been covered up, camouflaged by rocks or vegetation. Keep your eyes peeled. We have to find it. I assure you its there.

  They fanned out.

  Two hours later, discouraged, they met back up beside the cars. The sun was beating down, they were sweating, but farsighted Fazio had brought along thermoses of coffee and tea.

  Lets try again, said Montalbano. But dont look only around the rock; search also along the ground, you might see something that looks fishy.

  They resumed their hunt, and half an hour later Montalbano heard Galluzzo call from afar.

  Inspector! Inspector! Come here!

  The inspector went over to the policeman, who had assigned himself the side of the spur closest to the highway that went to Fela.

  Look.

  Someone had tried to make them disappear, but at a certain point along the ground, there were clearly visible tracks left behind by a large truck.

  They lead over there, said Galluzzo, pointing to the rock face. As he was saying this, he suddenly stopped, mouth agape.

  Jesus God! said Montalbano.

  How had they managed not to see it before? There was a huge boulder placed in an odd position, with shoots of withered grass sticking out from behind. As Galluzzo was calling to his mates, the inspector ran towards the boulder, grabbed a tuft of sword grass and tugged hard. He almost fell backward: the clump had no roots. It had merely been stuck there with bunches of sorghum to camouflage the entrance to the cave.

  9

  The boulder was a great stone slab, roughly rectangular in shape, that appeared to be of a piece with the rock
around it and rested on a sort of giant step, also rock. At a glance Montalbano determined that it was roughly six feet tall and about four and a half feet wide: moving it by hand was out of the question. And yet there had to be a way. Halfway up its right side, about four inches from the edge, was a perfectly natural- looking hole.

  If this was an actual wooden door, the inspector reasoned, that opening would be at the right height for inserting a doorknob.

  He took a pen out of his pocket and stuck it in the hole. The pen fit all the way inside, but when Montalbano was about to put it back in his pocket, he noticed that the pen had soiled his hand. He looked at his fingers, then smelled them.

  Thats grease, he said to Fazio, the only person remaining beside him.

  The other policemen had taken shelter in the shade.

  Gallo had found a clump of sheeps sorrel and offered some to the others.

  Suck the stalk, he said, its delicious and quenches your thirst.

  Montalbano thought of the only possible solution.

  Do we have a steel cable?

  Sure do, inside the Jeep.

  All right, then pull the car up here as close as you can.

  As Fazio was walking away, the inspector, now convinced hed found the proper expedient for moving the big slab, looked at the surrounding landscape with different eyes. If this was indeed the place that Tano the Greek had revealed to him on his deathbed, there must be some spot nearby from which one could keep it under surveillance. The area seemed deserted and remote; one would never have imagined that right behind the bluff, a few hundred yards away, was the highway with all its traffic. Not far from there, on a rise of dry, rocky terrain, was a minuscule cottage, a cube consisting of a single room. He called for some binoculars. The little structures wooden door, which was closed, looked solid. Next to the door, at the height of a mans head, was a small window without shutters, protected by two crisscrossing iron bars. The cottage appeared uninhabited, and it was the only possible observation point in the vicinity. All the other houses were too far away. Still doubtful, he called to Galluzzo.