Andrea Camilleri: The Track of Sand

Gallo looked doubtful.

“What’s wrong?”

“What am I supposed to ask Forensics to do?”

“To take fingerprints.”

Gallo looked more doubtful than ever.

“And if they ask me what it’s about, what do I say? That we’re investigating the murder of a horse? They’ll throw me out of there on my ass!”

“Tell them there was a brawl with several wounded and we’re trying to identify the assailants.”

Left alone, he went inside the house, took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and went back onto the beach.

This idea of immigrants stealing the horse in order to eat it didn’t convince him in the least. How long had they been in the kitchen, he and Fazio, drinking coffee and chatting? Half an hour, max.

So, in half an hour the immigrants had the time to spot the horse, run two miles back to their shanties, grab a cart, return to the beach, load it on the cart, and roll it away?

It wasn’t possible.

Unless they had spotted the carcass at the crack of dawn, before he opened the window, and then had returned with the cart, seen him next to the horse, and hidden nearby, waiting for the right moment.

Some fifty yards down the beach, the wheel tracks made a turn and headed inland, where there was a concrete esplanade full of cracks, which had been in that state since the inspector first moved to Marinella.The esplanade provided easy entry onto the provincial road.

Wait a second , he said to himself. Let’s think about this .

Yes, the immigrants could move the cart more easily, and more quickly, on the provincial road than on the sand. But was it really such a good idea to let themselves be seen by all the passing cars? What if one of these cars belonged to the police or the carabinieri?

They would surely be stopped and made to answer a lot of questions. And quite possibly a repatriation order would come out of it all.

No, they weren’t that stupid.

And so?

There was another possible explanation.

Namely, that the people who stole the horse were not illegals, but legals and then some.That is, from Vigàta.

Or the surrounding area.

So why did they do it? To recover the carcass and get rid of it.

Perhaps the whole thing had gone as follows: The horse manages to escape and someone chases after it to finish it off. But he is forced to stop because there are people on the beach, maybe even the morning fisherman, who could become dangerous witnesses. So he goes back and informs the boss. The boss decides they absolutely have to get the carcass back. And he organizes the business with the cart. But at a certain point he, Montalbano, wakes up and throws a wrench into the boss’s plans.

The people who stole the dead horse were the same ones who killed it.

Yes, that must be exactly the way it went.

And, at the side of the provincial road, right where the esplanade abutted it, there had surely been a van or truck ready for loading the horse and cart.

No, illegal immigrants had nothing to do with this.

Galluzzo set down on the inspector’s desk a large plastic bag with the rope inside it, along with another, smaller bag with the cigarette butts.

“You said there were two brands?”

“Yeah, Chief. Marlboro and Philip Morris, with the double filter.”

Very common. He had hoped for some rare brand smoked by no more than five people in Vigàta.

“You take all this,” Montalbano said to Fazio,“and take good care of it. The stuff may turn out to be useful to us later on.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Fazio, not very convinced.

At that moment a high-powered bomb seemed to explode behind the door, which flew open and crashed against the wall, revealing Catarella sprawled out on the floor with two envelopes in his hand.

“I’s bringin’ the mail,” said Catarella, “but I slipped.”

The three men in the office tried to collect themselves after the scare.They looked at one another and immediately understood.They had only two options before them. Either go ahead with a summary execution of Catarella, or make like it was nothing.

They chose the second and said nothing.

“Sorry to repeat myself, but I don’t think it’s gonna be so easy to identify the horse’s owner,” said Fazio.

“We should have at least taken some photographs of it,” said Galluzzo.

“Isn’t there some sort of registry for horses, like there is for cars?” asked Montalbano.

“I don’t know,” replied Fazio. “Anyway, we don’t even know what kind of horse it was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we don’t know if it was a draft horse, a stud horse, a show horse, a racehorse . . .”

“Horses are banded,” said Catarella, under his breath, still outside the door, envelopes in hand, since the inspector had never told him to come in.

Montalbano, Fazio, and Galluzzo looked at him, stupefied.

“What did you say?” asked Montalbano.

“Me? I din’t say nothin’!” said Catarella, frightened for having made the mistake of opening his mouth.

“Yes you did! You said something just now! What did you say horses were?”

“I said they was banded, Chief.”

“And how are they banded?”

Catarella looked doubtful.

“They’s banded wit’ whatever’s they’s banded wit’, Chief, I dunno, mebbe wit’ bands.”

“All right, set down the mail and get out of here.”

Mortified, Catarella put the letters on the desk and went out with his eyes downcast. In the doorway he nearly collided with Mimì Augello, who was rushing in.

“Sorry I’m late, but I had to lend a hand with the kid, who—”

“You’re forgiven.”

“And what are those exhibits there?” Mimì asked, seeing the rope and cigarette butts on the desk.

“A horse was bludgeoned to death,” said Montalbano. And he told him the whole story.

“You know anything about horses?” Montalbano asked him when he had finished.

Mimì laughed.

“All they have to do is look at me to scare me, just to give you an idea.”

“But isn’t there anyone here at the station who knows anything about them?”

“I really don’t think so,” said Fazio.

“Then we’ll drop it for the moment. How did the business with Pepè Rizzo turn out?”

This was a case that Mimì had been working on. Pepè Rizzo was suspected of being the wholesaler for all the vocumprà in the province [2] all the vocumprà in the province: Vocumprà are the foreign peddlers, usually of North African or sub-Saharan origin, that one often encounters on the streets of today’s Italy.The name is derived from the question Vuoi comprare? (or Vuole comprare? —Do you want to buy?), which the peddlers shorten to Vocumprà (sometimes to Vucumprà ), an abbrevation also redolent of the Neapolitan and Roman dialects, which may be where they first picked it up. , supplying them with every kind of object in the world that could be faked, from Rolexes to Lacoste alligator shirts to CDs and DVDs. Mimì had found the warehouse, and the previous day he had succeeded in getting a search warrant from the prosecutor. Upon hearing the question, Mimì started laughing.

“We found everything but the kitchen sink, Salvo! There were brand-name shirts that looked so much like the real thing, it made my heart—”

“Stop right there!” the inspector ordered him.

They all looked at him in bafflement.

“Catarella!”

The inspector’s shout was so loud that it blew Fazio’s exhibits, which he was gathering together, off the desktop.

Catarella arrived at a run and, slipping again in front of the door, managed to grab on to the jamb to keep from falling.