Andrea Camilleri - The Track of Sand

“Right.”

“But are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Dr. Pasquano told me he found signs of the operation that was performed on Gurreri’s head three years ago.”

“But who told you the dead man might be Gurreri?”

“Nobody told me. I had an intuition.”

He told Fazio about his meeting with the commissioner and Arquà.

“This means we’re in deep shit, Chief.”

“No. The shit’s there, and we’re close, but we’re not in it yet.”

“But if Dr. Arquà insists on seeing that gun—”

“I don’t think he will. In fact I’m sure the commissioner will tell him to drop it. I made a terrible scene. However . . . Excuse me, but when we have weapons that need adjusting, we send them to Montelusa, right?”

“Yessir.”

“And has Weapons sent Galluzzo’s gun to be fixed yet?”

“No, not yet. But I only found out by chance this morning. I wanted to give them Patrolman Ferrara’s gun, too, which also jammed, but since neither Turturici nor Manzella were there, and they’re in charge of—”

“That little shit Arquà won’t have to ask me for the weapon. Since I said Galluzzo’s gun jammed, he’s going to check every pistol that comes in from our station.We absolutely need to screw him before he screws us.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“I just had an idea. Have you still got Ferrara’s pistol?”

“Yessir.”

“Wait. I need to make a phone call.”

He raised the receiver.

“Catarella? Please call the c’mishner, then put him through to me.”

The call went through at once. He turned on the speakerphone.

“What can I do for you, Montalbano?”

“Mr. Commissioner, I’d like to say first of all that I feel deeply mortified for letting myself get carried away in your presence, with a terrible, nervous outburst that—”

“Well, I’m pleased that you—”

“I also wanted to inform you that I’ll be sending Dr. Arquà the weapon in question . . .”— weapon in question wasn’t bad—“without delay, for any verifications or tests he deems necessary. And I beg you again, Mr. Commissioner, to forgive me and accept my deepest, humblest—”

“Apologies accepted. I am glad it’s all turned out for the better between you and Arquà. Goodbye, Montalbano.”

“My very best wishes, Mr. Commissioner.”

He hung up.

“What on earth are you up to?” asked Fazio.

“Go get Ferrara’s weapon, remove two cartridges from the clip, and hide them well.We’ll need them later.Then put it in a box all nicely wrapped up as a present and take it to Dr. Arquà with my compliments.”

“And what do I tell Ferrara? If he doesn’t turn in his jammed pistol, they won’t give him another.”

“Get Weapons to give you back Galluzzo’s, too. Tell them I need it. Figure out a way to tell them that you also gave me Ferrara’s gun, so they can give you a replacement for him. If Manzella and Turturici ask me to explain, I’ll say I want to bring them to Montelusa myself to protest. The key is to let three or four days pass.”

“So how do we deal with Galluzzo?”

“If he’s here, send him in.”

Five minutes later, Galluzzo appeared.

“You wanted me, Chief?”

“Sit down, killer.”

When he had finished talking to Galluzzo, he looked at his watch and realized he had taken too long. At that hour, Enzo the restaurateur had already lowered the metal shutter.

So he decided to make his last remaining move now, without wasting any more time. He took a photo of Gurreri, put it in his pocket, went out, got in his car, and drove off.

Via Nicotera was not really a street, properly speaking, but a long, narrow alleyway in Piano Lanterna, the elevated part of town. Number 38 was a delapidated little two-story building with a locked front door. Across from it was a greengrocer’s shop that must have been Don Minicuzzu’s. Given the hour, however, it was closed. The little building had an intercom system. He pressed the button next to where the name Gurreri was written. A moment later the door clicked open, without anyone having asked who was ringing.

There was no elevator, but the house, after all, was small. There were two apartments on each floor. Gurreri lived on the top floor.The front door was open.

“May I?” he asked.

“Please come in,” said a woman’s voice.

A tiny little vestibule with two doors, one leading to the dining room, the other to the bedroom. At once Montalbano smelled an odor of heartbreaking poverty. A woman of about thirty, shabby and disheveled, was waiting for him in the dining room. She must have married Gurreri when still a very young girl, and she must have been beautiful, since, in spite of everything, something of her lost beauty still remained in her face and body.

“Whattya want?” she asked.

Montalbano could see the fear in her eyes.

“I’m a police inspector, Signora Gurreri. My name is Montalbano.”

“I a’ready tol’ everything to the carabineri.”

“I know, signora.Why don’t we sit down?”

They sat down. She on the edge of her chair, tense, ready to run away.

“I know you’ve been called upon to testify at the Licco trial.”

“Yessir.”

“But that’s not why I came here.”

She immediately seemed a bit relieved. But the fear remained deep in her eyes.

“So whattya want?”

Montalbano found himself at a crossroads. He didn’t feel like being brutal with her; he felt too sorry for her. Now that she was sitting there before him, he was positive the young woman had been persuaded to become Licco’s mistress not by money, but by beatings and threats.

On the other hand, it was possible he wouldn’t get anywhere with kindness and moderation. Perhaps the best thing was to shock her.

“How long has it been since you last saw your husband?”

“Three months, give or take a few days.”

“And you haven’t heard from him since?”

“No, sir.”

“You don’t have any children, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know someone by the name of Ciccio Bellavia?”

The fear returned, animal-like, to her eyes. Montalbano noticed that her hands were trembling slightly.

“Yessir.”

“Has he come here?”

“Yessir.”

“How many times?”

“Twice. Both times with my husband.”

“I think you should come with me, signora.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Where to?”

“To the morgue.”

“Whass that?”

“It’s where they put dead people.”

“Why should I go there?”

“We need you to make an identification.”

He took the photograph out of his pocket.

“Is this your husband?”

“Yessir. When ’d they take this? Why do I have to come? . . .”

“Because we’re convinced that Ciccio Bellavia killed your husband.”

She bolted upright.Then she staggered, her body swaying back and forth, and grabbed on to the table.

“Damn him! Damn that Bellavia! He swore to me he wouldn’t do nothin’ to him!”

She couldn’t go on. Her legs buckled and she fell to the floor, unconscious.

“Look, I haven’t got much time.And don’t get into the habit of dropping in without an appointment,” said Prosecutor Giarrizzo.

“You’re right, sir. I’m sorry to barge in like this.”

“You’ve got five minutes. Speak.”

Montalbano glanced at his watch.

“I’ve come to give you the second episode of the adventures of Inspector Martinez. I think you’ll find it quite interesting.”

Giarrizzo looked baffled.

“And who is this Martinez?”

“Have you forgotten? Don’t you remember the hypothetical police inspector you spoke to me about hypothetically, the last time I was here? The one handling the investigation of Salinas, the shakedown artist who had shot and wounded a shop owner, and so on and so forth?”