Andrea Camilleri - The Track of Sand

Giarrizzo, feeling a little like he was being made a fool of, gave him a dirty look.Then he said coldly:

“Now I remember. Go on.”

“Salinas claimed he had an alibi, but didn’t say what.You discovered that his defenders would assert that at the moment that Alvarez was sh—”

“Good God! Who is Alvarez?”

“The shop owner wounded by Salinas. So, the defense would assert that Salinas, at that moment, was at the home of a certain Dolores, his mistress. And they were going to call Dolores’s husband, and Dolores herself, to the witness stand.You told me the prosecution maintained they could pick apart the alibi, but you yourself weren’t absolutely certain. As it turns out, however, Inspector Martinez finds himself handling the case of a murdered man, who he discovers is a certain Pepito, a small-time crook working for the Mafia who also happened to be Dolores’s husband.”

“And who killed him?”

“Martinez assumes he was bumped off by a mafioso by the name of Bellavia—sorry, Sanchez. For some time now, Martinez has been asking himself why Dolores would agree to provide Salinas with an alibi. She certainly was not his mistress. So why would she do it? For money? Was she threatened? Was she coerced by violence? Then he has a brilliant idea. He goes to see Dolores at home, shows her the photo of the murdered Pepito, and tells her it was Sanchez who did it.At this point the woman has an unexpected reaction, which makes Martinez realize the incredible truth.”

“Namely?”

“That Dolores did what she did for love.”

“Love of whom?”

“Her husband. I repeat: It seems hard to believe, but it’s true. Pepito is a scoundrel, he mistreats her, beats her, but she loves him and puts up with it all. Sanchez told her, meeting with her alone: Either you provide the alibi, or we kill Pepito, whom they’ve practically kidnapped.When Dolores learns from Martinez that he has been killed anyway, even though she has accepted the blackmail, she caves in, decides to avenge herself, and confesses. And there you have it.”

He glanced at his watch.

“That took four and a half minutes,” he said.

“All right, Montalbano, but, you see, Dolores confessed to a hypothetical police inspector who—”

“But she is ready to repeat everything to a concrete, nonhypothetical prosecutor. Shall we call this prosecutor by his proper name, Giarrizzo?”

“Then that changes everything. I’m going to call the carabinieri,” said Giarrizzo, “and send them—”

“—to the courtyard.”

Giarrizzo balked.

“What courtyard?”

“The courthouse courtyard, right here. Signora Siragusa—ah, sorry, I mean Dolores—is in one of my squad cars, under the escort of my chief sergeant Fazio. Martinez didn’t want to leave her alone for even a second. Now that she’s talked, she fears for her life. She’s got a small suitcase with her, with her few personal effects. It should be easy for you, sir, to understand that the poor woman can no longer go home. They would bump her off in no time. Inspector Martinez hopes that Signora Siragusa, sorry, I mean Dolores, will be protected as she deserves. Good day.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the bar to eat a panino.”

“So Licco is fucked, once and for all,” said Fazio, when they were all back at the station.

“Right.”

“Aren’t you pleased?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t arrive at the truth until after many mistakes, too many.”

“What mistakes?”

“I’ll tell you just once, okay? Gurreri was never really taken on by the Mafia, as you put it, and as I put it to Giarrizzo, knowing it wasn’t true.They merely held him hostage, letting him think they had taken him in.Whereas in fact he was constantly under the control of Ciccio Bellavia, who told him what he was supposed to do. And if his wife did not testify as they wanted her to do, they would kill him with no questions asked.”

“So how does that change anything?”

“It changes everything, Fazio, everything. For example, stealing the horses. It could not have been Gurreri’s idea.At most, he took part in the operation. That shoots down Lo Duca’s hypothesis, which is that it was a vendetta on Gurreri’s part.And now it’s even less possible it was Gurreri who phoned Signora Esterman.”

“Maybe it was Bellavia?”

“Maybe, but I’m convinced that even Bellavia is doing somebody else’s bidding. And I’m certain that of the two men who wanted to set fire to my house, the other one, the one who shot at Galluzzo, was Bellavia.”

“So you think it’s the Cuffaros who are behind all this.”

“I no longer have any doubt. Augello was right when he said Gurreri’s brain wasn’t sharp enough to organize this kind of scheme, and you were right when you maintained that the Cuffaros wanted me to act a certain way at the trial. But they, too, have made a mistake.They have bothered the sleeping dog. And the dog, that is, me, has woken up and bitten them.”

“Oh, Chief, I forgot to ask: How did Galluzzo take it?”

“Pretty well, all things considered. After all, he fired in self-defense.”

“Sorry, but you told Concetta Siragusa that it was Bellavia who killed her husband?”

“As far as that goes, I told Prosecutor Giarrizzo the same thing.”

“Fine, but we know he didn’t do it.”

“You have qualms about a criminal like Bellavia, who we know has got at least three homicides under his belt? Three or four?”

“I don’t have any qualms, Chief, but the guy’s gonna say he didn’t do it.”

“And who’s gonna believe him?”

“But what if he tells them what really happened? That it was someone from the police who shot Gurreri?”

“Then he’ll have to tell them how and why. He’d have to say they came to my house to burn it down so I would act a certain way at the Licco trial. In other words he would have to bring the Cuffaros into the picture.Think he’s gonna want to do that?”

On the way back to Marinella, a wolflike hunger assailed him. In the fridge he found a bowl of caponata whose scent filled the soul, and a plate of little wild asparagus, the kind that are bitter as poison, dressed only in olive oil and salt. In the oven was a loaf of wheat bread. He set the table on the veranda and enjoyed himself.The night was pitch-black. A short distance from shore shone the jacklamp of a fishing boat. Seeing it there, he felt relieved, since he was now certain that nobody aboard the boat was spying on him.

He got into bed and started reading one of the Swedish books he had bought. Its protagonist was a colleague of his, Inspector Martin Beck, whose manner of investigation he found very appealing.When he had finished the novel and turned out the light, it was four o’clock in the morning.

As a result, he woke up at nine, but only because Adelina had made noise in the kitchen.

“Could you bring me a coffee, Adelì?”

“Iss ready, Isspector.”

He drank it in little sips, savoring it, then set fire to a cigarette.When he finished it, he got up and went into the bathroom.

Later, all dressed and ready to go out, he went into the kitchen to have a second cup, as was his wont.

“Oh, signore, I got somethin f’ you I keepa fuhgettin’ a give you,” said Adelina.

“What is it?”

“They gave itta me atta dry cleaner when I went a get you’ trousers.They foun’ it inna pocket.”

Her purse was on a chair. She opened it, extracted something, and held it out to the inspector.

It was a horseshoe.

As the coffee was spilling onto his shirt, Montalbano felt the ground open up beneath his feet.Twice in twenty-four hours! It was really too much.