Andrea Camilleri - The Track of Sand

“Whass ’appenin’, signore? You staina you’ shirt.”

He couldn’t open his mouth. He kept staring, bug-eyed, at the horseshoe, benumbed, bewildered, flummoxed, and flabbergasted.

“Isspector, you make a me frighten! Whass’ wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he managed to articulate.

He grabbed a glass, filled it with water, drank it down in one gulp.

“Nuthin’, nuthin’,” Adelina repeated, still looking at him, worried, with the horseshoe still in her hand.

“Gimme that,” he said, taking off his shirt. “And make me another pot of coffee.”

“But isn’t alla this coffee gonna make a you sick?”

He didn’t answer. He drifted into the dining room as though sleepwalking and, still holding the horseshoe, picked up the receiver with one hand and dialed the number of the police station.

“Halloo! Vigàta Po—”

“Catarella, Montalbano here.”

“Whass wrong, Chief? You gotta weird voice!”

“Listen, I’m not coming in this morning. Is Fazio there?”

“No, sir, ’e in’t onna premisses.”

“Have him call me when he gets in.”

He opened the French door, went out on the veranda, sat down, laid the horseshoe on the table, and started staring at it as if he had never seen such a thing in his life. Slowly, he felt his brain resume functioning.

And the first thing that came back to him were the words of Dr. Pasquano.

Montalbano, this is a clear sign of old age. A sign that your brain cells are disintegrating with increasing speed.The first symptom is memory loss. Did you know that? For example, does it sometimes happen that you’ll do something one minute, and the next minute you’ll forget that you did it?

It had happened. Man, had it ever happened! He had taken the horseshoe and put it in his pocket, forgetting completely about it. But when? And where?

“Here you’ coffee, sir,” said Adelina, setting a tray, with pot, cup, and sugar, on the table.

He drank a cup, scalding hot and bitter, while staring at the empty beach.

And all at once a dead horse appeared on the beach, lying on its side. And he saw himself belly-down in front of the animal, reaching out and touching a horseshoe almost completely detached from the hoof, held in place by a single nail sticking halfway out . . .

And what happened next?

What happened was that something . . . something . . . Ah! That was it! Fazio, Gallo, and Galluzzo had appeared on the veranda, and he had stood up, slipping the horseshoe mechanically into his pocket .

Afterwards, he had gone to change his trousers, tossing them into the dirty clothes hamper.

And after this, he had taken a shower, chatted with Fazio, and when the astronauts had arrived, the carcass was gone. Keep your cool, Montalbà . You need another cup of coffee.

So, let’s start at the beginning. During the slaughter, the poor dying horse manages to escape, running desperately across the sand— Good God! Want to bet that this, in fact, was the track of sand in the bad dream he’d had? And that he had misinterpreted the dream?— and ending up outside his window, where it collapses and dies. But its killers need to get rid of the carcass. So they get organized and come back with a handcart and a van, or small truck, or whatever.When they arrive a short while later to retrieve the carcass, they realize he has woken up, seen the horse, and come down onto the beach.And so they hide and wait for the right moment. Which comes when he and Fazio go into the kitchen, which has no windows facing the sea.They send a man out for reconnaissance. The man sees them in the kitchen, blithely chatting, and gives the others the go-ahead signal, all the while keeping his eye on him and Fazio. And in the twinkling of an eye, the carcass disappears. But then . . .

Was there another cup?

There wasn’t any left in the pot, and he didn’t have the courage to ask Adelina to make him another. So he stood up, went inside, grabbed a bottle of whisky and a glass, and turned to go back out on the veranda.

“First ting inna morning, Isspector?” came the voice of Adelina, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching him.

He froze. But he didn’t answer her this time, either. He poured the whisky and started to drink.

But then, if those guys were watching him when he was taking a close look at the animal, they must have seen him take the horseshoe and put it in his pocket. Which meant that . . .

. . . you got it all wrong, Montalbà . All wrong .

They weren’t trying to influence your behavior at the Licco trial, Montalbà. The Licco trial doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with any of this .

They wanted the horseshoe. That was what they were looking for when they searched his house. And they had even returned his watch to let him know that it wasn’t a case of burglary.

But why was that horseshoe so important to them?

The only logical answer was that as long as it was in his possession, it rendered the disappearance of the carcass useless.

But if it was so important to them, why, then, after the failed attempt to burn down his house, had they stopped trying?

Quite simple, Montalbà. Because Galluzzo had shot Gurreri, who then died. An unforeseen hitch. So surely they would be back, in one way or another.

He picked up the horseshoe again and started examining it. It was a perfectly normal horseshoe, like dozens of others he had seen.

What was so important about it that it should already have cost a man his life?

He raised his eyes to look out at the sea and was momentarily blinded by a flash of light. No, there wasn’t anyone on a boat watching him through a pair of binoculars. The flash had gone off in his head.

He bolted upright, ran to the phone, and dialed Ingrid’s number.

“Hillu? Who colling?”

“Is Signora Rachele there?”

“You wait.”

“Hello, who is this?”

“Montalbano here.”

“Salvo! What a lovely surprise! I was just about to call you, you know. Ingrid and I thought of inviting you out to dinner tonight.”

“All right, but—”

“Where would you like to go?”

“Come over to my place, you can be my guests. I’ll ask Adelina to . . . But . . .”

“What are all these ‘buts’?”

“Tell me something.Your horse . . .”

“Yes?” said Rachele, expectant.

“Did your horse’s shoes have anything unusual about them?”

“In what sense?”

“I don’t know, I’m not very familiar with this sort of thing, as you know . . . Was there anything engraved in them, some sort of sign or symbol . . . ?”

“Yes.Why do you want to know?”

“A silly idea of mine.What kind of symbol?”

“Right at the center of the arch, on top, there is a small W , engraved in the metal. There’s a blacksmith in Rome who makes them specially for me. His name is—”

“And does Lo Duca use the same smith for his—”

“Of course not!”

“Too bad,” he said, appearing disappointed.

He hung up. He didn’t want Rachele to start asking questions.The last piece of the puzzle that had first started to come together in his head on the evening in Fiacca had fallen into place and given a meaning to the whole scheme.

He started singing. Who was there to stop him? He broke into “Che gelida manina” in a loud voice. [15]

“Signore! Signore! Wha’ss got inna you this morning?” asked the housekeeper, who had come running from the kitchen.

“Nothing, Adelì. Ah, listen. Make some good things for tonight. I’ve got two guests coming to dinner.”

The phone rang. It was Rachele.

“We got cut off,” the inspector said at once.