Andrea Camilleri - The Track of Sand

“Yes,” he said.

Fazio had to help Lo Duca rise from his chair, and then walked him to his car, holding him up all the while.

“But, are you up to driving?”

“Y . . . yes.”

He watched the car drive off after nearly crashing into another, and then went back to the inspector’s office.

“What do you think? Will he go to the Montelusa police?”

“I think so. Ring up Augello and pass me the phone.”

Mimì answered at once.

“Are you following Prestia?”

“Yes. He’s heading towards Siliana.”

“Mimì, we’ve just learned that he’s hiding the horse about four kilometers past Siliana, at a stable in the country. And I’m sure he’s left someone on guard there. How many men have you got with you?”

“Four in a Jeep and two in a little van.”

“Stay on the alert, Mimì. And if anything happens, call Fazio.”

He hung up.

“Is the car with Gallo and Galluzzo ready?”

“Yessir.”

“All right, then, you stay here, in my office. Tell Lavaccara to put all calls through to you.We’ll report back to you. Repeat the address to me, I can’t find it.”

“Via Crispi, number 10. It’s a ground-floor office with two rooms. The bodyguard’s in the first room. And he’s always in the second—that is, when he’s not out killing someone.”

“Gallo, let’s get one thing straight. And this time, mind you, I’m serious. I don’t want any sirens or screeching tires. We have to catch him by surprise. And I don’t want you to pull up at number 10, but a little before.”

“But won’t you be with us, Chief?”

“No, I’ll follow you in my car.”

It took them about ten minutes to get there. Montalbano parked behind the squad car and got out. Galluzzo came up to him.

“Chief, Fazio ordered me to tell you to get your gun.”

“I’m getting it.”

He opened the glove compartment, grabbed the weapon, and put it in his pocket.

“Gallo, you stay behind in the first room and keep an eye on the guard. You, Galluzzo, are coming with me into the second room.There’s no way out in back, so he can’t escape. I’ll go in first.And I mean it: as little racket as possible.”

It was a short street, and there were about ten cars parked in it. There were no shops. A man and a dog were the only living beings visible.

Montalbano went in. A man of about thirty was sitting behind a desk reading the sports pages. He looked up, saw Montalbano, recognized him, and sprang to his feet, opening his jacket with his right hand to reach for a revolver he had tucked into his belt.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” said Gallo in a low voice, pointing his gun at him.

The man put his hand on the desk. Montalbano and Galluzzo looked at one another, and then the inspector turned the knob of the door to the second room and opened it, going in with Galluzzo following behind.

“Ah!” said a bald man of about fifty in shirtsleeves, with a shifty-looking face and slits for eyes, setting down the telephone receiver he had in his hand. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

“I am Inspector Montalbano.”

“I know you well, Inspector. And him, aren’t you going to introduce him to me?” he said ironically, never taking his eyes off of Galluzzo.“I have the feeling I’ve seen this gentleman before.”

“Are you Francesco Bellavia?”

“Yes.”

“You are under arrest. And I should warn you that whatever you say in your defense, nobody will believe you.”

“That’s not the right formula,” said Bellavia, who started laughing.

Then he settled down and said:

“Don’t worry, Galluzzo, I won’t say I killed Gurreri, but I won’t say you killed him, either. So why are you arresting me?”

“For the theft of two horses.”

Bellavia started laughing even harder.

“You can imagine how scared I am! And what’s your proof ?”

“Lo Duca and Prestia have confessed,” said Montalbano.

“A fine pair, those two! One goes with little children, and the other is a doormat!”

He got up and held out his wrists for Galluzzo:

“Go on, handcuff me yourself ! That way the farce is complete!”

Without looking into Bellavia’s eyes, which were boring into him, Galluzzo put the handcuffs on him.

“Where are we taking him?”

“To Prosecutor Tommaseo.When you set off for Montelusa, I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”

He returned to headquarters and went into his office.

“Any news?” he asked Fazio.

“Nothing yet.What about you?”

“We’ve arrested Bellavia. He didn’t put up any resistance. I’m going to call Tommaseo from Mimì’s office.”

The prosecutor was still at his desk. He protested, reproaching the inspector for not telling him a thing about the case.

“It all happened in the space of a few hours, sir. There was simply no time whatsoever to—”

“And you arrested him under what charge?”

“The theft of two horses.”

“Well, for a figure like Bellavia it’s a pretty paltry charge.”

“You know what they say where I come from, sir? That every bit of fly shit counts. Anyway, I’m sure it was Bellavia who killed Gurreri. If we work him hard enough, and he’s a tough one, he’ll end up admitting to something.”

He went back into his office and found Fazio on the telephone.

“Yes . . . yes . . . All right. I’ll relay that to the chief.”

He set down the receiver and said to Montalbano:

“Inspector Augello told me they saw Prestia go into a house that has a stable next to it. But since there are four cars aside from Prestia’s parked outside the house, Augello thinks there may be a meeting going on inside. He wants to avoid a shoot-out: says it’s better to wait for the others to leave.”

“He’s right.”

A good hour went by without any phone calls coming in. Apparently it was a long meeting. Montalbano couldn’t wait any longer.

“Call Mimì and ask him what’s happening.”

Fazio spoke to Augello.

“He says they’re still inside, and there are at least eight of them. It’s best to wait a little longer.”

Montalbano glanced at his watch and leapt to his feet. It was already eight-thirty.

“Listen, Fazio, I absolutely have to go to Marinella. As soon as there’s any news, ring me.”

He raced home, opened up the French door, and set the table on the veranda.

He had barely finished when the doorbell rang. He went to answer. There were Ingrid and Rachele, loaded down with three bottles of wine, two of whisky, and a parcel.

“It’s a cassata,” Ingrid explained.

They therefore had serious intentions. Montalbano went into the kitchen to uncork the bottles when he heard the phone ring. It must be Fazio.

“One of you get that!” he said.

He heard Rachele’s voice say:

“Hello?”

Then:

“Yes, this is the home of Inspector Montalbano.Who is this?”

He suddenly had an inkling that sent chills down his spine. He dashed into the dining room. Rachele had just set down the receiver.

“Who was it?”

“A woman. She didn’t say her name. She hung up.”

He didn’t sink underground like the other times, but felt the ceiling come crashing down on his head. Surely that was Livia who had called! And now how was he going to explain to her that it was a perfectly innocent gathering? Damn the moment when he decided to invite them to dinner! He foresaw a bitter night ahead, spent mostly on the telephone. Chagrined, he returned to the kitchen, and the phone rang again.

“I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” he yelled.