Andrea Camilleri - The Track of Sand

She got the message and let go.

“Who do you think they were?” she asked.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea. Maybe some two-bit burglars who saw me go out and—”

“Oh, stop telling me nonsense you don’t even believe yourself !”

“I assure you that—”

“How could these burglars have known there wasn’t somebody else in the house? And why didn’t they steal anything?”

“You didn’t allow them enough time.”

“But they never even saw me!”

“Yes, but they heard you ring the doorbell and call me . . . Come on, let’s go. Adelina has cooked us—”

“I’m afraid to eat outside, on the veranda.”

“Why?”

“You would be an easy target.”

“Come on, Ingrid . . .”

“Well then why did you go get your gun?”

She wasn’t entirely wrong, when you came right down to it. But he wanted to calm her down.

“Listen, Ingrid, I’ve been living in Marinella for years and years, and no one has ever come to my house with bad intentions.”

“There’s always a first time for everything.”

Once again, she wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Where would you like to eat?”

“In the kitchen. Bring everything in and then close the French door. Even though I’ve lost my appetite.”

Her appetite returned after two glasses of whisky.

They polished off the caponata and divided the mullets evenly, three apiece.

“When does the interrogation begin?” asked Ingrid.

“Here in the kitchen? Let’s go into the living room, where we can relax on the couch.”

They brought along a bottle of wine they’d barely begun, as well as the bottle of whisky, already half empty. They sat down on the sofa, but then Ingrid got back up, pulled up a chair, and rested her legs on it. Montalbano set flame to a cigarette.

“Fire away,” said Ingrid.

“What I’d like to know about your friend is—”

“Why?”

“Why do I want to know? Because I don’t know anything about her.”

“So why do you want to know more about her if you’re not interested in her as a woman?”

“I’m interested in her as a police inspector.”

“What has she done?”

“She hasn’t done anything. But, as you probably know, her horse was killed, and in a rather barbaric fashion.”

“How?”

“Bludgeoned to death with iron rods. But don’t tell anyone, not even your friend.”

“No, I won’t tell anyone. But how did you find out?”

“I saw it with my own eyes.The horse came here to die, right outside the veranda.”

“Really? Tell me about it.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I woke up, opened the window, and saw it lying there.”

“All right, but why do you want to know more about Rachele?”

“Since your friend claims not to have any enemies, I am compelled by logic to think that the horse was killed to spite Lo Duca.”

“So?”

“I have to know if this is actually the case. How long have you known her?”

“Six years.”

“How did you meet?”

Ingrid started laughing.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I’d say so.”

“We met in Palermo, at the Igea Hotel. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and I was in bed with a certain Walter.We had forgotten to lock the door. And she burst in like a banshee. I didn’t know Walter had another woman. Stumbling to put his clothes back on, Walter managed to escape. So she pounced on me, as I was sitting there petrified in bed, and tried to strangle me. Luckily two clients who were walking by in the corridor came to my rescue.”

“And after this fine start, how did you end up becoming friends?”

“That same evening, as I was eating alone in the hotel restaurant, she came and sat down at my table. She apologized to me. We chatted awhile and agreed that Walter was an asshole and a coward.We took a liking to each other and became friends. And there you have it.”

“Has she come in the past to see you in Montelusa?”

“Yes. And not only for the horse race in Fiacca.”

“Have you introduced her to many people?”

“Practically all my friends. And she’s met others on her own. For example, she’s got a circle of friends in Fiacca whom I don’t know.”

“Has she had any affairs?”

“Not with any of my friends, no. But I wouldn’t know what she’s been up to in Fiacca.”

“She doesn’t talk to you about it?”

“She once made vague mention of a certain Guido.”

“Does she sleep with him?”

“I couldn’t say. She describes him as a sort of cavalier servente .”

“But haven’t any of your male friends tried their luck with her?”

“Almost all of them, as far as that goes.”

“And among these ‘almost all,’ was there anyone who tried harder than the rest?”

“Well, Mario Giacco.”

“Isn’t it possible that, perhaps, without your knowing—”

“—that Rachele has been with him? It’s possible, though I don’t—”

“And couldn’t it be possible that Giacco, to avenge himself for having been rejected by her, arranged for the horse to be killed?”

Ingrid did not hesitate.

“I would absolutely rule that out, without any doubt. Mario’s an engineer, and he’s been in Egypt for the past year. He works for an oil company.”

“It was a stupid conjecture, I know. And what sort of relationship does she have with Lo Duca?”

“I have no idea what her relations with Lo Duca are.”

“But if she left her horse in his care, they must be friends. Do you know Lo Duca?”

“I do, but I find him unbearable.”

“Has Rachele ever talked to you about him?”

“A few times. And pretty indifferently, I’d say. I don’t think there’s been anything between them. Unless Rachele wants to keep their relationship a secret from me.”

“Has she ever done that before?”

“Well, based on your conjectures . . .”

“Do you know if Lo Duca is presently in Montelusa?”

“He arrived today, after hearing about the horse.”

“Is Esterman her maiden name?”

“No, it’s Gianfranco’s, her husband’s. Her family name is Anselmi del Bosco. She’s an aristocrat.”

“She told me her relationship with her husband is only ‘fraternal.’Why doesn’t she divorce him?”

“Divorce him? Are you kidding? Gianfranco is as Catholic as they come. He goes to Mass, he goes to confession, he’s got some sort of fancy job at the Vatican . . . He would never divorce. I don’t even think they’re officially separated.”

She laughed again, but it wasn’t a very happy laugh.

“Basically, she’s in the same situation as me . . . Listen, I’m going to go pee, and while I’m away, you should open that other bottle of whisky.”

She stood up, lurching first to the left, then to the right. Regaining her balance, she headed off unsteadily. Without noticing, they had drunk a whole bottle.

Things ended the same way as all the other times.

At a certain hour of the night, when there were scarcely four fingers of whisky remaining in the second bottle, and they had talked about everything except Rachele Esterman, Ingrid said she felt sleepy and had to go immediately to bed.

“I’ll drive you back to Montelusa.You’re in no condition to drive.”

“And I suppose you are?”

Indeed, the inspector’s head was spinning a little.

“Ingrid, I only need to wash my face and I’m ready.”

“I, on the other hand, am more inclined to go take a shower and slip into bed.”

“Into my bed?”

“What other beds are there? I’ll be quick,” she continued, thick-tongued.