“What results? We already know who won.”
“Just wait.They’re interesting.”
Montalbano torched a cigarette. Three or four people who were standing near him stepped away, staring at him with annoyance.
Figuring there were about three hundred people present, and most were either blue bloods or businessmen or landowners, you couldn’t exactly say they had opened their wallets.
“The rider who received the highest number of bets was Signora Rachele Esterman!”
The crowd applauded. Rachele had lost the race, but raised the most money.
“I ask our distinguished guests please not to linger on the lawn, where we shall need to set up the tables for dinner, but to gather in the salons inside the villa.”
When Montalbano and Ingrid turned their backs on the track, the last thing they saw were two manservants who, having picked up Colonel Romeres, were lowering him from the turret.
“I’m going to go change,” said Ingrid, slipping away. “See you in about an hour, in the salon of the ancestors.”
Montalbano went into the salon, found a mysteriously unoccupied armchair, and sat down. He had to get through an hour without thinking about what he had realized as he was watching the race, which had put him on edge. He had noticed that he couldn’t see very well.There was no denying it. Each time the horses were running on the far side of the track from where he stood, he could no longer make out the different colors of the riders’ silks. Everything became muddled, the outlines blurred. If not for Ingrid he would not even have realized that it was Beatrice della Bicocca who had fallen.
The discussion was interrupted by a man who planted himself directly in front of the armchair.
“Inspector Montalbano! Rachele had told me you were here, but I couldn’t find you.”
It was Lo Duca.About fifty, tall, most distinguished, most tanned from solar lamps, most glistening smile, salt-and-pepper hair groomed to perfection. One could only use superlatives to describe him. Montalbano stood up, and they shook hands. He was most fragrant as well.
“Why don’t we go outside?” Lo Duca suggested. “It’s stifling in here.”
“But the baron said . . .”
“Never mind the baron. Come with me.”
They passed back through the salon of armor, went out one of the French doors, but instead of taking the broad lane, Lo Duca immediately turned left. On this side there was a very well tended garden with three gazebos.Two had people in them, but the third was free. It was starting to get dark, but one of the gazebos had its light on.
“You want me to turn on the light?” asked Lo Duca. “But take my word for it, it’s better if we don’t. We’d be eaten alive by mosquitoes.Which will happen anyway during dinner.”
There were two comfortable wicker easy chairs and a little table with a vase of flowers and an ashtray on it. Lo Duca took out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to the inspector.
“Thanks, but I prefer my own.”
They lit their cigarettes.
“Excuse me for getting straight to the point,” said Lo Duca. “Perhaps you don’t feel like talking about work at the moment, but—”
“Not at all, go right ahead.”
“Thank you,” Lo Duca began. “Rachele told me she went to the Vigàta police to report the disappearance of her horse, but then didn’t file the report after you told her it had been killed.”
“Right.”
“Rachele was probably too upset when you told her the horse had been destroyed in a particularly brutal manner ; in fact she was unable to be more specific—”
“Right.”
“But how did you find out?”
“It was pure chance. The horse came and died right outside my window.”
“But is it true that, a bit later, somebody came and removed the carcass?”
“Right.”
“Do you have any idea why?”
“No. Do you?”
“Perhaps, yes.”
“Tell me, if you would.”
“Of course I’ll tell you. If and when the body of Rudy, my horse, is found, it probably will have been killed in the same manner.This is a vendetta, Inspector.”
“And did you present this hypothesis of yours to my colleagues in Montelusa?”
“No. Just as you, from what I’ve heard, haven’t yet told your colleagues in Montelusa that you found Rachele’s horse.”
Touché. Lo Duca certainly knew how to fence.
The inspector had to proceed carefully.
“A vendetta, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Could you be a little more precise?”
“Yes.Three years ago I had a heated argument with one of the men who used to tend my horses, and in a fit of anger, I struck him in the head with an iron rod. I didn’t think I had hurt him too badly, but it left him disabled. Naturally I took care of all the medical expenses, but I also give him a monthly stipend equal to the pay he used to receive.”
“But, if that’s the way it is, why would this man want—”
“Well, it’s been three months since his wife has had any news of him. He was no longer right in the head. One day he left muttering threats against me and hasn’t been seen since.There are rumors he has taken up with criminals.”
“Mafiosi?”
“No, just common criminals.”
“But why didn’t this man limit himself to stealing and killing your horse? Why did he also take Signora Esterman’s horse?”
“I don’t think he knew that the horse wasn’t mine, when he was stealing it. He probably realized it afterwards.”
“And you didn’t mention this to my colleagues in Montelusa, either?”
“No. And I don’t think I will.”
“Why not?”
“Because I feel it would be hounding an unlucky wretch whose mental infirmity I am responsible for.”
“So why did you bring it up with me?”
“Because I’ve been told that when you want to get to the bottom of something, you do.”
“Well, since I’m someone who gets to the bottom of things, as you say, could you tell me this person’s name?”
“Gerlando Gurreri. But could I have your word that you will not mention this name to anyone?”
