counting the different shoe prints, which was not easy. He came to the conclusion that four people, at most, had killed the horse. But two others had witnessed the spectacle, keeping still at the edge of the ring and smoking a few cigarettes from time to time.
He turned back, went into the house, and phoned the station.
“Halloo? Iss izza—”
“Catarella, Montalbano here.”
“Ah, Chief! Iss you? Whass wrong, Chief ?”
“Is Inspector Augello there?”
“’E in’t presentable yet.”
“Then lemme talk to Fazio, if he’s there.”
Less than a minute passed.
“What can I do for you, Chief ?”
“Listen, Fazio, I want you to come here to my place right away, and bring Gallo and Galluzzo with you, if they’re there.”
“Something up?”
“Yes.”
He left the front door to the house open and took a long walk down the beach. The barbaric slaughter of that poor animal had kindled a dull, violent rage in him. He approached the horse again and crouched down for a better look.They had even bludgeoned it in the belly, perhaps when it had reared up. Then he noticed that one of the horseshoes had come almost completely detached from the hoof. He lay on the ground, belly down, reached out and touched it. The horseshoe was held in place by a single nail, which had come halfway out of the hoof. At that moment Fazio, Gallo, and Galluzzo arrived, looked out from the veranda, spotted the inspector, and came down onto the beach. They looked at the horse and asked no questions.
Only Fazio spoke.
“There are some vile people in this world!” he commented.
“Gallo, think you can bring the car down here and then drive it along the beach?” Montalbano asked.
Gallo gave a haughty smile.
“Piece o’ cake, Chief.”
“Galluzzo, you go with him. I want you to follow the horse’s hoofprints.You shouldn’t have any trouble finding the spot where they bludgeoned the creature.There are iron rods, cigarette butts, and maybe other things as well. See for yourselves. Then gather everything together very carefully; I want fingerprints taken, DNA tests, the works. Anything that’ll help us identify these jokers.”
“And then what’ll we do? Report them to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals?” Fazio asked as the two of them were walking away.
“Why, do you think that’s all there is to this affair?”
“No, I don’t. I just wanted to make that quip.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s worth repeating. So why did they do it?”
Fazio made a doubtful face.
“Could be some kind of revenge on the horse’s owner.”
“Maybe. And that’s all?”
“No.There’s something more likely. I’ve heard talk . . .”
“Of what?”
“Of a clandestine horse-racing circuit in Vigàta.”
“And you think this horse was killed as a consequence of something that happened in those circles?”
“What else could it be? All we gotta do now is wait for the consequences of this consequence, which there will surely be.”
“But maybe it’s better if we can prevent these consequences, no?” said Montalbano.
“That’d be better, yes, but it ain’t gonna be easy.”
“Well, let’s begin by saying that before killing the horse, they must have stolen it.”
“Are you kidding, Chief? Nobody’s gonna report the stolen horse. It would be like coming to us and saying:
“Is it a really big deal?”
“Millions and millions of euros in bets, they say.”
“And who’s behind it?”
“I’ve heard the name of Michele Prestia mentioned.”
“And who’s he?”
“Some nitwit, Chief, about fifty years old.Who up until last year worked as an accountant for a construction firm.”
“But this doesn’t seem to me like the work of some nitwit accountant.”
“Of course not, Chief. Prestia’s just a front man, in fact.”
“For whom?”
“Nobody knows.”
“You have to try to find out.”
“I’ll try.”
When they were back in the house, Fazio went into the kitchen to make coffee and Montalbano called City Hall to inform them that there was a horse’s carcass on the beach at Marinella.
“Is it your horse?”
“No.”
“Let’s be clear about this, sir.”
“Why, is there something unclear about what I said?”
“No, it’s just that sometimes people say the animal’s not theirs because they don’t want to pay the removal fee.”
“I told you it’s not my horse.”
“Okay, we’ll take your word for it. Do you know whose it is?”
“No.”
“Okay, we’ll take your word for it. Do you know what it died of ?”
Montalbano weighed his options and decided not to tell the clerk anything.
“No, I don’t. I just saw the dead body out my window.”
“So you didn’t see it die.”
“Obviously.”
“Okay, we’ll take your word for it,” said the clerk, who then started humming “Tu che a Dio spiegasti l’ali.”[1]
A funeral lament for the horse? A kind homage from City Hall, as a way to take part in the mourning?
“Well?” said Montalbano.
“I was thinking,” said the clerk.
“What’s there to think about?”
“I have to figure out whose job it is to remove the carcass.”
“Isn’t it yours?”
“It would be ours if it’s an Article 11, but if, on the other hand, it’s an Article 23, it’s the job of the provincial Office of Hygiene.”
“Listen, given the fact that you’ve taken my word for everything thus far, I advise you to keep doing so. Because I assure you that either you come within fifteen minutes and haul it away, or I’m going to—”
“And who are you, may I ask?”
“I’m Inspector Montalbano.”
The clerk’s tone immediately changed.
“It’s definitely an Article 11, Inspector, I’m sure of it.”
Montalbano felt like screwing around.
