“No need to worry. However, you’ve given me the motive, but you haven’t told me why they removed the horse’s carcass.”
“As I said, I believe that when Gurreri stole the two horses, he believed they were both mine. Then one of his accomplices must have pointed out to him that one of them belonged to Rachele. So they killed it and then removed the carcass, leaving me to stew in my doubts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Inspector, how can you be so sure that the horse you found dead on the beach was Rachele’s and not mine? When they took away the remains, they made it impossible to identify the animal. So, by leaving me in a state of uncertainty, they are making me suffer even more. Because I was very attached to my Rudy.”
The argument made a certain sense.
“Tell me something, Mr. Lo Duca. Who was it that informed Signora Esterman that her horse had been stolen?”
“I thought I did. But apparently someone beat me to it.”
“Who?”
“I dunno, maybe one of the two men who tend the horses. Rachele, morever, had given the watchman the telephone numbers where she could be reached.The watchman kept that piece of paper with the telephone numbers pinned inside the front door of his house. It’s still there, in fact. Is that of any importance?”
“Yes, it’s very important.”
“How so?”
“You see, Mr. Lo Duca, if nobody from the stable called Signora Esterman, it means that it was Gerlando Gurreri.”
“And why would he do it?”
“Maybe because he thought that you would wait as long as possible before informing Signora Esterman of the theft of her horse, in the hopes of recovering it quickly, perhaps by paying a big ransom.”
“In other words, to make me lose face and embarrass me in the eyes of everyone?”
“It’s a possibility, don’t you think? But if you tell me that Gurreri, who you say is a bit off his rocker, is not in any condition to reason so subtly, then my hypothesis crumbles.”
Lo Duca paused to think about this.
“Well,” he said after a brief moment.“I suppose it’s possible that it wasn’t Gerlando who cooked up the scheme of the telephone call, but one of the crooks he’s fallen in with.”
“That, too, is quite likely.”
“Salvo? Where are you?”
Ingrid was calling him.
8
Saverio Lo Duca stood up. Montalbano likewise.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you for so long, but, as I am sure you realize, I didn’t want to miss this precious opportunity.”
“Salvo? Where are you?” Ingrid called again.
“Oh, not at all!” said the inspector.“In fact, I’m sincerely grateful for what you’ve been so kind to reveal to me.”
Lo Duca gave a hint of a bow. Montalbano as well.
Not even in the nineteenth century could a more polished and elegant dialogue—say, between the Viscount of Castelfrombone (a descendant of de Bouillon) and the Duke of Lomantò, of Quartetto Cetra[7] fame—have taken place.
They turned the corner. Ingrid, looking quite chic, was standing in front of one of the French doors, looking around.
“Here I am,” said the inspector, waving an arm.
“I’m sorry to abandon you, but I need to meet with . . .” said Lo Duca, picking up his pace and walking away without ever saying who it was he was supposed to meet.
At that moment, the peal of a powerful gong rang out. Perhaps they had put a microphone in front of it.Whatever the case, it sounded like the start of an earthquake. And an earthquake it was.
From the interior of the villa, a disorderly chorus thundered:
“The gong! The gong!”
Everything that followed was exactly like an avalanche or a river bursting its banks.
Pushing and shoving, tripping and colliding, a surge of shouting women and men crashed through the three French doors and poured out onto the broad lane. In an instant, Ingrid receded from sight, caught in the middle and irresistibly swept downstream.Turning around towards him, she opened her mouth and said something, but the words were incomprehensible. It was like the ending of a tragic film[8]. Bewildered, Montalbano had the impression that a terrible blaze had broken out inside the villa, but the cheerful faces of everyone in the wild stampede told him that he was mistaken. Getting out of the way to avoid being bowled over, he waited for the flood to pass.The gong had announced that dinner was ready. Why was it that these aristos, entrepreneurs, and businessmen were always so hungry? They had already polished off two long tablefuls of antipasti, and still they acted as though they hadn’t eaten for a week.
When the flood subsided into a little rivulet of three or four stragglers running like hundred-meter sprinters, Montalbano ventured to step back onto the broad lane. Good luck finding Ingrid! But what if, instead of going to eat, he were to ask the ex-con for the car keys, slip inside, and take a two-hour nap? He thought this seemed like an excellent idea.
“Inspector Montalbano!” he heard a woman’s voice call.
He turned towards the salon and saw Rachele Esterman coming out. At her side was a fiftyish man dressed in a dark gray suit, the same height as she, with very little hair and the face of a spy.
By “the face of a spy” the inspector meant an utterly anonymous face, one of those you could have before you for an entire day but still not remember the following day. Faces like James Bond’s are not spy faces, because once you’ve seen them you never forget them, and thus the danger of recognition by the enemy is all the greater.
“Guido Costa, Inspector Montalbano,” said Rachele.
The inspector had to make a considerable effort to stop looking at Rachele and turn his gaze towards Costa. The moment he had seen her, he was spellbound. She was wearing a sort of black sack held up by her very slender shoulders and hanging down to her knees. Her legs were longer and more beautiful than Ingrid’s. Hair loose and brushing her shoulders, a ring of precious stones around her neck. In her hand she held a shawl.
“Shall we go?” said Guido Costa.
He had the voice of a dubber of porn flicks, one of those warm, deep voices that are used in these to whisper lewd things into women’s ears. Perhaps the insignificant Guido had some hidden qualities.
“Who knows if we’ll ever find a place to sit down,” said Montalbano.
“Not to worry,” said Rachele. “I’ve reserved a table for four. But it’s going to be a challenge to find Ingrid.”
It wasn’t. Ingrid was waiting for them, standing, at the reserved table.
“I ran into Giogiò!” Ingrid said cheerfully.
“Ah, Giogiò!” said Rachele with a little smile.
Montalbano intercepted a complicit look between the two women and understood everything. Giogiò must have been an old flame of Ingrid’s.And whoever said that reheated soup isn’t good might well be mistaken in this case.The inspector shuddered in terror at the thought that Ingrid might decide to spend the night with the long lost Giogiò, leaving him to sleep in the car until morning.
“Would you mind if I went and sat at Giogiò’s table?” Ingrid asked the inspector.
“Not at all.”
“You’re an angel.”
