his right hand from his left.
“I’m not here for anyone,” he said as he passed in front of Catarella’s station.
Catarella came running after him.
“Not here telephonically or poissonally?”
“I’m not here, can you get that through your head?”
“Not even for the c’mishner?”
For Catarella, the c’mishner was only one grade below the Almighty.
“Not even.”
He went into his office, locked the door, and, after half an hour of cursing, found the file on his investigation of Giacomo Licco.
He studied it for two hours, taking notes.
Then he called up Prosecutor Giarrizzo, who would be representing the state at the Licco trial.
“Inspector Montalbano here. I’d like to speak with Prosecutor Giarrizzo.”
“Dr. Giarrizzo is at the courthouse. He’ll be busy all morning,” replied a female voice.
“Could you tell him to call me when he gets back? Thanks.”
He put the sheet of paper with his notes in his pocket, then picked up the receiver again.
“Catarella, is Fazio here?”
“’E in’t onna premisses, Chief.”
“What about Augello?”
“’E’s ’ere.”
“Tell him to come to my office.”
Remembering he had locked the door, he got up, opened it, and found Mimì Augello standing in front of him with a magazine in his hand.
“Why’d you lock yourself in?”
Just because you do something, what gives others the right to ask why you did it? He hated this kind of question. Ingrid:Why won’t you call Rachele back? Livia:Why didn’t you answer the first time I called? And now Mimì.
“Just between us, Mimì, I had half a mind to hang myself, but now that you’re here . . .”
“Ah, well, if that’s your intention—which, incidentally, I approve of, unconditionally—then I’ll leave at once and you can continue.”
“Come in and sit down.”
Mimì noticed the file of the Licco trial on the desk.
“You reviewing your lesson?”
“Yes.You got any news?”
“Yes.This magazine.”
And he set it down on the inspector’s desk. It was a glossy, luxurious bimonthly magazine that oozed with the money of its contributors. It was called
Montalbano skimmed through it. Horrific paintings by amateur painters who considered themselves, at the very least, on a par with Picasso, ignoble poems signed by poetesses with double surnames (provincial poetesses always do this), the life and miracles of a certain Montelusan who had become deputy mayor of some lost town in Canada, and, lastly, in the sports section, no less than five pages devoted to “Saverio Lo Duca and His Horses.”
“What’s the article say?”
“A lot of crap. But you were interested in a photo of the stolen horse, no? It’s the third one. And which horse did Signora Esterman ride?”
“Moonbeam.”
“He’s the one in the fourth shot.”
The photos were large and in color, and each had the name of the horse as caption.
To have a better look, Montalbano reached into a drawer and pulled out a large magnifying glass.
“You look like Sherlock Holmes,” said Mimì.
“So would that make you Dr.Watson?”
He could see no difference between the dead horse on the beach and the horse in the photograph. But he didn’t know the first thing about horses. The only hope was to phone Rachele, but he didn’t want to do so in Mimì’s presence. She was liable to bring up some dangerous subjects, thinking him alone.
But as soon as Augello left to go back to his own office, the inspector called Rachele’s cell phone.
“Montalbano here.”
“Salvo! Lovely! I phoned you this morning but they said you weren’t there.”
He had forgotten he’d solemnly promised Ingrid to call Rachele back. He would have to fire off another lie. In his mind he coined another proverb:
“In fact I wasn’t here. But the minute I got back and was told you had asked for me, I called you.”
“I don’t want to take up your time. Is there any news on the investigation?”
“Which one?”
“The one into the killing of my horse, naturally!”
“But we’re not conducting any investigation into that, since you never filed a report.”
“You’re not?” said Rachele, disappointed.
“No. If anything, you should talk to Montelusa Central. That’s where Lo Duca reported the theft of the two horses.”
“I was hoping that—”
“I’m sorry. Listen, I’ve just happened, purely by chance, to come across a magazine that has a photograph of the horse of Lo Duca’s that was stolen—”
“Rudy.”
“Right.To me Rudy looks identical to the dead horse I saw on the beach.”
“Of course, they did look a lot alike. But they weren’t identical. My horse, Super, for example, had a strange little spot, a sort of three-pointed star, on his left flank. Did you see it?”
“No, because that was the side he was lying on.”
“That’s why they came and took him away. So he couldn’t be identified. I’m more and more convinced that Chichi is right: they wanted to make him stew in his own juices.”
“It’s possible . . .”
“Listen . . .”
“Tell me.”
“I’d like . . . to talk to you.To see you.”
“Rachele, you’ve got to believe me, I’m not lying when I say you’ve caught me at a very difficult moment.”
“But you have to eat to survive, don’t you?”
“Well, yes. But I don’t like to talk when I eat.”
“I’ll talk to you for only five minutes, I promise, after we’ve finished eating. Could we meet this evening?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s do this. Call me here, at my office, at eight o’clock sharp, and I’ll give you an answer.”
He picked up the Licco file again, reread it, and jotted down a few more notes. He reviewed and re-reviewed the arguments that he had used against Licco, reading them with the eyes of a defense attorney, and what he remembered as a weak point now no longer seemed like a slight break in the fabric but a gaping hole. Licco’s friends were right. His attitude on the stand would be decisive; he needed only display a hint of hesitation and the lawyers would turn that hole into an out-and-out breach through which Licco could blithely walk away to a chorus of apologies on the part of the law.
When he came out of his office around one o’clock to go to the trattoria, Catarella called him.
“Beck y’pardon, Chief, but, are you here or not?”
