“’Zwas dogs,” said the peasant, swallowing his last mouthful of bread and tumazzo.Then he extracted a bottle of wine from the haversack, pulled out the cork, sucked on it once, and put everything back.
“Did you find the body yourself ?”
“Yessir. This mornin’ when I’s passin’ by with my donkey,” said the peasant, standing up.
“What’s your name?”
“Giuseppe Contrera, ’n’ my papers ’re spotless.”
He was keen to tell the cop that he had a clean record. But how had he been able to alert the police station from that desert? Via carrier pigeon?
“Was it you who phoned us?”
“Nossir, my son.”
“And where’s your son?”
“At home, in Giardina.”
“But was he with you when you discovered—”
“Nossir, he warn’t. He was at his home. He was still asleep, the little gent. He’s ’n accountant, you see.”
“But if he wasn’t with you—”
“May I, Chief ?” asked Fazio, interrupting. “Our friend here, Contrera, called his son as soon as he discovered the body, and—”
“Yes, but
“With this,” said the peasant, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket.
Montalbano balked.The peasant was dressed like an old-time peasant: fustian trousers, hobnail boots, collarless shirt, and vest. The gadget seemed out of place in hands so callused they looked like a relief map of the Alps.
“So why didn’t you call us directly yourself ?”
“First of all,” replied the peasant,“alls I know how to call with this thing is my son; an’ seccunly, how’s I sposta know your phone number?”
“The cell phone,” Fazio again explained, “was a gift from Signor Contrera’s son, who’s afraid that his father, given his age—”
“My boy Cosimo’s a nitwit. ’N accountant an’ a nitwit. He oughta worry ’bout his own hide an’ not mine,” the peasant declared.
“Did you get this man’s name, address, and phone number?” Montalbano asked Fazio.
“Yeah, Chief.”
“Then you can go now,” Montalbano said to Contrera.
The peasant gave a military salute and mounted his donkey.
“Have you informed everyone?”
“Already done, Chief.”
“Let’s hope they arrive soon.”
“Chief, it’s gonna take another half hour at least, even if all goes well.”
Montalbano made a snap decision.
“Gallo!”
“Orders, Chief.”
“How far are we from Giardina here?”
“By this road, I’d say fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s go have a cup of coffee. You guys want me to bring you some?”
“No thanks,” Fazio and Galluzzo replied in unison, with the flavor of the bread and tumazzo still in their mouths.
“I told you not to speed!”
“So who’s speeding?”
And, indeed, after some ten minutes of bouncing along at fifty miles an hour, the car, just like that, ended up nose-first in a ditch as wide as the road itself, with the rear wheels practically spinning in air.
The maneuvers to get unstuck—between heaving and hoeing, cursing and shouting, with Gallo at the wheel one minute, Montalbano the next, shirts drenched with sweat—took a good half hour. On top of this, the left fender had bent and was rubbing against the tire. Gallo was finally forced to drive slowly.
In short, between one thing and another, by the time they got back to Spinoccia, over an hour had passed.
They were all there, except for Prosecutor Tommaseo. His absence worried Montalbano. It was anybody’s guess when the guy might show up, and he was liable to waste the inspector’s whole morning. He drove worse than a blind man, crashing into every other tree he saw.
“Any news of Tommaseo?” Montalbano asked Fazio.
“Tommaseo’s already gone!”
What, had he become Fangio on the Carrera Panamericana[13]?
“Luckily he hitched a ride with Dr. Pasquano,” Fazio continued. “He gave the go-ahead for the body to be removed, and got a lift back to Montelusa from Galluzzo.”
When Forensics had finished shooting their first series of photos, Pasquano had the body turned over. The victim must have been about fifty, maybe slightly less.There was no exit wound on his chest from the bullet that had killed him.
“You know him?” the inspector asked Fazio.
“No.”
Dr. Pasquano finished examining the body, cursing the flies buzzing back and forth between the corpse and his face.
“What can you tell me, Doctor?”
Pasquano pretended not to have heard him. Montalbano repeated the question, pretending in turn that the doctor hadn’t heard him. Pasquano gave Montalbano a dirty look, removing his gloves. He was all sweaty and red in the face.
“What can I tell you? It’s a beautiful day.”
“Gorgeous, isn’t it? What can you tell me about the dead man?”
“You’re a bigger pain in the ass than these flies, you know that? What the hell do you want me to tell you?”
He must have lost at poker the night before, at the club. Montalbano summoned his patience and dug in.
“Tell you what, Doctor. While you’re talking, I’ll wipe away your sweat, chase away the flies, and every so often kiss your forehead.”
Pasquano started laughing. Then, in a single breath, he said:
“He was killed by a single shot to the shoulder.And you didn’t need me to tell you that.The bullet did not exit the body. And you didn’t need me to tell you that, either. He wasn’t shot at this location because—and you can figure this out all by yourself, too—a man doesn’t go walking outside in his underpants, not even on a shitty dirt road like this one. He’s probably been dead—and this, too, you have enough experience to figure out for yourself— for at least twenty-four hours. As for the bite on his arm, any idiot can see that it was a dog.To conclude, there was no need for you to force me to speak, making me waste my breath and busting my balls to hell and back. Have I made myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“And a good day to one and all.”
He turned his back, got in his car, and drove away.
Vanni Arquà, chief of Forensics, kept having his men waste roll after roll of film for no reason. Of the thousands of shots taken, only two or three would prove important. Fed up, the inspector decided to go back to town. After all, what was he doing there?
“I’m leaving,” he said to Fazio.“I’ll see you at the station. Gallo, come on, can we go?”
