Valkyries looked.
“Make yourself comfortable, signora.”
She sat down and crossed her legs. How was it that, when crossed, her legs looked even longer?
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m here to report the disappearance of a horse.”
Montalbano gave a start in his chair, but concealed the movement by feigning a coughing fit.
“I can see you’re a smoker,” said Rachele, gesturing towards the ashtray and pack of cigarettes on the desk.
“Yes, but I don’t think my cough has got anything—”
“I wasn’t referring to your cough, which, in any case, sounded clearly faked. I meant that since you smoke, I can smoke, too.”
And she pulled a pack out of her purse.
“Well, actually . . .”
“You mean it’s prohibited here? Do you feel like transgressing a little, for as long as it takes to smoke a cigarette? We can open the window afterwards.”
She stood up, went to close the door, which had been left open, sat back down, stuck a cigarette between her lips, and leaned towards the inspector so he could light it.
“So, tell me,” she said, blowing the smoke out her nose.
“I’m sorry, but it’s you who came here to tell
“At first. But when you reacted so clumsily to my words, I realized you were already informed of the disappearance. Am I right?”
The bright-eyed goddess[3] could probably see flutters in the nose hairs of anyone in front of her. He might as well lay his cards on the table.
“Yes, you are. But shall we proceed in orderly fashion?”
“Let’s.”
“Do you live here?”
“I’ve been in Montelusa for three days, staying at a friend’s house.”
“If you’re living in Montelusa, even temporarily, then by law you should file your report in—”
“But the horse had been put in the care of someone from Vigàta.”
“What’s the name?”
“Saverio Lo Duca.”
Shit. Saverio Lo Duca was easily one of the richest men in Sicily and had a stable in Vigàta.With four or five prized horses he kept just for the fun of it, for the pleasure of owning them. He never entered them in shows or races. Every so often he would come into town and spend an entire day with the animals. He had powerful friends, and it was always a pain to have any dealings with him, because there was always the danger that one would say the wrong thing and piss outside the urinal.
“Let me get this straight.You brought your horse along with you when you came to Montelusa?”
Rachele Esterman gave him a puzzled look.
“Of course. I had to.”
“And why’s that?
“Because, day after tomorrow, at Fiacca, there’s going to be the ladies’ race, the one organized every two years by Baron Piscopo di San Militello.”
“Ah, yes.”
It was a bluff. He had never heard of this race.
“When did you realize the horse had been stolen?”
“Me? I didn’t realize anything. I received a phone call in Montelusa at dawn this morning from the chief hand at Chichi’s stable.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m sorry. Chichi is Saverio Lo Duca.”
“But if you were informed of the disappearance first thing in the morning—”
“—why did I wait so long to report it?”
She was smart. But her way of finishing his sentences got on his nerves.
“Because my sorrel—”
“Your what? Is that the horse’s name? Like Julien Sorel?”
She laughed heartily, throwing her head backwards.
“You really don’t know the first thing about horses, do you?”
“Well . . .”
“Chestnut horses with light manes and tails are called sorrels. As I was saying, my horse—whose name, as it happens, is Super—has a habit of running away from time to time, forcing us to go out and look for him. So they looked for him but then phoned me around three to tell me they hadn’t found him. And I concluded that he hadn’t run away.”
“I see.You don’t think that, in the meantime, they may have—”
“They would have called me on the cell phone.”
She had him light another cigarette.
“And now give me the bad news.”
“What makes you surmise that—”
“Inspector, you’ve been very shrewd. With the excuse that we should proceed in orderly fashion, you’ve avoided answering my question.You’re stalling. And this can mean only one thing. Has he been kidnapped? Should I expect a demand for a great deal of money?”
“Is he worth a lot?”
“A fortune. He’s a Thoroughbred English racehorse.”
What to do? Better tell her everything, in small steps, since he would have to come out with it in the end anyway.
“He hasn’t been kidnapped.”
Rachele Esterman leaned back stiffly in her chair, suddenly pale.
“How can you know that? Have you spoken with anyone at the stable?”
“No.”
Looking at her, Montalbano felt as if he could hear the gears whirring in her brain.
“Is he . . . dead?”
“Yes.”
The woman pulled the ashtray towards herself, took the cigarette out of her mouth, and extinguished it with great care.
“Was he run over by—”
“No.”
She must not have understood the meaning of this at once, because she repeated the word “no” several times, under her breath, to herself.
Then she suddenly understood.
“Was he killed?”
“Yes.”
Without saying a word, she got up, went over to the window, opened it, leaned out with her elbows on the sill. Every so often her shoulders heaved. She was silently crying.
The inspector let her get it out of her system, then went and stood next to her at the window. He realized she was still crying, so he pulled a packet of tissues from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
He then went and filled a glass with water from a bottle he kept atop a file cabinet, and handed this to her. Rachele drank it all.
“Would you like some more?”
“No, thank you.”
They returned to their prior places. Rachele appeared calm again, but Montalbano feared the questions that were sure to come. Such as:
