“I couldn’t say. She describes him as a sort of
“But haven’t any of your male friends tried their luck with her?”
“Almost all of them, as far as that goes.”
“And among these ‘almost all,’ was there anyone who tried harder than the rest?”
“Well, Mario Giacco.”
“Isn’t it possible that, perhaps, without your knowing—”
“—that Rachele has been with him? It’s possible, though I don’t—”
“And couldn’t it be possible that Giacco, to avenge himself for having been rejected by her, arranged for the horse to be killed?”
Ingrid did not hesitate.
“I would absolutely rule that out, without any doubt. Mario’s an engineer, and he’s been in Egypt for the past year. He works for an oil company.”
“It was a stupid conjecture, I know. And what sort of relationship does she have with Lo Duca?”
“I have no idea what her relations with Lo Duca are.”
“But if she left her horse in his care, they must be friends. Do you know Lo Duca?”
“I do, but I find him unbearable.”
“Has Rachele ever talked to you about him?”
“A few times. And pretty indifferently, I’d say. I don’t think there’s been anything between them. Unless Rachele wants to keep their relationship a secret from me.”
“Has she ever done that before?”
“Well, based on your conjectures . . .”
“Do you know if Lo Duca is presently in Montelusa?”
“He arrived today, after hearing about the horse.”
“Is Esterman her maiden name?”
“No, it’s Gianfranco’s, her husband’s. Her family name is Anselmi del Bosco. She’s an aristocrat.”
“She told me her relationship with her husband is only ‘fraternal.’Why doesn’t she divorce him?”
“Divorce him? Are you kidding? Gianfranco is as Catholic as they come. He goes to Mass, he goes to confession, he’s got some sort of fancy job at the Vatican . . . He would never divorce. I don’t even think they’re officially separated.”
She laughed again, but it wasn’t a very happy laugh.
“Basically, she’s in the same situation as me . . . Listen, I’m going to go pee, and while I’m away, you should open that other bottle of whisky.”
She stood up, lurching first to the left, then to the right. Regaining her balance, she headed off unsteadily. Without noticing, they had drunk a whole bottle.
4
Things ended the same way as all the other times.
At a certain hour of the night, when there were scarcely four fingers of whisky remaining in the second bottle, and they had talked about everything except Rachele Esterman, Ingrid said she felt sleepy and had to go immediately to bed.
“I’ll drive you back to Montelusa.You’re in no condition to drive.”
“And I suppose you are?”
Indeed, the inspector’s head was spinning a little.
“Ingrid, I only need to wash my face and I’m ready.”
“I, on the other hand, am more inclined to go take a shower and slip into bed.”
“Into my bed?”
“What other beds are there? I’ll be quick,” she continued, thick-tongued.
“Listen, Ingrid, it’s not—”
“C’mon, Salvo. What’s got into you? It certainly won’t be the first time. And anyway, you know how much I like sleeping chastely beside you.”
Chastely, hah! He alone knew how dearly he had to pay for that chastity: not a wink of sleep, getting up in the middle of the night to take emergency cold showers . . .
“Okay, but, you see—”
“And besides, it’s so erotic!”
“Ingrid, I am not a saint!”
“That’s precisely what I’m counting on,” she said, laughing and getting up from the couch.
He woke up late the following morning, with a bit of a headache. He had drunk too much. All that was left of Ingrid was her scent on the sheets and pillow.
He glanced at his watch. Almost nine-thirty. Maybe Ingrid had something to do in Montelusa and had let him sleep. But why hadn’t Adelina arrived yet?
Then he remembered that it was Saturday, and on Saturdays the housekeeper didn’t show up until around noon, after she had done her shopping for the week.
He got up, went into the kitchen, prepared a pot of strong coffee, went into the dining room, opened the French door, and stepped out onto the veranda.
The day looked like a photograph. Not a breath of wind, everything perfectly still, illuminated by a sun particularly careful not to leave anything in shade.There wasn’t even any surf.
He went back inside and immediately noticed his pistol on the table.
Strange.What was it doing—
Then, all at once, he remembered the previous evening and what a frightened Ingrid told him: that two men had entered the house after he went out to the Marinella Bar to buy whisky.
He remembered that he always kept an envelope in the drawer of the nightstand with two or three hundred euros in it, the money he would need for the week, which he would withdraw from the cash machine and put in his pocket. He went and checked the drawer.The envelope was in its place, with all the money inside.
The coffee had bubbled up. He drank two cups of it, one right after the other, and resumed looking around the house to see if anything was missing.
After half an hour of this, he decided that nothing, apparently, was missing. Apparently. Because, deep inside his head, he had a nagging thought telling him that there was indeed something missing, but he hadn’t noticed what.
He went into the bathroom, took a shower, shaved, and got dressed. He grabbed his pistol, locked the door, opened the car, got in, slipped the pistol back into the glove compartment, started the engine, and just sat there.
All at once he remembered what it was that was missing. He needed to confirm. He went back in the house, into the bedroom, and reopened the drawer to the nightstand. The burglars had stolen his father’s gold watch. They had left the envelope that was on top of it, not realizing there was money in it.And they hadn’t tried to steal anything else because they had heard Ingrid arrive.
He felt two contrasting emotions. Anger and relief. Anger because he was attached to that watch; it was one of the few mementos he kept with him. And relief because it was proof that the two men who had entered his house were merely a couple of petty thieves who clearly had no idea they had broken into the home of a police inspector.
Since he didn’t have much to do at the office that morning, he went to the bookshop to restock. Approaching the cash register to pay, he realized all his authors were Swedish: Enquist, Sjöwall-Wahlöö, and Mankell. In unconscious homage to Ingrid? Then he remembered that he needed at least two new shirts. And an extra pair of underpants wouldn’t hurt, either. He went off to buy these.
By the time he got to the office, it was almost midday.
“Ahh Chief, Chief !”
