“What could be going through his head?” Montalbano asked himself nervously. “Doesn’t he realize he could come under fire?”
At that moment, feeling himself shudder in fear, he saw the barrel of a machine gun emerge from the little window vertically above the door. Montalbano leapt to his feet.
“Mimi! Mimi!” he shouted.
Then he stopped, thinking he was singing
The machine gun fired and Mimi fell.
The same burst that killed Mimi woke the inspector up.
He was still lying on the pages of the newspaper, under the olive tree, drenched in sweat. At least a million ants had taken possession of his body.
13
Few, and at first glance insubstantial, were the ultimate differences between the dream and the reality. The secluded little farmhouse pointed out by Father Crucilla as Japichinu’s secret hideout was the same as the one Montalbano had dreamt, except that this one, instead of a little window, had an open balcony directly over the door, which was also wide open.
Unlike in the dream, the priest did not run off in haste.
“You might,” he said, “be needing me.”
And Montalbano, in his mind, had duly knocked on wood. Father Crucilla, crouching behind a huge sorghum bush with the inspector and Augello, eyed the house and shook his head in concern.
“What’s wrong?” asked Montalbano.
“I don’t like the look of the door and balcony. The other times I came to see him, it was all closed up, and you had to knock. Be careful, I mean it. I can’t swear that Japichinu is ready to turn himself in. He keeps a machine gun always within reach, and he knows how to use it.”
When he was sure that Fazio and Gallo had reached their positions behind the house; Montalbano looked at Augello.
“I’m going in now. You cover me.”
“What kind of novelty is this?” Mimi reacted. “We’ve always done it the other way around.”
Montalbano couldn’t tell him he’d seen him die in a dream.
“This time we’re doing it differently.”
Mimi didn’t answer. He merely hunkered down with his .38. He could tell, by the inspector’s tone of voice, when there was room for discussion and when there was not.
Night hadn’t fallen yet. There was that gray light that precedes darkness, making it possible to distinguish silhouettes.
“How come he hasn’t turned on the lights?” asked Augello, gesturing with his chin towards the darkened house.
“Maybe he’s waiting for us,” said Montalbano.
And he rose to his feet, out in the open.
“What are you doing? What are you doing?” Mimi said in a whisper, trying to grab him by the jacket and pull him down. Then all of a sudden a terrifying thought occurred to him.
“Have you got your gun?”
“No.”
“Take mine.”
“No,” the inspector repeated, taking two steps forward. He stopped and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Japichinu! This is Montalbano. I’m unarmed.”
There was no answer. The inspector advanced a short distance, calmly, as though out for a stroll. About ten feet from the door, he stopped again and said in a voice only slightly louder than normal:
“Japichinu! I’m coming inside now. So we can talk in peace.”
Nobody answered, nobody moved. Montalbano raised his hands and entered the house. It was pitch-dark inside. He stepped slightly to one side, so as not to be visible in the doorway. And that was when he smelled it, that odor he had smelled so many times, which always gave him a vague feeling of nausea. Before turning on the light, he already knew what he would see. Japichinu lay in the middle of the room, on top of what looked like a red blanket but was in fact his blood. Throat slashed. He must have been taken by surprise, treacherously, when he turned his back to his assassin.
“Salvo! Salvo! What’s happening?”
It was Mimi Augello. Montalbano appeared in the doorway.
“Fazio! Gallo! Mimi! Come!”
They all came running, the priest following behind, out of breath. Then, at the sight of Japichinu, they froze. The first one to move was Father Crucilla, who knelt beside the dead man, unconcerned by the blood soiling his frock, blessed him, and began to murmur some prayers. Mimi, for his part, touched the corpse’s forehead.
