Excursion to Tindari

“They must have killed him not two hours ago.”

“What do we do now?” asked Fazio.

“The three of you are going to get in one car and go,” said Montalbano. “You’ll leave me the other car. I want to stay and have a little talk with the priest. Just remember: We never came to this house, and we never saw Japichinu’s corpse. Anyway, we’re not authorized to be here; it’s outside our territory. There could be some hassles.”

“All the same—” Mimi Augello started to say.

“All the same, my ass. We’ll meet back at the office.”

They filed out like beaten dogs, obeying against their will. The inspector heard them muttering intensely as they walked away. The priest was lost in prayer. He had more than his share of Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and requiems to recite, what with the load of murders on Japichinu’s shoulders, wherever he might be sailing at that moment. Montalbano climbed the stone staircase that led to the room above and turned on the light. There were two cots with only their mattresses, a nightstand between them, a shabby armoire, and two wooden chairs. In one corner, a small altar consisting of a low table covered with an embroidered white tablecloth. On the altar stood three statuettes: the Virgin Mary, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and Saint Calogero. Each statue had a little light burning in front. Japichinu was a religious kid, as his grandfather Balduccio had said. So religious he even had a spiritual father. The only problem was that the kid and the priest both mistook superstition for religion. Like most Sicilians, for that matter. The inspector remembered once having seen a crude votive painting from the early twentieth century, depicting a viddrano, a peasant, fleeing from two plumed carabinieri in hot pursuit. On the upper right, the Madonna was leaning down from the clouds, showing the fugitive the best path of escape. The scroll bore the words: For excaping the cluches of the law. On one of the cots, lying crosswise, was a Kalashnikov. He turned off the light, went downstairs, pulled up one of the two wicker chairs, and sat down.

“Father Crucilla.”

The priest, who was still praying, roused himself and looked up.

“Eh?”

“Pull up a chair and sit down. We need to talk.”

The priest obeyed. He was congested and sweating.

“How am I ever going to tell Don Balduccio?”

“There’s no need.”

“Why?”

“Because by now he’s already been told.”

“By whom?”

“By the killer, naturally.”

Father Crucilla struggled to grasp this. He kept staring at the inspector and moving his lips without forming any words. Then he understood and, eyes bulging, bolted out of his chair, reeled backwards, slipped on the blood, but managed to remain standing.

Now he’s going to have a stroke and die, thought Montalbano, alarmed.

“In God’s name, what are you saying?!” the priest wheezed.

“I’m just saying how things stand.”

“But Japichinu was sought by the police, the carabinieri, the Secret Service!”

“Who don’t usually slit the throats of people they’re trying to arrest.”

“What about the new Mafia? Or the Cuffaros?”

“Father, you just don’t want to accept that you and I have both been taken for a ride by that sly fox, Balduccio Sinagra.”

“What proof do you have—”

“Sit back down, if you don’t mind. Would you like a little water?”

Father Crucilla nodded yes. Montalbano grabbed a jug full of water, still nice and cool, and handed it to the priest, who put his lips to it at once.

“I have no proof and don’t believe we ever will.”

“And so?”

“Answer me first. Japichinu wasn’t staying here alone. He had a bodyguard who even slept beside him at night, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name, do you know?”

“Lollo Spadaro.”

“Was he a friend of Japichinu’s or one of Don Balduccio’s men?”

“One of Don Balduccio’s. It was the don who wanted it this way. Japichinu didn’t even like ‘im, but he said with Lollo around, he felt safe.”

“So safe that Lollo was able to kill him without any problem.”

“How can you think such a thing! Maybe they cut Lollo’s throat before doing the same to Japichinu!”