Montalbano also got out and lit a cigarette. About a hundred yards away was a little white die of a country cottage with a small yard in front. That must be where the fresh eggs were sold. He walked over to the edge of the trail and started to open the zipper on his trousers, but it promptly got stuck on his shirt and refused to budge any further. Montalbano looked down to examine the hitch, and as he was lowering his head, a shaft of light struck him square in the eyes. Once he’d finished, the zipper got stuck again, and he repeated the same motion, with the exact same results. That is, he lowered his head and the shaft of light struck his eyes again. He looked to see where the gleam was coming from, and there, half hidden by the bottom part of a bush, was some sort of round object.
He immediately realized what it was, and in two strides he was in front of the bush. A motorcycle helmet. Small. Made for a woman’s head. It must not have been lying there very long, because there was only a very fine layer of dust on it. New, no scrapes. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it around his right hand, fingers included, crouched down, grabbed the helmet, and flipped it over. Then he flopped face-down on the ground to look carefully inside it. It appeared to be very clean. No bloodstains. Two or three long strands of blonde hair were snagged inside it and stood out against the black padding. He was absolutely certain the helmet belonged to Susanna.
“Hey, Chief, where are you?”
It was Gallo. He put the helmet back the way he’d found it and stood up.
“Come here.”
Gallo approached, his curiosity aroused. Montalbano pointed to the helmet.
“I think that’s the girl’s.”
“You really are one lucky asshole,” Gallo couldn’t help saying.
“It’s your asshole that’s the lucky one,” said the inspector.
“My compliments to its investigative skills.”
“But if the helmet is here, it means the girl is being held somewhere nearby! Should I call for reinforcements?”
“That’s what they want you to think, and that’s why they dumped the helmet here. They’re trying to throw us off the trail.”
“So what should we do?”
“Get ahold of Augello’s team and have them send somebody to stand guard here. Meanwhile, don’t you move from this spot until they arrive. I don’t want some passerby to find the helmet and make off with it. And move the car as well, because you’re blocking the way.” “Who is ever going to pass this way?”
Montalbano, who had started walking away, didn’t answer.
“And where are you going?”
“I’m going to see if they really do have fresh eggs.” As he approached the cottage, the sound of clucking grew louder and louder, but he didn’t see any chickens. The coop must have been behind the house. As he entered the yard, a girl came out of the open front door of the cottage. She was thirtyish, tall, with black hair but fair skin, and a full, beautiful body. She was sort of dressed up and wearing high heels. For a moment Montalbano thought she was some lady who’d come to buy eggs. But the woman smiled at him and said in dialect: “Why’d you leave your car so far away? You could have parked it right here in front.”
Montalbano made a vague gesture with his hand.
“Please come in,” said the woman, going in first.
A wall divided the small house’s interior into two rooms.
The one in front, which must have been the dining room, featured a table in the middle with four baskets of eggs on top, as well as four cane chairs, a sideboard with a phone, a refrigerator, and a small gas stove in the corner. Another corner was hidden by a plastic curtain. The only thing that looked out of place in the room was a small cot that served as a sofa. Everything was sparkling clean. The young woman stared straight at him but said nothing. A few moments later she finally asked, in a whisper the inspector didn’t know what to make of: “Did you come for eggs, or . . . ?”
What was “or . . .” supposed to mean? The only way to find out was to see what would happen.
“Or . . .” Montalbano said.
The woman got up, cast a quick glance at the back room, then closed the door. The inspector imagined there must be someone, perhaps a sleeping child, in the other room, obviously the bedroom. The woman sat down on the cot, took off her shoes, and started unbuttoning her blouse.
“Close the front door. If you want to wash, you’ll find everything behind the curtain,” she said to Montalbano.
So that was what she’d meant by “or . . .” He raised his hand.
“That’s okay,” he said.
08
The woman gave him a puzzled look.
“I’m Inspector Montalbano.”
“Don’t be afraid. Have you got a permit to sell eggs?”
“Yessir. I’ll go get it.”
