He turned left at the third intersection. The road was paved but had no markings or signs. He would have to trust in Catarella’s directions. By now the landscape had changed.
Low, rolling hills, a few vineyards. And not a trace of any villages. He hadn’t even crossed another car. He began to get worried. Most importantly, he didn’t see another living soul he might ask for directions. All at once he didn’t feel like proceeding any farther. But just as he was about to make a U-turn and head back to Vigata, he saw a cart and horse coming towards him. He decided to ask the driver for help. He drove on a little, and when he was in front of the horse, he stopped, opened the car door, and got out.
“Good day,” he said to the driver.
The driver seemed not to have noticed the inspector. He merely looked straight ahead, reins in hand.
“Likewise,” he replied. Sixtyish and sunburnt, gaunt and dressed in fustian, he was wearing an absurd Borsalino on his head that must have dated back to the fifties.
But he made no motion to stop.
“I wanted to ask you for some information,” said Montalbano, walking beside him.
“Me?” asked the man, half surprised, half worried.
Who else, if not? The horse?
“Yes.”
“Ehhhhh,” said the man, pulling on the reins. The animal stopped.
The man said nothing and kept looking straight ahead.
He was waiting to be asked the question.
“Listen, could you tell me how to get to Lower Brancato?”
Reluctantly, as though it cost him great effort, the man on the cart said:
“Keep going straight. Third road on the right. Good day.
Ahhh!”
That
o o o
Half an hour later, Montalbano saw something that looked like a cross between an overpass and a bridge appear in the distance. Unlike a bridge, it had no parapet, but large protective metal screens instead; and unlike an overpass, it was arched like a bridge. In the background loomed a hill on which a group of small, dicelike white houses sat impossibly balanced halfway down the slope. That had to be Upper Brancato, whereas nary a roof of the lower village was visible yet. Whatever the case, he must be close. Montalbano stopped the car about twenty yards from the overpass, got out, and started looking around. The road was distressingly empty. The only other vehicle he’d encountered since the junction was the cart. He’d also noticed a peasant hoeing. That was all. Once the sun went down and darkness fell, one probably couldn’t see anything along that road. There was no sort of lighting whatsoever, no houses that might give off a faint glow at night. So where had the kidnappers taken up position while waiting for Peruzzo’s car? And most importantly, how could they have known for certain that the car they saw was indeed Peruzzo’s and not another vehicle that by some miracle happened to be passing that way?
Around the overpass—the need for which remained un-clear, as well as how or why it had occurred to anyone to build it—there were no bushes or walls to hide behind. Even in the dead of night, the site provided no cover that might prevent one from being seen in the headlights of a passing car. And so?
A dog barked. Spurred by the need to see another living being, Montalbano’s eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for it. He found it. It was at the start of the overpass on the right, and he could only see its head. Maybe they’d built it just so dogs and cats could cross the road. Why not, since when it came to public works in Italy, the impossible often became possible? All at once the inspector realized that the kidnappers had hidden in the very spot where the dog was now.
He trudged through the brush, crossed a dirt road, and came to the point where the overpass began. It was hog-backed; that is, sharply curved. Someone who placed himself right at the start of the overpass could not be seen from the road below. He looked carefully down at the ground as the dog backed away, growling, but found nothing of interest, not even a cigarette butt. Then again, why would you find a cigarette butt lying about, now that everyone’s been scared to death of smoking by those warnings on packs that say things like “Smoking makes you die of cancer”? Even criminals have been giving up the vice, depriving poor policemen of essential clues. Maybe he should write a complaint to the minister of health.
He searched the opposite side of the viaduct as well.
Nothing. He went back to the starting point and lay down on his stomach. He looked down below, pressing his head against the metal screen, and saw, almost vertically beneath him, a stone slab covering the opening to a small well. Seeing Peruzzo’s car approach, the kidnappers must certainly have climbed up the viaduct and done as he had done—that is, lain down on the ground. And from there, in the glare of the headlamps, they had watched Peruzzo lift the stone lid, place the suitcase in the well, and leave. That must surely be how it went. But he had not accomplished what he had set out to do in coming all the way out here. The kidnappers had left no trace.
He came down from the overpass and went underneath.
He studied the slab covering the well. It looked too small for a suitcase to fit inside. He did some quick math: six billion lire equaled three million one hundred euros, more or less. If each wad contained one hundred bills of five hundred euros, that would make a total of sixty-two wads. Therefore they didn’t need a large suitcase. On the contrary. The slab was easy to lift, since it had a sort of iron ring attached to it. He stuck a finger inside the ring and pulled. The slab came off. Montalbano looked inside the well and gasped. There was a duffel bag inside, and it did not look empty. Was Peruzzo’s money still in it? Was it possible the kidnappers hadn’t picked it up?
Then why had they freed the girl?
