That was all. No signature, no note of explanation. He looked at the postmark: Cosenza. What the hell did it mean? Perhaps there was an explanation. Maybe it was some kind of internal vendetta. In all probability, his colleague Vattiato had mentioned how Montalbano had made an ass of himself when he called up to say he’d found the body of someone already dead and buried, and one of the people present, apparently someone not too fond of Vattiato, had decided to send the inspector the clipping on the sly. Because that short article, if read properly, somewhat undermined the certainty of Vattiato’s position. The anonymous sender of that clipping was actually posing a very simple question: If the man torn to pieces by that train was identified as Ernesto Errera solely on the basis of his identification papers and a wedding ring, how could anyone be absolutely certain that those mortal remains really belonged to Errera? Might it not have been Errera himself who killed someone bearing a vague resemblance to him, put his own wallet in the man’s pocket, his wedding ring on his finger, and then laid him down in the tracks in such a way as to make him unrecognizable once the train had run over him? And why would he have done this? For obvious reasons: so the police and carabinieri would stop looking for him, and he could therefore operate in relative peace in Brindisi.
Yet no sooner had the inspector made these conjectures than they seemed like something out of a novel. He called Augello. Mimi came in with a dark face.
“Not feeling well?”
“Leave me alone, Salvo. I was up all night helping Beba. This has been a very difficult pregnancy. What did you want?”
“Some advice. But I want you to hear something first. Catarella!”
“Yer orders, Chief!”
“Cat, tell Inspector Augello your theory about Errera, the same way you told it to me.”
Catarella puffed himself up.
“I tole the Chief Inspector as how maybe, just maybe, it was possible the dead guy came back to life and then went back to death in the water.”
“Thanks, Cat. You can go now.”
Mimi was looking at him dumbfounded.
“Well?” the inspector prodded him.
“Listen, Salvo. Until a minute ago, I thought your resignation would be a tragedy for all of us. But now, seeing your mental condition, I’m thinking the sooner you go, the better. What is this? So now you’re starting to take the nonsense that passes between Catarella’s ears seriously? Back to death in the water?”
Without saying a word, Montalbano handed him the newspaper clipping.
Mimi read it through twice. Then he set it down on the desk.
“What do you think it means?” he asked.
“That someone wanted to let me know that there’s a chance—a remote one, admittedly—that the body buried in Cosenza is not Ernesto Errera’s,” said Montalbano.
“The piece you had me read,” said Mimi, “was written by a reporter two or three days after the body’s remains were found. And it doesn’t say whether our Cosenza colleagues did any further, more serious investigation that could have led to a more definite identification. Dental checks, fingerprints, that kind of thing. Which they surely must have done. And if you start digging and trying to find out more about the case, you risk falling into the trap they’ve set for you.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“Do you have any idea who sent you the clipping?”
“Maybe somebody from Cosenza Police who overheard Vattiato ragging me and wanted to give me a chance —”
“Salvo, do you know Vattiato?”
“Not very well. He’s a surly—”
“I worked with him before coming here. He’s a son of a bitch.”
“But why would he send me the article?”
“To arouse your curiosity and make you start asking questions about Errera. So he can have the whole police department of Cosenza laughing at you.”
Montalbano stood up halfway out of his chair, searched through the papers scattered helter-skelter over his desk, and found Errera’s dossier and photos.
“Have another look at these, Mimi.”
Holding the dossier with Errera’s photo in his left hand, Mimi picked up, one by one, the computerized reconstructions of the dead man’s face with his right, comparing each of them closely with the mug shot. Then he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Salvo. My opinion hasn’t changed. Those are two different people, even though they do look rather alike. Have anything else to tell me?”
“No,” the inspector said brusquely.
Augello became irritated.
“Salvo, I’ve got enough problems of my own to put me on edge. I don’t need you creating more.”
“Explain.”
“You want an explanation? You’re pissed off because I keep insisting that your corpse is not Errera. You’re
