“Good. We’re going to take up position there. To go back to Montechiaro, one has to drive by that spot.”
“Who has to drive by that spot?”
“The Jaguar.”
Ingrid barely had time to get to the red-and-white house before the Jaguar went flying by at high speed, skidding at the curve.
Apparently Marzilla wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and the men he’d driven to the villa.
“What should I do?” asked Ingrid.
“Now shalt thou prove thy mettle,” said Montalbano.
“I didn’t get that. What did you say?”
“Follow him. Use your horn, your brights, get up right behind him, pretend you’re going to ram him. You have to terrorize the man at the wheel.”
“Leave it to me,” said Ingrid.
For a stretch she drove on without headlights and at a safe distance; then, when the Jaguar disappeared behind a bend, she accelerated, turned on all available and imaginable headlamps, rounded the bend and started wildly honking the horn.
Seeing that unexpected missile come up behind him must have frightened Marzilla out of his wits.
First the Jaguar zigzagged, then it veered all the way to the right and off the road, thinking the other car wanted to pass it. But Ingrid did not pass him. Riding right on the Jaguar’s tail, she was flashing the brights on and off and continually blasting the horn. Desperate, Marzilla accelerated, but he couldn’t go much faster on that road. Ingrid didn’t let up; her BMW was like a mad dog.
“What now?”
“When you get a chance, pass him, make a U-turn in front of him, and stop in the middle of the road with your brights on.”
“I could even do it right now. Put on your seat belt.”
The BMW leapt forward, roared, passed the other car, drove on a bit, braked, skidded, then spun around on the force of the skid. The Jaguar, too, came to a skidding stop just a few yards away, in the glare of the BMW’s high beam. Montalbano pulled out his pistol, stuck his arm outside the window, and fired a shot in the air.
“Turn off your headlights and come out with your hands up!” he shouted through the half-open car door.
The Jaguar’s lights went off and Marzilla appeared with his hands in the air. Montalbano didn’t move. Marzilla was swaying like a tree in the wind.
“He’s pissing his pants,” Ingrid commented.
Montalbano remained motionless. Slowly, two big tears started to run down the medical worker’s face. He took a step forward, dragging his feet.
“Have pity!”
Montalbano didn’t answer.
“Have pity, Don Pepe! What do you want from me? I did what you wanted!”
Montalbano still wasn’t moving. Marzilla fell to his knees, hands folded in prayer.
“Please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me, Mr. Aguglia!”
So the loan shark who was calling Marzilla and giving him orders was Don Pepe Aguglia, a well-known construction bigwig. They hadn’t needed any wiretaps to find out. Marzilla was now crouching, forehead on the ground, hands over his head. Montalbano finally decided to get out of the car. Which he did very slowly. Hearing his footsteps approach, Marzilla curled up even more, sobbing.
“Look at me, asshole.”
“No, no!”
“Look at me!” Montalbano repeated, kicking him so hard in the ribs that Marzilla’s body was lifted up in the air and fell back down belly up. But he still kept his eyes desperately closed.
“It’s Montalbano! Look at me!”
It took Marzilla a moment to realize that the man standing before him was not Don Pepe Aguglia, but the inspector. He sat up, leaning back on one arm. He must have bitten his tongue, since a little blood trickled out the side of his mouth. He stank. He hadn’t only pissed his pants, he’d also shat himself.
“Oh . . . it’s you? Why did you follow me?” asked Marzilla, stunned.
“Me?” said Montalbano, innocent as a lamb. “It was a mistake. I wanted you to stop, and you started going faster! So I thought you had wicked intentions.”
“What . . . what do you want from me?”
“Tell me what language the two men you drove to the villa were speaking.”
“Arabic, I think.”
“Who told you which roads to take and where you were supposed to go?”
“Just one of the men.”
