The Potter's Field

Murdered with both hands cut off?

We did it because we caught him with his hands in the cookie jar.

Murdered with his balls shoved into his mouth?

We did it because he was fucking someone he shouldn’t have been.

Murdered with his shoes on his chest?

We did it because he wanted to run away.

Murdered with both eyes gouged out?

We did it because he refused to see the obvious.

Murdered with all his teeth pulled out?

We did it because he ate too much.

And so on merrily in this fashion.

For this reason, the meaning of the message was immediately clear to Montalbano: We killed him as he deserved, because he betrayed us for thirty pieces of silver, like Judas.

Thus the logical conclusion was that the murdered stranger was a mafioso, “executed” because he was a traitor. Which amounted, finally, to a first step forward.

Wait a second, Montalba. Maybe you’ve been touched by divine Grace.

Yes indeed. Because if the argument made sense, and boy did it ever make sense, it might be possible to get free of this case, to sidestep it with elegance.

In fact, if the victim was a mafioso, the matter might not be his concern anymore, but the Antimafia Commission’s.

He cheered up. Yes, this was the right path to take. And, most importantly, it got rid of the troublesome question of Mimi.

First thing tomorrow morning, he would go to Montelusa to talk to Musante, a colleague in charge of local Mafia matters.

8

Meanwhile, however, he had to kill some time while waiting for Ingrid’s phone call.

He played the only three versions of solitaire he knew, without cheating as he often did. He played over and over, without winning a single hand.

He went to his bookcase to fetch a book Livia had bought, titled Solitaire for the Solitary. The first version belonged to the category the author defined as the easiest. The inspector couldn’t even understand how the cards were supposed to be set up. Then he played a game of chess against himself, changing places with each move, so that he would seem like a real opponent. Fortunately, it was a long match. But the opponent won with a brilliant move. And Montalbano felt upset with himself for having lost.

“Care for a rematch?” his adversary asked.

“No, thanks,” Montalbano replied to himself.

His opponent would probably have won the rematch, too.

Careful inspection, in front of the bathroom mirror, of a tiny little pimple beside his nose. Bitter acknowledgment of a certain amount of hair loss. Failed attempt at counting same (approximately, that is).

Second game of chess, also lost, resulting in hurling of various objects against the walls.

The phone call never came. Instead, around six o’clock in the morning—by which time, at the end of his rope, he had collapsed on his bed—he heard the sound of a car pulling up in the parking space in front of the house. He raced to open the door. It was Ingrid, half-frozen to death.

“Give me some steaming hot tea. I’m freezing.”

“But weren’t you used to much colder—”

“I guess I’m not anymore.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I parked on a side street from where I could keep an eye on Mimi’s front door. He came out at ten, got into his car, which was parked right in front, and drove off. He was very agitated.”

“How could you tell?”

“From the way he drove.”

“Here’s your tea. Shall we go into the living room?”

“No. Let’s stay in the kitchen. Would you believe that for a moment I thought he was coming to see you?”

“Why?”

“Because he was headed for Marinella. But then . . . You know where, just when you reach the seafront, there’s a filling station on the right that’s no longer in use?”

“Sure.”

“Well, a short way past the station, there’s an unpaved road that goes up the hill. That’s where he turned. I