The Potter's Field

correct?”

“Among others.”

“Good. Listen, I urgently need to get in touch with someone presently on board the Ruy Barbosa. Would you be so kind as to explain to me how I might go about this?”

“How do you intend to get in touch with this person?”

“I’ve ruled out carrier pigeons and smoke signals.”

“I don’t understand,” said Camera.

Why did he always have to make wisecracks? The guy might hang up, and that would be the end of that.

“I don’t know, in writing or by telephone.”

“If you have a satellite phone, you only have to dial the number.”

“I have, but nobody answers.”

“I see. Wait just a minute while I check the computer . . . Here we are. The Ruy Barbosa will be calling at the port of Lisbon in exactly eight days. So you can write a letter. I can even give you the address of the Portuguese representative and—”

“Isn’t there a quicker way? I have some bad news to tell him. His aunt Adelaide has died; she was like a mother to him.”

The pause that followed meant that Mr. Camera was torn between duty and pity. And the latter won out.

“Look, I’ll make an exception, given the gravity and urgency of the situation. I’ll give you the cell phone number of the first mate, who is also the ship’s purser. Write this down.”

So how was he going to wiggle out of this now? The first mate of the Ruy Barbosa was the person he was looking for! He couldn’t think of a single way to get out of the predicament.

“The first mate,” Mr. Camera continued, “is named Couto Ribeiro, and his number is—”

What was the guy saying?

“I’m sorry, but isn’t the first mate Giovanni Alfano?”

There was a sudden silence at the other end.

And Montalbano was seized by the same sense of panic that always came over him when the line got cut off as he was speaking over the telephone. It was as if he’d been rocketed into the icy loneliness of outer space. He started yelling desperately.

“Hello? Helllloooo?”

“No need to shout. Are you a relative of Alfano’s?”

“No, we’re friends, former schoolmates, and...”

“Where are you calling from?”

“From . . . from Brindisi.”

“So you’re not in Vigata.”

Elementary, my dear Watson.

“How long has it been since you last saw Alfano?” the man continued.

What the hell had got into Camera? What were all these questions? His tone was brusque, almost angry.

“Well . . . it’s probably been a little over two months . . . He told me his next job would be aboard the Ruy Barbosa, as first mate. Which is why I’m surprised . . . What happened?”

“What happened is that he never showed up to board the ship. I had to look for a substitute at the very last minute, and it wasn’t easy. Your friend got me into trouble, a great deal of trouble, in fact.”

“Have you heard from him since then?”

“Three days later he sent me a note saying he’d found something better. Listen, if you get a hold of him, tell him that Camera’s going to kick his ass all the way to Sardinia if he sees him. So, what are we going to do, Mr....”

“Falaschi.”

“. . . are you going to take down Couto Ribeiro’s number or not?”

“Please go ahead.”

“Oh, no you don’t! Get smart with me, will you? First you must clarify something for me, my good Mr. Panaschi. If you knew Alfano was aboard the Ruy Barbosa, why didn’t you contact him instead of me?”

Montalbano hung up.

The inspector’s first thought was that Giovanni Alfano had bolted on the sly from the domestic hearth, to use an expression dear to Dr. Lattes. Sailing, sailing, day in, day out, putting into port after port, the guy must certainly have met another woman in some faraway town. Maybe a platinum Vikingess who smelled of soap and water, after tiring of dark, cinnamon-flavored Colombian flesh.

By now he was probably cruising blissfully through the fiords of the North Sea. With a fond farewell and best wishes. Who was ever going to track the guy down?

He’d planned his scheme pretty well, had Mr. Captain of the High Seas.