The Potter's Field

not so much the holidays in themselves, but the annoying rituals of best wishes, presents, lunches, dinners, invitations and return invitations. And then the greeting cards expressing the hope that the coming year would be better than the one just ended—a vain hope, since every new year in the end turned out to be slightly worse than the one before.

Enzo’s question had managed, in the end, to block his digestion like a blast of cold air. In vain he took his customary walk to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty. The effect was nil, his stomach still felt heavy.

As the final blow, he imagined the inevitable, imminent arguments with Livia—Will you be coming to Boccadasse? No, you come to Vigata—on and on to the point of exhaustion or bickering.

“Ahh Chief Chief! Misser Giacchetta called! He says it wadn’t so important ’n’ so iss not so important f ’you to call’im cuz he’s gonna call back.”

Fabio Giacchetti, the bank manager and new father. What might he have to say?

“When he calls back, put ’im through to me.”

“Ahh, Chief, I almos’ forgot. Fazio called an’ tol’ me to tell yiz ’e knows when ’e’s goin’ inna haspitol.”

“Fazio’s going into the hospital?!” said Montalbano, alarmed.

“No, no, Chief, don’ worry, I prolly din’t say it right. So I’ll try agin, so jus’ bear wit’ me a seccun. So, Fazio tol’ me to tell yiz ’e knows when ’e—but he ain’t Fazio, ’e’s summon ellis—when ’e’s gone inna haspitol.”

At last he understood: Fazio had learned the date of Balduccio Sinagra’s admission to the hospital.

“And when was it?”

“’E says it was the turd o’ September.”

Confirmed. So Don Balduccio would have had time to give as many execution orders as he wanted. But why hadn’t the people at Antimafia reached the same conclusion as he?

Why had they taken the information given them by Narcotics as valid? Why were they so convinced the anonymous letter wasn’t true? Or had they in fact investigated but didn’t want anyone to know?

“Montalbano? This is Macannuco.”

“Hi. What’s up? Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“First I have to ask you something.”

From his tone of voice, he seemed on edge. Maybe something had gone wrong. Or he’d had problems with some superior.

“Go on, ask your question.”

“Could you have a copy of a search warrant sent to me within an hour?”

“Within an hour? I can try.”

“Do it right away, I’m telling you.”

“Do you need to cover your rear?”

“Yes. I can’t not tell our prosecutor, who’s quite the formalist, that I entered the Via Gerace apartment completely illegally.”

“Why do you have to tell him?!”

“Because.”

Maybe someone had seen them breaking down the door. It would have been amusing to watch if they’d been arrested by the carabinieri.

“Did you go there yourself?”

“Of course. Without a warrant, I had to be the one to take responsibility. Get me that warrant, and I’ll let you know why I have to report everything to the prosecutor.”

“All right, but in the meantime, did you take any photos? Could you send them to me?”

“There are four photos, and you’ll be receiving them at any moment. Bye, talk to you soon.”

By the time Fazio returned, Montalbano had already spoken to Prosecutor Tommaseo, told him about Alfano’s disappearance, obtained a warrant, and had it faxed from Montelusa to Macannuco.

Fazio looked befuddled.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong, Chief, is we were wrong.”

“Can you speak a little more clearly?”

“I compared the data on Giovanni Alfano that Dolores gave me with the missing persons data. You remember when I said there wasn’t anybody whose data matched up with the body we found in the critaru? ”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, now there is somebody, and his information matches up with Alfano’s. In every respect: age, height, probable weight.”

Now it was Montalbano’s turn to look befuddled.