As he was getting ready for the long walk back to Vigata, he heard her return, motor roaring.
“I think I can do it. Do you have a flashlight?”
“In the glove compartment.”
The woman knelt down, illuminated the car’s underside, then stood back up.
“Got a handkerchief ?”
Montalbano gave her one, and Ingrid used it to wrap her sore ankle tightly.
“Get in.”
Driving in reverse, she reached a dirt road that led from the provincial road to the area under the bridge.
“I’m going to give it a try, Inspector. Bear in mind that one of my feet isn’t working. Fasten your seat belt. Should I drive fast?”
“Yes, but it’s important that we get to the beach in one piece.”
Ingrid put the car in gear and took off like a shot.
It was ten minutes of continuous, ferocious jolts. At one point Montalbano felt as if his head were dying to detach itself from the rest of his body and fly out the window. Ingrid, however, was calm, determined, driving with her tongue sticking out between her lips.
The inspector wanted to tell her not to do that—she might inadvertently bite it off.
When they had reached the beach, Ingrid asked,
“Did I pass the test?”
Her eyes glistened in the darkness. She was excited and pleased.
“Yes.”
“Let’s do it again, going uphill this time.”
“You’re insane! That’s quite enough.”
She was right to call it a test. Except that it was a test that didn’t solve anything. Ingrid was able to drive down that road easily, which was a point against her; on the other hand, when the inspector had asked her to do so, she had not seemed nervous, only surprised, and this was a point in her favor. But the fact that she hadn’t broken anything on the car, how was he to interpret that? Negatively or positively?
“So, shall we do it again? Come on, this was the only time this evening I’ve had any fun.”
“No, I already said no.”
“All right, then you drive. I’m in too much pain.”
The inspector drove along the shore, confirming in his mind that the car was in working order. Nothing broken.
“You’re really good, you know.”
“Well,” said Ingrid, assuming a serious, professional tone, “anyone could drive down that stretch.
The skill is in bringing the car through it in the same condition it started out in. Because afterward you might find yourself on a paved road, not a beach like this, and you have to speed up to recover lost time. I don’t know if that’s clear.”
“Perfectly clear. Somebody who, for example, after driving down there, comes to the beach with broken suspension is somebody who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
They arrived at the Pasture. Montalbano turned right.
“See that large bush? That’s where Luparello was found.”
Ingrid said nothing and didn’t even seem very curious. They drove down the path; not much was happening that evening. When they were beside the wall of the old factory, Montalbano said:
“This is where the woman who was with Luparello lost her necklace and threw the leather purse over the wall.”
“My purse?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” Ingrid murmured, “and I swear I don’t understand a damned thing about any of this.”
~
When they got to Montalbano’s house, Ingrid was unable to step out of the car, so the inspector had to wrap one arm around her waist while she leaned her weight against his shoulder. Once inside, the young woman dropped into the first chair that came within reach.
“Christ! Now it really hurts.”
“Go into the other room and take off your jeans so I can wrap it up for you.”
Ingrid stood up with a whimper and limped along, steadying herself against the furniture and walls.
Montalbano called headquarters. Fazio informed him that the gas-station attendant had remembered everything and precisely identified the man at the wheel, the one the assailants had tried to kill: Turi Gambardella, of the Cuffaro gang. QED.
“So Galluzzo went to Gambardella’s house,”
