insurance people—that is, that I had been to the Pasture with him—I became worried about something else: that with Silvio dead, sooner or later someone would discover his little house, with my clothes, my purse, and everything else inside.”
“Who would have found them, in your opinion?”
“Well, I don’t know, the police, his family . . . I told Giacomo everything, but I told him a lie. I didn’t say anything about his father; I made him think I was going there with Silvio. That evening he told me everything was all right, that a friend of his would take care of it, and that if anyone discovered the little house, they would find only whitewashed walls inside.
And I believed him. What’s wrong?”
Montalbano was taken aback by the question.
“What do you mean, what’s wrong?”
“You keep touching the back of your neck.”
“Oh. It hurts. Must have happened when we drove down the Canneto. How’s your ankle?”
“Better, thanks.”
Ingrid started laughing. She was changing moods from one moment to the next, like a child.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your neck, my ankle—we’re like two hospital patients.”
“Feel up to getting out of bed?”
“If it was up to me, I’d stay here till morning.”
“We’ve still got some things to do. Get dressed.
Can you drive?”
14
Ingrid’s red fillet-of-sole car was still parked in its spot by the Marinella Bar. Apparently it was judged too much trouble to steal; there weren’t many like it in Montelusa and environs.
“Take your car and follow me,” said Montalbano.
“We’re going back to Capo Massaria.”
“Oh, God! To do what?” Ingrid pouted. She really didn’t feel like it, and the inspector realized this.
“It’s in your own interest.”
~
By the glare of the headlights, which he quickly turned off, Montalbano realized that the entrance gate to the house was open. He got out and walked over to Ingrid’s car.
“Wait for me here. Turn off your headlights. Do you remember whether we closed the gate when we left?”
“I don’t really remember, but I’m pretty sure we did.”
“Turn your car around and make as little noise as possible.”
The woman did as he said, the car’s nose now pointing toward the main road.
“Now listen to what I say. I’m going down there.
You keep your ears pricked, and if you hear me shout or notice anything suspicious, don’t think twice, just cut out and go home.”
“Do you think there’s someone inside?”
“I don’t know. Just do as I said.”
From his car he took the purse and his pistol. He headed off, trying to step as lightly as possible, and descended the staircase. This time the front door opened without any resistance or sound. He passed through the doorway, pistol in hand. The large room was somehow dimly illuminated by reflections off the water. He kicked open the bathroom door and then the others one by one, feeling ridiculously like the hero of an American TV program. There was nobody in the house, nor was there any sign that anyone else had been there. It didn’t take much to convince him that he himself had left the gate open. He slid open the picture window and looked below. At that point Capo Massaria jutted out over the sea like a ship’s prow. The water below must have been quite deep.
He ballasted Ingrid’s purse with some silverware and a heavy crystal ashtray, spun it around over his head and hurled it out to sea. It wouldn’t be so easily found again. Then he took everything that belonged to Ingrid from the armoire in the bedroom and went outside, making sure the front door was well shut. As soon as he appeared at the top of the stairs, he was bathed in the glare of Ingrid’s headlights.
“I told you to keep your lights off. And why did you turn the car back around?”
“I didn’t want to leave you here alone. If there was trouble . . .”
“Here are your clothes.”
She took them and put them on the passenger seat.
“Where’s the purse?”
“I threw it into the sea. Now go back home. They have nothing left to frame you with.”
