the entrance, like, say, a stick pointing in a certain direction, a rock placed a certain distance away . . . It simply would not have been possible for us to put everything back exactly the way it was.'
'Excuse me, but had you given precise instructions to the officer on duty?'
'Of course. The man on duty should have stopped the motorcyclist, identified him, confiscated the camera, and brought him to the station . . .'
'So why didn't he?'
'For one very simple reason: the officer was Catarella, whom we both know well.'
'Ah,' was the commissioners laconic reply.
'What do we do now?'
'We'll go ahead and sequester the arms immediately, today. Palermo has ordered me to give it maximum coverage.'
Montalbano felt his armpits getting soaked in sweat.
'Another press conference?'
'I'm afraid so. Sorry.'
As he was about to leave for the Crasticeddru with two cars and a van, Montalbano noticed Galluzzo imploring him with his eyes, like a battered dog. He called him aside.
'What's the problem?'
'Think I could invite my brother-in-law, the newsman?'
'No,' Montalbano said at once, but he immediately reconsidered. Another idea had come into his mind, and he felt very pleased with himself for having thought of it. 'Listen,' he said, 'okay, as a favor to you. Give him a call and tell him to come.'
The idea was that if Galluzzos brother-in-law was there on the spot and gave the discovery sufficient publicity, the need for the press conference might just go up in smoke.
Montalbano not only allowed Galluzzos brother-in-law and his TeleVig cameraman a free hand; he actually helped them stage their scoop by acting as director. He had his men assemble a bazooka, which Fazio then mounted on his shoulder as if to fire, then had the cave brightly illuminated so that every cartridge clip, every magazine, could be filmed or photographed.
After two hours of serious work, the cave was completely emptied of its cargo. The news reporter and his cameraman raced off to Montelusa to edit their feature, and Montalbano called the commissioner on a cell phone.
'It's all loaded up.'
'Good. Send it here to me, in Montelusa. And one more thing: leave a man on duty. Jacomuzzi will soon be there with the crime lab team. Congratulations.'
It was Jacomuzzi, in the end, who took care of setting the idea of the press conference definitively to rest. Wholly involuntarily, of course, since Jacomuzzi was blissfully in his element in press conferences and interviews. In fact, before coming to the cave to gather evidence, the crime lab chief had taken the trouble to alert some twenty journalists from the press and television. Thus, while the report put together by Galluzzos brother-in-law quickly reverberated in the local news, the commotion unleashed by the stories on Jacomuzzi and his men had national resonance. The commissioner, as Montalbano had correctly foreseen, decided to call off the press conference, since everyone already knew everything, and settled for issuing a detailed press release instead.
At home in his underpants, and with a large bottle of beer in hand, Montalbano relished the sight of Jacomuzzi's face on TV, the whole time in close-up, as the head of the crime lab explained how his men were dismantling the wooden construction inside the cave, piece by piece, searching for the slightest clue, any hint of a fingerprint, any trace of a footprint. When the cave was stripped bare, restored to its primordial state, the Free Channel cameraman did a long, slow pan of the whole interior. And in the course of this shot, the inspector saw something that didn't look right to him. It was just an impression, nothing more. But he might as well check it out. He phoned the Free Channel and asked for Nicolto, the Communist journalist and his friend.
'No problem, I'll have it sent over to you.'
'But I haven't got one of those thing amajigs, whatever the hell they're called.'
'Then come and watch it here.'
'Would tomorrow morning around eleven be all right?'
'That's fine. I won't be here, but I'll leave word.'
...
At nine oclock the next morning, Montalbano went to Montelusa, to the headquarters of the party that Cavaliere Misuraca had served. The plaque next to the main door indicated that the offices were on the fifth floor. But the treacherous sign did not specify that the only way to get there was on foot, since the building was not equipped with an elevator. After climbing at least ten flights of stairs, and a little out of breath, Montalbano knocked and knocked on a door that remained stubbornly closed. He went back down the stairs and out into the street. Right next door was a greengrocer; inside, an elderly man was serving a customer. The inspector waited until the grocer was alone.
'Did you know Cavaliere Misuraca?'
'And who, may I ask, gives a fuck who I know and who I don't?'
'I give a fuck. I'm with the police.'
'All right. And I'm Lenin.'
'Are you trying to be funny?'
