The Terra-Cotta Dog

Montalbano heard some whistling.

'Hello, Inspector? Here we are. The wholesalers that stock Ingrassia ...there's three from Milan, one from Bergamo, one in Taranto, one in Catania. Take this down. In Milan'

'Wait. Excuse me for interrupting. Start with Catania.'

'The corporate name of the Catanian company is Pan, you know, like frying pan. Owned by Salvatore Nicosia, who resides at'

'It didn't add up.'

'Thanks, that's enough.'

'Wait, here's something else I'd forgotten about. The supermarket is also supplied by another wholesaler, also in Catania, for its household goods. That ones called Brancato.'

'ato-cat, the piece of cardboard said. Brancato-Catania: it added up, and how!' Montalbanos cry of joy thundered in the sergeants earpiece, frightening him.

'Inspector? Inspector! Oh, my God, what happened? Are you all right, Inspector?'

11

Fresh and smiling, in jacket and tie and enveloped in a haze of cologne, Montalbano showed up at the home of Francesco Lacommare, manager of the Ingrassia supermarket, at seven oclock in the morning. The manager greeted him not only with legitimate astonishment, but also in his underwear, with a glass of milk in hand.

'What is it?' he asked, turning pale upon recognizing the inspector.

'Two simple little questions and I'll get out of your hair. But, first, one very serious stipulation: this meeting must remain between you and me. If you speak to anyone at all about it, even your boss, I'll find an excuse to throw your ass in jail, and you can bank on that.'

As Lacommare was struggling to recover his breath, a shrill, annoying female voice exploded inside the apartment:

'Ciccino! Who's that at this hour?'

'It's nothing, Carmelina, go back to sleep,' Lacommare reassured her, pulling the door shut behind him.

'Do you mind, Inspector, if we talk over here on the landing? The top floor, the one right above us, is vacant, so theres no danger anyone will bother us.'

'Who do you buy from in Catania?'

'From Pan and Brancato.'

'Do they have fixed delivery schedules?'

'Once a week for Pan, once a month for Brancato. We've coordinated it with the other supermarkets that use the same wholesalers.'

'Very good. So, as I understand it, Brancato will load up a truck with merchandise and send it out to make the rounds of the supermarkets. Now, where on these rounds is your store situated? Let me explain better'

'I understand, Inspector. The truck leaves Catania, services the Caltanissetta area first, then Trapani, then Montelusa. The Vig markets are the last ones the truck visits before heading back to Catania.'

'One last question. The merchandise those thieves took and then left behind'

'You're very intelligent, Inspector.'

'You are, too, if you can answer me before I've asked you a question.'

'The fact is, this whole story's been keeping me up at night. Here's the problem: The Brancato merchandise was delivered early. We were expecting it first thing the next morning, but it arrived the evening before, just as we were closing. The driver told us one of his supermarkets in Trapani had been suddenly closed for mourning, so he was ahead of schedule. Mr. Ingrassia, to free up the truck, had it unloaded, checked the list, and counted the crates. But he didn't have anyone open them up. Said it was too late. He didn't want to pay anybody overtime and said we could do everything the next day. A few hours later, the store was robbed. So, my question is: Who told the robbers the merchandise had arrived early?'

Lacommare was putting some passion into his reasoning. Montalbano decided to play devils advocate. After all, the manager must not be allowed to get too close to the truth; that might cause trouble. Most of all, it was obvious he was unaware of Ingrassias trafficking.

'The two things aren't necessarily connected,' the inspector said. 'The thieves could have come to rob what you already had in storage and ended up finding the freshly delivered merchandise instead.'

'Yes, but then why leave it all behind?'

'That was indeed the question.' Montalbano was hesitant to give an answer that might satisfy Lacommares curiosity.

'But who the fuck is that anyway?' asked the now enraged female voice from within.

She must have been a woman of delicate sentiment, this Signora Lacommare. Montalbano took advantage of the interruption to leave. He'd found out what he wanted to know.

'My respects to your lovely wife,' he said, starting back down the stairs.

When he reached the front door, however, he sprang back upstairs like a tethered ball and rang the doorbell.

'You again?' Lacommare had drunk his milk but was still in his underwear.