The Terra-Cotta Dog

stomach, Augello had reacted the same way.

'Mim, what's got into you?'

'What's got into me? I got scared, that's what!'

'Scared? Of what?'

'At least six people have phoned here. Their stories all differed as to the details, but they were all in agreement as to the substance: a gunfight with dead and wounded. One of them even called it a bloodbath. You weren't at home. Fazio and the others had gone out with the car without saying a word to anyone . . . So I just put two and two together. Was I wrong?'

'No, you weren't wrong. But you shouldn't blame me, you should blame the telephone. It's the telephones fault.'

'What's the telephone got to do with it?'

'It's got everything to do with it! Nowadays you've got telephones even in the most godforsaken country haylofts. So what do people do, when there's a phone within reach? They phone. And they say things. True things, imagined things, possible things, impossible things, dreamed-up things like in that Eduardo de Filippo comedy, what's it called, oh yes, The Voices Inside. They inflate things and deflate things but never give you their name and surname. They dial emergency numbers where anyone can say the craziest bullshit in the world without ever assuming any responsibility for it! And meanwhile the Mafia experts get all excited because they think omerts on the decline in Sicily! No more complicity! No more fear! Hah! I'll tell you what's on the decline: my ass is on the decline, and meanwhile the phone bill is on the rise.'

'Montalbano! Stop confusing me with your chatter! Were there any dead and wounded or not?'

'Of course not. There was no gunfight. We just fired a few shots into the air, Galluzzo smashed his nose all by himself, and the guy surrendered.'

'What guy?'

'A fugitive.'

'Yeah, but who?'

Catarella arrived breathless and spared him the embarrassment of answering.

'Chief, that would be his honor the commissioner on the phone.'

'I'll tell you later,' said Montalbano, fleeing into his office.

'My dear friend, I want to give you my most heartfelt congratulations.'

'Thank you.'

'You really hit the bulls-eye this time.'

'We got lucky.'

Apparently the man in question is even more important than he himself let on.

'Where is he now?'

'On his way to Palermo. The Anti-Mafia Commission insisted; they wouldn't take no for an answer. Your men weren't even allowed to stop in Montelusa; they had to drive on. I sent along an escort car with four of my men to keep them company.'

'So you didn't speak with Fazio?'

'I didn't have the time or the chance. I know almost nothing about this case. So, actually, I'd appreciate it if you could pass by my office this afternoon and fill me in on the details.'

Ay, there's the hitch, thought Montalbano, remembering a nineteenth-century translation of Hamlets monologue. But he merely asked:

'At what time?'

'Let's say around five. Ah, also, Palermo wants absolute secrecy about the operation, at least for now.'

'If it was only up to me...'

'I wasn't referring to you, since I know you well and can say that compared to you, even fish are a talkative species. Listen, by the way...'

There was a pause. The commissioner had broken off and Montalbano didn't feel like saying anything: a troubling alarm bell had gone off in his head at the sound of that laudatory I know you well.

'Listen, Montalbano,' the commissioner hesitantly started over, and with that hesitation the alarm began to ring more loudly.

'Yes, Commissioner.'

'I'm afraid that this time there's no way I can prevent your promotion to assistant commissioner.'

'Madunnuzza biniditta! Why not?'

'Don't be silly, Montalbano.'

'Well, I'm sorry, but why should I be promoted?'

'What a question! Because of what you did this morning.'

Montalbano felt simultaneously hot and cold: he had sweat on his forehead and chills down his spine. The prospect terrorized him.