The Terra-Cotta Dog (11 page)

The Jeep had meanwhile backed almost all the way up to the base of the boulder. The inspector took the end of the steel cable, inserted it easily into the hole and started pushing it inside. This required little effort, for the cable slid into the boulder as if following a well-greased, unobstructed groove. In fact, a few seconds later, the cable end popped out on the other side of the slab, looking like the head of a snake.

“Take this end,” Montalbano told Fazio, “affix it to the Jeep, put the car in gear and pull away, but very, very gently.”

As the Jeep began to move, so did the boulder, its right side starting to come detached from the rock face as if turning on invisible hinges.

“Open sesame . . .” Germanà murmured in amazement, recalling the children's formula that magically served to open all doors.

 
 
“I assure you, Commissioner, that stone slab was turned into a door by a superb master craftsman. Just imagine, the iron hinges were totally invisible from the outside. Reclosing the door was as easy as opening it. We went in with flashlights. Inside, the cave was very carefully and intelligently fitted out. They'd made a floor, for example, out of a dozen or so puncheons nailed together and set down on the bare earth.”

“What's a puncheon?”

“I can't think of the proper word. Let's just say they're very thick planks. They built a floor to keep the crates of weapons from coming into direct contact with the damp ground. The walls are covered with lighter boards. The whole inside of the cave is a sort of giant wooden box without a top. They obviously worked a long time on it.”

“What about the weapons?”

“A veritable arsenal. About thirty machine guns and submachine guns, a hundred or so pistols and revolvers, two bazookas, thousands of ammunition rounds, cases of every kind of explosive, from TNT to Semtex. And a large quantity of police and carabinieri uniforms, bulletproof vests, and various other things. All in perfect order, with each item wrapped in cellophane.”

“We've really dealt them a serious blow, eh?”

“Absolutely. Tano avenged himself well, just enough to avoid looking like a traitor or repenter. I want you to know that I didn't sequester the weapons; I left them in the cave. I've arranged for my men to stand guard, in two shifts, round the clock. They're in an uninhabited cottage a few hundred yards away from the arms depot.”

“You're hoping someone will come for supplies?”

“That's the idea.”

“Good, I agree with that. We'll wait a week, keep everything under close watch, and if nothing happens, we'll go ahead with the seizure. Ah, Montalbano, do you remember my dinner invitation for day after tomorrow?”

“How could I forget?”

“I'm afraid we'll have to postpone it a few days. My wife has the flu . . .”

 
 
There was no need to wait a week. The third day after they had discovered the weapons, Catarella, having completed his midnight-to-midday shift on guard, went to report to Montalbano, asleep on his feet. The inspector had asked them all to do the same as soon as they went off duty.

“Any news?”

“Nothing, Chief. All peacefulness and quietude.”

“Good. Actually, bad. Go get some sleep.”

“Uh, wait. Now that I put my head to it, there was something, nothing, really, I just thought I'd tell you more out of consciousness than duty, but it's nothing.”

“What kind of nothing?”

“A tourist came by.”

“Explain a little better, Cat.”

“It looked to be around twenty-one hundred hours in the morning.”

“If it was morning, it was nine, Cat.”

“Whatever you say. Then right then and there I heard the roar of a motorcycle. So I grabbed the binoculars around my neck and precautiously looked out the window for confirmation. The motorcycle was red.”

“The color is of no importance. Then what?”

“Then a tourist of the male sex descended from off said motorcycle.”

“What made you think he was a tourist?”

“He was wearing a camera around his neck, a really big camera, so big it looked like a cannon.”

“Must have been a telephoto lens.”

“Yessir, that it was. Then he started taking telephotos.”

“Of what?”

“Everything, Chief, everything. The countryside, the Crasticeddru, even the location I was located in.”

“Did he get close to the Crasticeddru?”

“Never, sir. But when he climbed back on his motorcycle to leave, he waved at me with his hands.”

“He saw you?”

“No. I stayed inside the whole time. But as I was saying, once he started up, he waved good-bye to the little house.”

 
 
“Commissioner? I've got some news, and it's not good. Looks like they somehow got wind of our discovery and sent somebody on reconnaissance to confirm.”

“And how do you know this?”

“This morning the man on duty in the cottage saw some guy arrive on a motorcycle and take photographs of the whole area with a powerful telephoto. They must have set up a very specific marker around the boulder blocking 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 commissioner's 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 Galluzzo's 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 Galluzzo's brother-in-law and his TeleVigàta 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 Galluzzo's 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 Nicolò Zito, the Communist journalist and his friend.

“No problem, I'll have it sent over to you.”

“But I haven't got one of those thingamajigs, 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 o'clock 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?”

“Not at all. That's really my name. My father named me Lenin and I'm proud of it. But maybe you're of the same stripe as the people next door?”

“No, I'm not. Anyway, I'm only here on a case. So I'll repeat my question: Did you know Cavaliere Misuraca?”

“I certainly did. He spent his whole life going in and out of that door and busting my balls with his rattletrap Fiat 500.”

“Did the car bother you?”

“Did it bother me? He always parked it in front of my store! Even on the day he smashed into that truck!”

“He parked it right here?”

“Do I speak Turkish or something? Right here, he parked it. And I asked him to move it, but he went nuts and started yelling and said he didn't have any time to waste on me. So I got really mad and gave him hell. Anyway, to make a long story short, we were about to go at it when luckily some kid passed by and told the late cavaliere he'd be happy to move the car for him. So Misuraca gave him the keys.”

“Do you know where he parked it?”

“No sir.”

“You think you could recognize this kid? Had you ever seen him before?”

“I seen him sometimes going in next door. Must be a member of their fancy club.”

“The party chief's name is Biraghìn, isn't it?”

“Something like that. He's from around Venice somewhere. Works at the Public Housing Office; he's probably there now. This place here won't reopen till after six; right now it's too early.”

 
 
“Mr. Biraghìn?” he shouted into the public phone. “This is Inspector Montalbano of Vigàta Police. Sorry to disturb you at work.”

“Not at all. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to remember something for me. The last party meeting attended by Cavaliere Misuraca, what kind of meeting was it?”

“I don't understand the question.”

“No need to get touchy, sir, this is just a routine investigation to clarify the circumstances of the cavaliere's death.”

“Why, was there something unclear about it?”

A real pain in the ass, this Ferdinando Biraghìn.

“It's all clear as day, I assure you.”

“So what's the problem?”

“I have to close the file, understand? I can't leave a dossier incomplete.”

Upon hearing the words “file” and “dossier,” Biraghìn, a bureaucrat from the Public Housing Office, changed his tune at once.

“Yes, of course, I know how it is. Well, it was a meeting of the local party leadership, which the cavaliere was not entitled to attend. But we stretched the rules a little.”

“So it was a rather small meeting.”

“About ten people.”

“Did anyone come looking for the cavaliere?”

“No. We'd locked the door. I would remember something like that. Actually, he did get a phone call.”

“Pardon my asking, but I assume you're unfamiliar with the tenor of that conversation?”

“I'm not only familiar with the tenor, I also know the bass, the baritone, and the soprano!” He laughed.

Such a wit, this Ferdinando Biraghìn.

“You know how the cavaliere spoke, of course,” Biraghìn continued. “As if everyone else were deaf. It was hard not to overhear when he was talking. Just imagine, on one occasion—”

“I'm sorry, sir, I haven't got much time. So you were able to grasp the—” he stopped, discarding the word “tenor” to spare himself another dose of Biraghìn's tragic sense of humor—“. . . the gist of that phone call?”