The Terra-Cotta Dog (17 page)

“Inspector! Inspector!”

The voice came from far away. He struggled to his feet and looked out at the sea, convinced that someone must be calling him from a boat or dinghy. But the sea was deserted all the way to the horizon.

“Inspector, over here! Inspector!”

He turned around. It was Tortorella, waving his arms from the highway that for a long stretch ran parallel to the beach.

 
 
As Montalbano quickly washed and dressed,Tortorella told him they'd received an anonymous telephone call at the station.

“Who took the call?” asked Montalbano.

If it was Catarella, who knows what harebrained idiocies he might have understood or reported?

“Don't worry,” said Tortorella smiling, having guessed what his chief was thinking. “He'd gone out to the bathroom for a minute, and I was manning the switchboard for him. The voice had a Palermo accent, putting
i
's in the place of
r
's, but he might have been doing it on purpose. He said we would find some bastard's corpse at the Pasture, inside a green car.”

“Who went to check it out?”

“Fazio and Galluzzo did, and I raced over here to get you. I'm not sure that was the right thing; maybe the phone call was only a joke.”

“What a bunch of jokesters we Sicilians are!”

 
 
Montalbano arrived at the Pasture at five o'clock, the hour of what Gegè called the “changing of the guard,” the time of day when the unpaid couples—that is, lovers, adulterers, boyfriends and girlfriends—got off (
in every sense
, thought Montalbano), giving way to Gegè's flock, bitchin' blondes from Eastern Europe, Bulgarian transvestites, ebony Nigerian nymphs, Brazilian
viados
, Moroccan queens, and so on in procession, a veritable UN of cock, ass, and cunt. And there indeed was the green car, trunk open, surrounded by three carabinieri vehicles. Fazio's car was stopped a short distance away. Montalbano got out and Galluzzo came up to him.

“We got here late.”

They had an unwritten understanding with the National Police. Whoever arrived first at the scene of a crime would shout “Bingo!” and take the case. This prevented meddling, polemics, elbowing, and long faces. But Fazio was gloomy.

“They got here first.”

“So what? What do you care? We're not paid by the corpse, on a job-by-job basis.”

By strange coincidence, the green car was right next to the same bush beside which an “outstanding corpse” had been found a year earlier, a case in which Montalbano had become very involved. The lieutenant of the carabinieri, who was from Bergamo and went by the name of Donizetti, approached, and they shook hands.

“We were tipped off by a phone call,” said the lieutenant.

Someone really wanted to make sure the body was found. The inspector studied the curled-up corpse in the trunk. The man appeared to have been shot only once, with the bullet entering his mouth, shattering his teeth and lips, and exiting through the back of the neck, opening a wound the size of a fist. Montalbano didn't recognize the face.

“I'm told you know the manager of this open-air whore-house,” the lieutenant inquired with some disdain.

“Yes, he's a friend of mine,” Montalbano replied in a tone of obvious defiance.

“Do you know where I could find him?”

“At home, I would imagine.”

“He's not there.”

“Excuse me, but why do you think I can tell you where he is?”

“You're his friend, you said so yourself.”

“Oh, and I suppose you can tell me, at this exact moment, where all your friends from Bergamo are and what they're doing?”

Cars were continually arriving from the main road, turning onto the Pasture's small byways, noticing the swarm of carabinieri squad cars, shifting into reverse, and quickly returning to the road they'd come from. The blondes from the East, Brazilian
viados
, Nigerian nymphs, and the rest of the gang were coming to work, smelling something fishy, and scattering in every direction. It promised to be a miserable night for Gegè's business.

The lieutenant walked back towards the green car. Montalbano turned his back to him and without saying a word returned to his own vehicle. He said to Fazio:

“You and Galluzzo stay here. See what they're doing and what they find out. I'm going to the station.”

 
 
Montalbano stopped in front of Sarcuto's Stationery and Book Shop, the only one in Vigàta that was true to its sign; the other two sold not books but satchels, notebooks, and pens. He remembered he'd finished the Vasquez Montalbán novel and had nothing else to read.

“We've got the new book on Falcone and Borsellino!” Signora Sarcuto announced as soon as she saw him enter.

She still hadn't understood that Montalbano hated books that talked about the Mafia, murder, and Mafia victims. He didn't know why she couldn't grasp this, since he never bought them and didn't even read their jacket copy. He bought a book by Luigi Consolo, who'd won an important literary prize some time before. After he'd taken a few steps outside, the book slid out from under his arm and fell onto the sidewalk. He bent down to pick it up, then got back in his car.

At headquarters Catarella told him there was no news. Montalbano obsessively wrote his name in every book he bought. As he reached for one of the pens on his desk, his eye fell on the coins that Jacomuzzi had left him. The first one, a copper coin dated 1934, had the king's profile and the words “Victor Emmanuel III, King of Italy” on one side, and a spike of wheat and “C. 5,” five centesimi, on the other. The second coin, dated 1936 and also copper, was a little bigger and had the same king's head with the same words on one side, and a bee resting on a flower with the letter “C” and the number “10,” ten centesimi, on the other. The third was made of a light metal alloy, with the inevitable king's head and accompanying words on one side, on the other an eagle displayed, with a Roman fasces partially visible behind it. This side also had four inscriptions: “L. 1,” which meant one lira; “ITALIA,” which meant Italy; “1942,” which was the date of minting; and “XX,” which meant year twenty of the Fascist era. As he was staring at this last coin, Montalbano remembered what it was he had seen when bending down to pick up the book he'd dropped in front of the bookshop. He'd seen the front window of the store next door, which featured a display of antique coins.

He got up from his desk, informed Catarella he was going out and would be back in half an hour at the most, and headed off to the shop on foot. It was called Things, and things were what it sold: desert roses, stamps, candlesticks, rings, brooches, coins, semiprecious stones. He went inside, and a neat, pretty girl welcomed him with a smile. Sorry to disappoint her, the inspector explained that he wasn't there to buy anything, but since he'd seen some ancient coins displayed in the window, he wanted to know if there was anyone, there in the store or in Vigàta, with expertise in numismatics.

“Of course there is,” said the girl, still smiling delightfully. “There's my grandfather.”

“Where might I disturb him?”

“You wouldn't be disturbing him at all. Actually, he'd be happy to help you. He's in the back room. Just wait a moment while I go tell him.”

He hadn't even had time to look at a hammerless late-nineteenth-century pistol when the girl reappeared.

“You can go inside.”

The back room was a glorious jumble of old phonographs with horns, prehistoric sewing machines, copying presses, paintings, prints, chamber pots, and pipes. And it was entirely lined with bookshelves on which sat, higgledy-piggledy, an assortment of incunabula, parchment-bound tomes, lampshades, umbrellas, and opera hats. In the middle of it all was a desk with an old man sitting behind it, an art-nouveau lamp shedding light on his labors. He was holding a stamp with a pair of tweezers and examining it under a magnifying glass.

“What is it?” he asked gruffly, without looking up.

Montalbano laid the three coins down in front of him. The old man took his eyes momentarily off the stamp and glanced distractedly at them.

“Worthless,” he said.

Of the various old men he'd been encountering in his investigation of the Crasticeddru deaths, this one was the grumpiest.

I ought to gather them all together at an old folks' home,
the inspector thought.
That'd make it easier to question them
.

“I know they're worthless.”

“So what is it you want to know?”

“When they went out of circulation.”

“Use your brain a little.”

“When the Republic was proclaimed?” Montalbano hesitantly guessed.

He felt like a student who hadn't studied for the exam. The old man laughed, and his laugh sounded like the noise of two empty tin cans rubbing together.

“Am I wrong?”

“Very wrong. The Americans landed here the night of July 9-10, 1943. In October of that same year, these coins went out of use. They were replaced by Amlire, the paper money printed up by Amgot, the Allied military administration of the occupied territories. And since these bills were for one, five, and ten lire, the centesimo coins disappeared from circulation.”

 
 
By the time Fazio and Galluzzo returned, it was already dark. The inspector scolded them.

“Damn you both! You certainly took your time!”

“Who, us?” Fazio shot back. “You know what the lieutenant's like! Before he could touch the body, he had to wait for Pasquano and the judge to arrive. And
they
certainly did take their time!”

“And so?”

“A new-laid corpse if I ever saw one, fresh as can be. Pasquano said less than an hour had passed between the killing and the phone calls. The guy had an ID card on him. Pietro Gullo's his name, forty-two years old, blue eyes, blond hair, fair complexion, born in Merfi, resident of Fela, Via Matteotti 32, married, no distinguishing features.”

“You ought to get a job at the Records Office.”

Fazio nobly ignored the provocation and continued.

“I went to Montelusa and checked the archives. This Gullo had an uneventful youth, two robberies and a brawl. Then he straightened himself out, at least apparently. He dealt in grain.”

“I really appreciate that you could see me right away,” Montalbano said to Headmaster Burgio, who had answered the door.

“What are you saying? The pleasure's all mine.”

He let the inspector in, led him into the living room, and asked him to sit down.

“Angelina!” the headmaster called.

A tiny old woman appeared, curious about the unexpected visit, looking smart and well groomed, her lively, attentive eyes sparkling behind thick glasses.

The old folks' home!
thought Montalbano.

“Allow me to introduce my wife, Angelina.”

Montalbano gave her an admiring bow. He sincerely liked elderly ladies who kept up appearances, even at home.

“Please forgive me for bothering you at suppertime.”

“No bother at all. On the contrary, Inspector, are you busy this evening?”

“Not at all.”

“Why don't you stay and have supper with us? We're just having some old-people fare, since we're supposed to eat light: soft vegetables and striped mullet with oil and lemon.”

“Sounds like a feast to me.”

Mrs. Burgio exited, content.

“What can I do for you?” asked the headmaster.

“I've managed to situate the period in which the double homicide of the Crasticeddru took place.”

“Oh. So when did it happen?”

“Definitely between early 1943 and October of the same year.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Easy. The terra-cotta dog, as Mr. Burruano told us, was sold after Christmas of '42, which reasonably means after the Epiphany of '43. The coins found inside the bowl went out of circulation in October that same year.”

He paused.

“And this can mean only one thing,” he added.

But what that one thing was, he didn't say. He patiently waited while Burgio collected his thoughts, stood up, and took a few steps around the room.

“I get it,” said the old man. “You're saying that during this period, the Crasticeddru cave belonged to the Rizzitanos.”

“Exactly. And as you told me, the cave was already sealed off by the boulder at the time, because the Rizzitanos kept merchandise to be sold on the black market in it. They must have known about the other cave, the one where the dead couple were brought.”

The headmaster gave him a confused look.

“Why do you say they were ‘brought' there?”

“Because they were killed somewhere else. Of that I am absolutely certain.”

“But it doesn't make any sense. Why put them there and set them up as if they were asleep, with the jug, the bowl of money, and the dog?”

“I've been asking myself the same question. And maybe the only person who could tell us something is your friend Lillo Rizzitano.”

Signora Angelina came in.

“It's ready.”

The soft vegetables, which consisted of the leaves and flowers of Sicilian zucchini—the long, smooth kind, which are white, lightly speckled with green—had come out so tender, so delicate, that Montalbano actually felt deeply moved. With each bite he could feel his stomach purifying itself, turning clean and shiny the way he'd seen happen with certain fakirs on television.

“How do you find them?” asked Signora Angelina.

“Beautiful,” said Montalbano. Seeing the couple's surprise, he blushed and explained himself. “I'm sorry. Sometimes I abuse my adjectives.”