The Terra-Cotta Dog (4 page)

Montalbano and Galluzzo looked one another in the eye without speaking and agreed on the plan. They positioned themselves three steps from the door, which did not look very resistant, took a deep breath and flung themselves against it with their full weight. The door turned out to be made of tissue paper, or almost—a swat of the hand would have sufficed to push it open—and thus they both found themselves hurtling inside. The inspector managed by some miracle to come to a stop, whereas Galluzzo, carried forward by the violence of his thrust, flew all the way across the room and slammed his face against the wall, crushing his nose and ending up choking on the blood that started to gush violently forth. By the dim light of the oil lamp that Tano had left burning, the inspector was able to appreciate the Greek's consummate acting skills. Pretending to have been surprised awake, he leapt to his feet cursing and hurled himself towards the Kalishnikov, which was now leaning against the table and therefore far from the cot. Montalbano was ready to recite his lines as the foil, as they say in the theater.

“Stop in the name of the law! Stop or I'll shoot!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, then fired four shots into the ceiling. Tano froze, hands raised. Convinced that someone must be hiding upstairs, Galluzzo fired a burst from his machine gun at the wooden staircase. Outside, Fazio and Gallo, upon hearing all the shooting, opened fire on the little window to discourage anyone from trying that route. With everyone inside the cottage still deaf from the roar of the gunshots, Germanà burst in with the final flourish:

“Don't anybody move or I'll shoot!”

He barely had time to finish uttering his threat when he was bumped from behind by Fazio and Gallo and pushed directly between Montalbano and Galluzzo, who, having set down his weapon, was dabbing his nose with a handkerchief he had taken out of his pocket, the blood having already dripped onto his shirt, tie, and jacket. At the sight of him, Gallo became agitated.

“Did he shoot you? The bastard shot you, didn't he?” he yelled in rage, turning towards Tano, who was still standing patient as a saint in the middle of the room, hands raised, waiting for the forces of order to put some order to the great confusion they were creating.

“No, he didn't shoot me. I ran into the wall,” Galluzzo managed to say with some difficulty. Tano avoided their eyes, looking down at his shoes.

He thinks it's funny
, thought Montalbano, then he brusquely ordered Galluzzo:

“Handcuff him.”

“Is it him?” asked Fazio in a soft voice.

“Sure it's him. Don't you recognize him?” said Montalbano.

“What do we do now?”

“Put him in the car and take him to police headquarters in Montelusa. On the way, ring up the commissioner and explain everything. Make sure nobody sees or recognizes the prisoner. The arrest, for the moment, has to remain top secret. Now go.”

“What about you?”

“I'm going to have a look around, search the house. You never know.”

Fazio and the officers, holding the handcuffed Tano between them, started moving towards the door, with Germanà holding the prisoner's Kalishnikov in his hand. Only then did Tano the Greek raise his head and look momentarily at Montalbano. The inspector noticed that the statuelike gaze was gone. Now those eyes were animated, almost smiling.

When the group of five vanished from sight at the bottom of the path, Montalbano went back inside the cottage to begin his search. In fact, he opened the cupboard, grabbed the bottle of wine, which was still half-full, and went and sat in the shade of an olive tree, to drink it down in peace. The capture of a dangerous fugitive had been brought to a successful conclusion.

 
 
As soon as he saw Montalbano come into the office, Mimì Augello, looking possessed by the devil, put him through the meat grinder:

“Where the hell have you been?! Where've you been hiding? What happened to everybody else? What the fuck is going on here, anyway?”

He must have been really angry to speak so frankly. In the three years they had been working together, the inspector had never heard his assistant use obscenities. Actually, no: the time some asshole shot Tortorella in the stomach, Augello had reacted the same way.

“Mimì, 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 telephone's 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
omertà
is 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 bull's-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 Hamlet's 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.

“I didn't do anything different from what my colleagues do every day, Commissioner.”

“I don't doubt it. But this particular arrest, when it comes to be known, will cause quite a stir.”

“So there's no hope?”

“Come on, don't be childish.”

The inspector felt like a tuna caught in the net, the chamber of death. He began to feel short of breath, mouth opening and closing on emptiness. Then he tried a desperate suggestion:

“Couldn't we blame Fazio?”

“Blame?”

“I'm sorry, I meant couldn't we give him the credit?”

“See you later, Montalbano.”

 
 
Augello, who was lurking behind the door, made a questioning face.

“What'd the commissioner say?”

“We spoke about the situation.”

“Oh, right! You should see the look on your face!”

“What look?”

“Like you've been to a funeral.”

“I had trouble digesting what I ate last night.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Three pounds of
mostaccioli.
”

Augello looked at him in dismay. Montalbano, sensing that he was about to ask him the name of the arrested fugitive, used the opportunity to change the subject and put him on another track.

“Did you guys ever find the night watchman?”

“The one in the supermarket? Yeah, I found him myself. The thieves bashed him in the head, then bound and gagged him and threw him in a great big freezer.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, but I don't think he's feeling very alive either. When we pulled him out, he looked like a giant frozen stockfish.”

“Any idea which way they went?”

“I've got half an idea myself and the carabinieri lieutenant has another. But one thing is certain: to haul all that stuff, they had to use a heavy truck. And there must have been a team of at least six people to load it, under the command of some professional.”

“Listen, Mimì, I have to run home and change my clothes. I'll be right back.”

 
 
Near Marinella he noticed that the reserve light for the gas tank was flashing. He stopped at the same filling station where there'd been a drive-by shooting a while back, when he'd had to bring in the attendant to get him to talk. Upon seeing the inspector, the attendant, who bore him no grudge, greeted him in his usual high-pitched voice, which made Montalbano shudder. After filling the tank, the attendant counted the money and eyed the inspector.

“What's wrong? Didn't I give you enough?”

“No sir. There's enough money here, all right. I just wanted to tell you something.”

“Let's have it,” Montalbano said impatiently. If the guy went on talking, even a little, his nerves would give out.

“Look at that truck over there.”

And he pointed at a large tractor-trailer parked in the lot behind the filling station, tarps pulled down tight to hide the cargo.

“It was already here early this morning,” he continued, “when I opened up. Now it's been four hours and still nobody's come to get it.”

“Did you look to see if anyone's sleeping in the cab?”

“Yessir, I looked, there's nobody. And another weird thing: the keys are still in the ignition. The first soul to come along could start it up and drive it away.”

“Show me,” said Montalbano, suddenly interested.

4

A tiny man with rat-tail mustaches, an unpleasant smile, gold-framed eyeglasses, brown shoes, brown socks, brown suit, brown shirt, brown tie, a veritable nightmare in brown, Carmelo Ingrassia, owner of the supermarket, pressed the crease in his trousers with his fingers, right leg crossed over the left, and repeated his succinct interpretation of events for the third time.

“It was a joke, Inspector, a practical joke that somebody, I guess, wanted to play on me.”

Montalbano was lost in contemplation of the ballpoint pen he held in his hand. Concentrating his attention on the cap, he removed it, examined it inside and out as though he had never seen so strange a gizmo, blew into it as if to cleanse it of some invisible speck of dust, looked at it again, remained unsatisfied, blew into it again, put it down on the desk, unscrewed the pen's metal tip, thought about this for a moment, set it down alongside the cap, carefully considered the piece remaining in his hand, lined this up near the other two pieces, and sighed deeply. This allowed him to calm down and check the impulse—which for a second had nearly overwhelmed him—to get up, go over to Ingrassia, punch him in the face, and ask: “Now tell me truthfully: in your opinion, am I joking or am I serious?”

Tortorella, who was present for the interview and knew his chief's reactions well, visibly relaxed.

“Let me try and understand,” said Montalbano, in full control of himself.

“What's to understand, Inspector? It's all clear as day. The stolen goods were all in the truck that you found. Not one toothpick was missing, not a single lollipop. So, if they didn't do it to rob me, they musta done it as a joke, for fun.”

“You'll have to be patient with me, Mr. Ingrassia, I'm a little slow in the head. So: eight days ago, from a depot in Catania—that is, on the other side of the island—two people steal a truck with a trailer belonging to the Sferlazza company. At that moment the truck is empty. For eight days they keep this truck out of sight, hiding it somewhere between Catania and Vigàta, since it wasn't seen in circulation. Logically speaking, therefore, the only reason that truck was stolen and hidden was to take it out of circulation, when the time was right, to play a joke on you. Let me continue. Last night the truck rematerializes and around one A.M., when there's almost nobody on the streets, it stops in front of your supermarket. The night watchman thinks it's there to bring in new stocks, even at that odd hour. We don't know exactly how things went, the watchman still can't talk, but we do know that they put him out of commission, took his keys, and went inside. One of the thieves stripped the watchman and put on his uniform. This, I must say, was a brilliant move. The next brilliant move was that the others turned on the lights and got down to work in plain sight, taking no precautions—in broad daylight, one might say, if it wasn't night. Ingenious, no doubt about it. Because a stranger passing through the neighborhood, noticing the watchman in uniform overseeing a few people loading a truck, would never dream that he was actually witnessing a robbery. This is the reconstruction of events offered by my colleague Augello; it was confirmed by the testimony of Cavaliere Misuraca, who was on his way home at the time.”