The Terra-Cotta Dog (9 page)

“Congratulations,” he said to the corporal.

“For what, Mr. Commissioner?”

“For maintaining order.”

“Thank you,” said the corporal, brightening, the commissioner's irony sailing far over his head.

“You go in alone,” the commissioner said to Montalbano, “I'll wait outside.”

Only then did he notice how ashen the inspector was, his forehead bathed in sweat.

“My God, Montalbano, what's wrong? Do you feel ill?”

“I'm perfectly fine,” the inspector replied through clenched teeth.

He was lying. In fact, he felt terrible. The dead left him utterly indifferent. He could sleep with them, pretend to break bread with them, play hearts or spades with them. They didn't bother him in the least. The dying, on the other hand, made him break into a sweat: his hands would start to tremble, he would go cold all over, a hole would open up in his stomach.

 
 
Under the sheet that covered him, Tano's body looked shrunken, smaller than the inspector remembered it. His arms lay stretched along his sides, the right arm wrapped in thick bandages. Oxygen tubes sprouted from his nose, which had turned almost transparent, and his face looked unreal, as if it belonged to a wax doll. Overcoming the desire to run away, Montalbano pulled up a metal chair and sat down beside the dying man, who kept his eyes shut, as if asleep.

“Tano? Tano? It's Inspector Montalbano.”

The other reacted immediately, opening his eyes and making as if to sit up in bed, a violent start surely triggered by the animal instinct of one who has long been hunted. Then his eyes brought the inspector into focus, and the tension in his body visibly relaxed.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

Tano nodded yes, and gave a hint of a smile. He spoke very slowly, with great effort.

“They ran me off the road anyway.”

He was referring to the discussion they'd had in the cottage. Montalbano didn't know what to say.

“Come closer,” the old man said.

Montalbano rose from his chair and leaned over.

“Closer.”

The inspector bent down so far forward, his ear actually touched Tano's lip. The man's burning breath made him feel disgusted. Tano then told him what he had to tell, lucidly and precisely. But the talking had worn him out, and he closed his eyes again. Montalbano didn't know what to do, whether to leave or stay a little while longer. He decided to sit down, and Tano said something again, in a gurgly voice. The inspector stood back up and leaned over the dying man.

“What did you say?”

“I'm spooked.”

Tano was afraid, and in his present state he didn't hesitate to admit it. Was it pity, this sudden wave of heat, this flutter of the heart, this agonizing surge of emotion? He put a hand on Tano's forehead, and the intimate words came out spontaneously.

“You needn't be ashamed to say so. It's one more thing that makes you a man. We'll all be scared when our time comes. Good-bye,Tano.”

He walked out quickly, closing the door behind him. In the hallway, together with the commissioner and policemen, were De Dominicis and Sciacchitano. He ran up to them.

“What did he say?” De Dominicis asked anxiously.

“Nothing. He didn't manage to say anything. He wanted to, but couldn't. He's dying.”

“Hah!” said Sciacchitano, doubtful.

Very calmly, Montalbano placed his open hand on Sciacchitano's chest and gave him a violent push. The man reeled three steps backward, stunned.

“Stay right where you are and don't come any closer,” the inspector said through clenched teeth.

“That's enough, Montalbano,” the commissioner intervened.

De Dominicis seemed to pay no mind to the two men's differences.

“Who knows what he wanted to tell you,” he persisted, eyeing Montalbano inquisitively, as if to say:You're not talking straight.

“If you'd like, I can try and guess,” Montalbano retorted insolently.

 
 
Before leaving the hospital, Montalbano knocked back a double J&B, neat, at the bar. Then they headed back to Montelusa. He figured he'd be back in Vigàta by 7:30, and therefore could keep his appointment with Ingrid.

“He talked, didn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Anything important?”

“Yes, in my opinion.”

“Why did he choose you?”

“He said he wanted to give me a present, for playing fair with him throughout this whole business.”

“I'm listening.”

Montalbano told him everything, and when he had finished, the commissioner looked pensive. Then he sighed.

“You work it all out yourself, with your men. It's better if this remains a secret. Nobody else should know about it, not even in my office. As you've just seen, there are moles everywhere.”

He visibly sank back into the bad mood he'd been in during the drive to the hospital.

“So it's come to this!” he said angrily.

Halfway home, the cell phone rang.

“Yes?” answered the commissioner.

Somebody spoke briefly at the other end.

“Thank you,” said the commissioner. He turned to Montalbano. “That was De Dominicis. He kindly informed me that Tano died virtually as we were leaving the hospital.”

“They'd better be careful,” said Montalbano.

“Careful?”

“Not to let anyone steal the body,” the inspector said with bitter irony.

They rode another while in silence.

“Why did De Dominicis bother to inform you that Tano was dead?”

“That call, for all practical purposes, was meant for you, my friend. Obviously De Dominicis, who's no fool, correctly believes that Tano managed to tell you something. And he would like a share of the pie, if not the whole thing.”

 
 
Back at headquarters, he found only Catarella and Fazio. It was better this way; he preferred talking to Fazio with nobody around. Out of a sense of duty more than curiosity, he asked:

“Where are the others?”

“They went chasing after four kids who were racing each other on two motorbikes.”

“Jesus! The whole squad is gone chasing after a pair of racing motorbikes?”

“It's a special kind of race,” Fazio explained. “One motorbike is green, the other yellow. The yellow one starts out first and races the whole length of a street, snatching whatever's there to be snatched. An hour or two later, after the people have calmed down, the green one takes off and swipes whatever's still there to be swiped. Then they change street and neighborhood, but this time the green one goes first. It's a race to see who can steal the most.”

“I see. Listen, Fazio, this evening I want you to drop by the Vinti warehouse and ask the manager, in my name, to lend us some shovels, pickaxes, mattocks, and spades, ten or so. We'll all meet here tomorrow morning at six. Inspector Augello and Catarella will stay behind at headquarters. I want two cars—no, make that one car, 'cause you're going to ask Vinti's to give you a Jeep, too. By the way, who has the key to our garage?”

“Whoever's on duty always has it. At the moment, that would be Catarella.”

“Get it from him and give it to me.”

“Right away. But if you don't mind my asking, what do we need shovels and pickaxes for?”

“We're changing profession. As of tomorrow, we're going into farming, the healthy life, working in the fields. What do you say?”

“You know, Inspector, for the last few days there's just no reasoning with you. Maybe you could tell us what's got into you? You're always obnoxious and rude.”

8

He first met Ingrid in the course of an investigation in which, through a series of false leads, she'd been offered up to him, though completely innocent, as the scapegoat. Since then a strange sort of friendship had developed between the inspector and that splendid woman. From time to time Ingrid would call him up and they would spend the evening chatting. The young woman would talk about her problems, confiding in Montalbano, and he would dispense wise, brotherly advice. He was a kind of spiritual father—a role he'd had to impose on himself by force, since Ingrid didn't exactly arouse spiritual feelings—and his recommendations were always studiously ignored. At none of their meetings—there'd been six or seven—had Montalbano ever shown up before she did. Ingrid had a mania for punctuality.

This time too, after parking in the Marinella Bar's lot, he noticed that her car was already there, beside a Porsche convertible that looked like a rocket and was painted a tasteless shade of yellow that offended the eyes.

When he entered the bar, Ingrid was standing at the counter drinking a whisky. Beside her was a fortyish man dressed in a fancy canary-yellow suit, sporting a Rolex and ponytail, and talking to her confidentially.

When he has to change clothes, thought the inspector, does he also change cars?

As soon as she saw him, Ingrid came running and embraced him, kissing him lightly on the lips. She was obviously happy to see him. Montalbano, too, was pleased: Ingrid looked like a gift from God, with her jeans painted on her very long legs, her sandals, her light-blue see-through blouse affording a glimpse of her round breasts, her blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders.

“Sorry,” he said to the canary who was with her. “See you around.”

They went and sat down at a table. Montalbano didn't feel like drinking anything. The man with the Rolex and ponytail took his whisky out to the seaside terrace. Ingrid and the inspector smiled at each other.

“You're looking well,” she said. “A lot better than you did on TV today.”

“Yeah,” said Montalbano, then changed the subject: “You look like you're doing all right yourself.”

“Did you want to see me to exchange compliments?”

“I wanted to ask a favor of you.”

“Here I am.”

The man with the ponytail was eyeing them from the terrace.

“Who's that?”

“Somebody I know. I passed him on my way here. He followed and offered me a drink.”

“In what sense do you know him?”

Ingrid turned serious, a line creasing her forehead.

“Are you jealous?”

“No, you know better than that. Anyway, there'd be no reason, with him. It's just that he got on my nerves from the minute I saw him. What's his name?”

“Come on, Salvo. What do you care?”

“Tell me his name.”

“Beppe . . . Beppe De Vito.”

“And what does he do to earn his Rolex, Porsche, and everything else?”

“Trades in leather goods.”

“Ever slept with him?”

“Yes, about a year ago, only once. And he was just suggesting we do it again. But I don't have a very pleasant memory of it.”

“Some kind of degenerate?”

Ingrid eyed him for a moment, then let out a laugh that made the bartender jump.

“What's so funny?”

“The face you just made: the good cop full of indignation. No, Salvo, he's just the opposite. Totally lacking in imagination. All I can remember is that it seemed suffocating and pointless.”

Montalbano gestured for the man with the ponytail to come over to their table, and as he approached, smiling, Ingrid gave the inspector a worried look.

“Hello. Don't I know you? You're Inspector Montalbano, aren't you?”

“Unfortunately for you, you're going to get to know me even better.”

The other became flustered, his whisky trembling in his glass, ice cubes tinkling.

“Why ‘unfortunately'?”

“Your name is Giuseppe De Vito and you deal in leather goods, am I correct?”

“Yes, but . . . I don't understand.”

“You'll understand in due time. One of these days you're going to be called in to Montelusa police headquarters. I'll be there, too. I think we'll have a lot to talk about.”

The man with the ponytail, face suddenly pale, set his glass down on the table, unable to hold it any longer.

“Couldn't you . . . at least give me a hint . . . some explanation . . . ?”

Montalbano assumed the expression of someone just overcome by an irresistible wave of generosity.

“All right, but only because you're a friend of the lady. Do you know a German man by the name of Kurt Suckert?”

“Never heard of him, I swear,” the man said, digging a canary-colored handkerchief out of his pocket and mopping his brow with it.

“Well, if that's your answer, I have nothing more to say to you,” the inspector said icily. He looked him up and down, then gestured for him to come closer. “I'll give you my advice: Don't try to be too clever. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” De Vito replied mechanically. And without even looking back at Ingrid, he raced out of the bar.

“You're a shit,” Ingrid said calmly, “and an asshole.”

“Yes, you're right. Every now and then something comes over me, and I get that way.”

“Does this Suckert really exist?”

“He used to. But he called himself Curzio Malaparte. He was a writer.”

They heard the roar of the Porsche, burning rubber as it pulled out.

“So did you get it out of your system?” Ingrid asked.

“I think so.”

“I could tell right away, you know, that you were in a bad mood. What is it? Can you tell me?”

“I could, but it's not worth going into. Problems at work.”

 
 
Montalbano suggested that Ingrid leave her car in the bar's parking lot; they would come back later to get it. Ingrid didn't ask him where they were going, nor what they were going to do. All of a sudden Montalbano asked her: