The Potter's Field

11

Dolores, meanwhile, had opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out a packet of photographs that she spread out on the bed.

“These are the most recent, the ones we took at the home of that distant relative of Giovanni’s. Take whichever ones you want.”

Montalbano picked up a few. In order to have a look at them herself, Dolores came up beside him, so close that her hip touched the inspector’s.

They must have been taken at the end of a day in late August. The light was extraordinary. Two or three showed Dolores in a bikini. The inspector felt the point of contact between their two bodies heat up. When he moved slightly away to one side, she drew near again. Was she doing it on purpose, or did she really need at all times to have physical contact with a man?

“This is a really good one of Giovanni,” said Dolores, picking out a photo.

He was a good-looking man of about forty, tall and dark, with intelligent eyes, and an open, smiling face.

“All right, I’ll take this one,” said the inspector. “Don’t forget to give Fazio the information on your husband: when he was born, where—”

“Okay.”

“And whose beautiful house is this?” Montalbano asked, looking at a snapshot that showed Dolores, Giovanni, and some other people on a large terrace with a great many potted plants. He knew full well whose house it was, but he wanted to hear her say it.

“Oh, that’s my husband’s relative’s house. His name is Don Balduccio Sinagra.”

Indeed there he was in the photo: Don Balduccio, sitting in a deck chair.

He was smiling. But Dolores had said his name with near-total indifference.

“Will that be enough?”

“Yes.”

“Would you help me put things away?”

“Okay.”

She picked up the envelope and held it open for him, and he slipped in a first handful of photos. He had just inserted the second and last handful when she leaned slightly forward, grabbed his right hand, and planted her lips on its back. The inspector recoiled dramatically and was in danger of falling lengthwise onto the bed. Dolores, however, managed to keep her lips glued to his hand. Montalbano, meanwhile, felt suddenly drained of all strength, all ability to resist. How many degrees had the temperature in the room gone up?

Luckily Dolores raised her head and looked him straight in the eye. He could have drowned in that gaze.

“Help me,” she said. “Without him, I’m . . . Help me.”

Montalbano freed his hand, turned his back to her, and went into the living room, speaking perhaps too loudly.

“You, Fazio, take down her declaration, then have the lady give you the list of friends, the address in Gioia Tauro, and the keys.”

Fazio said nothing.

He was staring, spellbound, at the imprint of lipstick the woman’s lips had left on the inspector’s hand. The stigmata of Saint Salvo, who was certainly not a virgin but no less a martyr. Montalbano rubbed it with his other hand to make it disappear.

Dolores came in.

“I must be going now, Signora. I think we’ll have to meet again.”

“I’ll show you out,” said Dolores.

“For heaven’s sake, please don’t bother!” said Montalbano, fleeing.

“Macannuco? Montalbano here.”

“Montalbano! Good to hear from you! How are you?”

“Not too bad. And

“You remember that song we used to sing in class? Whatever I say, whatever I do, / I always take it up the wazoo. The situation hasn’t changed.”

“Listen, Macannuco, I need you to do me a big favor.”

“For you, I’ll do that and more.”

Macannuco headed the commissariat in the port of Gioia Tauro. Montalbano explained what he needed from him.

“Lemme get this straight, Montalbà. You’re asking me to break down the door of an apartment in Via Gerace 15, photograph the place, and e-mail you the photos?”

“That’s right.”

“Without a warrant?”

“That’s right.”

Fazio straggled back less than half an hour later.

“Jesus, what a dame!”

“Did you get everything we needed from her?”

“Yessir. There’s only three names on the list of friends.”

“Listen, tell me in a little more detail the story of Balduccio and the Alfano guy he sent to Colombia.”

“Chief, did you notice how the lady kept talking about a ‘distant relative’ without ever mentioning Balduccio Sinagra by name?”

“Actually, she did mention him by name. When we were in the bedroom looking through the photos. But she did it very offhandedly, as if she didn’t know who Balduccio was. Do you think it’s possible she doesn’t know?”

“No. So, anyway, one day some twenty-odd years ago, Don Balduccio sends a second cousin, Filippo Alfano, to Colombia, to maintain direct contact with the big coke producers there. Filippo Alfano brings along his family, which consists of his wife and son, Giovanni, who at the time is fifteen. Then, sometime later, Filippo Alfano is shot and killed.”

“By the Colombians?”

“By someone from Colombia, definitely. But some people tell another version of this story. Some people, mind you.”

“I read you, go on.”

“They say it was Don Balduccio himself who had him killed.”

“And why?”

“I dunno, there were a lot of rumors. The most commonly accepted explanation is that Filippo Alfano took advantage of the situation, expanded his operations, and started thinking more about his own business than about Don Balduccio’s, hoping to replace him.”

“And Balduccio prevented him. But he kept looking after the widow and son, according to what Dolores told us.”

“Which makes sense. It’s in keeping with Don Balduccio’s mentality.”

“So the son, Giovanni, has always kept his nose clean?”

“Chief, the guy’s been in the sights of the narcotics authorities of at least two continents his whole life! With the line of work he’s in? No, he’s never tripped up, not even once.”

“Oh, listen, take this photo of Giovanni Alfano and have ten copies of it made for me. They may come in handy. Then have the three friends come in for questioning tomorrow morning, one hour apart. Oh, and one other thing. I want to know the exact date Balduccio Sinagra went into the hospital.”

“Is it important?”

“Yes and no. I’m thinking of that anonymous letter that claimed Balduccio gave the order to have one of his couriers killed. If I’m not mistaken, Ballerini told Musante that Balduccio was hospitalized and in a coma in Palermo, and so Musante decided that Balduccio had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re not mistaken.”

“Except that Dolores showed me a photo of Balduccio in which he looked just fine. I managed to get a glimpse of the date on the back: August 28. Therefore Balduccio could have had all the time in the world to order a hit on whoever he liked before going into the hospital. Make sense?”

“Makes sense.”

The inspector had just finished eating the way God had intended and was getting up from the table when Enzo approached.

“Inspector, where are you going to spend Christmas and New Year’s this year?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to let you know that if by any chance you’re staying in Vigàta, the trattoria will be closed on the night of the thirty-first. But if you want to come to my place that night, I’d be honored and pleased to have you.”

So now the tremendous pain in the ass of the holidays was about to begin! He couldn’t stand them anymore—not so much the holidays in themselves, but the annoying rituals of best wishes, presents, lunches, dinners, invitations and return invitations. And then the greeting cards expressing the hope that the coming year would be better than the one just ended—a vain hope, since every new year in the end turned out to be slightly worse than the one before.

Enzo’s question had managed, in the end, to block his digestion like a blast of cold air. In vain he took his customary walk to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty. The effect was nil, his stomach still felt heavy.

As the final blow, he imagined the inevitable, imminent arguments with Livia—Will you be coming to Boccadasse? No, you come to Vigàta—on and on to the point of exhaustion or bickering.

“Ahh Chief Chief! Misser Giacchetta called! He says it wadn’t so important ’n’ so iss not so important f ’you to call’im cuz he’s gonna call back.”

Fabio Giacchetti, the bank manager and new father. What might he have to say?

“When he calls back, put ’im through to me.”

“Ahh, Chief, I almos’ forgot. Fazio called an’ tol’ me to tell yiz ’e knows when ’e’s goin’ inna haspitol.”

“Fazio’s going into the hospital?!” said Montalbano, alarmed.

“No, no, Chief, don’ worry, I prolly din’t say it right. So I’ll try agin, so jus’ bear wit’ me a seccun. So, Fazio tol’ me to tell yiz ’e knows when ’e—but he ain’t Fazio, ’e’s summon ellis—when ’e’s gone inna haspitol.”

At last he understood: Fazio had learned the date of Balduccio Sinagra’s admission to the hospital.

“And when was it?”

“’E says it was the turd o’ September.”

Confirmed. So Don Balduccio would have had time to give as many execution orders as he wanted. But why hadn’t the people at Antimafia reached the same conclusion as he?

Why had they taken the information given them by Narcotics as valid? Why were they so convinced the anonymous letter wasn’t true? Or had they in fact investigated but didn’t want anyone to know?

“Montalbano? This is Macannuco.”

“Hi. What’s up? Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“First I have to ask you something.”

From his tone of voice, he seemed on edge. Maybe something had gone wrong. Or he’d had problems with some superior.

“Go on, ask your question.”

“Could you have a copy of a search warrant sent to me within an hour?”

“Within an hour? I can try.”

“Do it right away, I’m telling you.”

“Do you need to cover your rear?”

“Yes. I can’t not tell our prosecutor, who’s quite the formalist, that I entered the Via Gerace apartment completely illegally.”

“Why do you have to tell him?!”

“Because.”

Maybe someone had seen them breaking down the door. It would have been amusing to watch if they’d been arrested by the carabinieri.

“Did you go there yourself?”

“Of course. Without a warrant, I had to be the one to take responsibility. Get me that warrant, and I’ll let you know why I have to report everything to the prosecutor.”

“All right, but in the meantime, did you take any photos? Could you send them to me?”

“There are four photos, and you’ll be receiving them at any moment. Bye, talk to you soon.”

By the time Fazio returned, Montalbano had already spoken to Prosecutor Tommaseo, told him about Alfano’s disappearance, obtained a warrant, and had it faxed from Montelusa to Macannuco.

Fazio looked befuddled.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong, Chief, is we were wrong.”

“Can you speak a little more clearly?”

“I compared the data on Giovanni Alfano that Dolores gave me with the missing persons data. You remember when I said there wasn’t anybody whose data matched up with the body we found in the critaru?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, now there is somebody, and his information matches up with Alfano’s. In every respect: age, height, probable weight.”

Now it was Montalbano’s turn to look befuddled.

And as they were looking at each other, the door flew open with a crash that might have been a bomb. Montalbano and Fazio cursed in unison, while Catarella remained in the doorway, looking pensive.

“Well, aren’t you going to come in?”

“Chief, I’s thinkin’ that maybe I oughta try knockin wit’ my feet, since my ’and always slips.”

“No, instead you ought to try this: when you’re in front of the door, instead of knocking, take out your gun and shoot once in the air. I’m sure it would make less noise. What is it?”

Catarella came in, went up to the desk, and set four photographs down on it.

“They’s juss sint from Tauro Gioiosa an’ I prinnit ’em.”

He left.

“You’d better be careful, Chief. The next time he comes in, the guy’s gonna shoot just like you said,” said Fazio, worried. “And it may start a revolution.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Montalbano. “Come and have a look at these photos yourself.”

Fazio came up beside him.

The first shot, which showed the bedroom, had been taken in such a way as to display the whole room. On the right was an open door that afforded a glimpse of the bathroom. The bed was almost as big as the one the Alfanos had in Vigàta, and there was an armoire, a chest of drawers, and two chairs. All in perfect order but for a pair of trousers tossed carelessly onto the bed.

The second shot showed a sort of living room with a kitchenette in the corner and hanging cupboards. There was also a small table with four chairs, two armchairs, a television, a sideboard, and a refrigerator. Beside the sink was an uncorked bottle of wine, a can of beer, and two glasses.

The third photo showed the bathroom. But the shot was taken so as to isolate the sink, toilet, and bidet. Here it was clear that whoever had last used the toilet had forgotten to flush, since the bowl was full of shit.

The fourth was an enlargement of the pair of trousers on the bed.

“Hadn’t the lady said she left the place in order?” said Fazio.

“Yeah. That means someone entered the apartment after she left.”

“The husband?”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely accompanied by someone else. There are two glasses.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think, Chief?”

“At the moment I don’t want to think about anything.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We have to show these photos to Dolores immediately. Call her right now and ask her if she can come here or if we should go there.”

Dolores Alfano showed them into the living room, after receiving them without so much as a smile. She was clearly nervous and mostly curious to know what the two men had to tell her. She didn’t even ask if they wanted coffee or something to drink. Montalbano weighed his options. Should he get straight to the point or beat around the bush, given that she wasn’t going to like what he had to tell her? Better not to waste any time.

“Signora,” he began, “I believe I recall you saying this morning that it was your custom, when leaving the apartment in Gioia Tauro, to leave everything orderly and neat. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t have a cleaning woman?”

“I do the cleaning myself.”

“So, once you leave Gioia Tauro and lock up the flat, nobody else goes inside. Is that correct?”

“That seems logical to me, no?”

“One more thing, signora. In your opinion, could your husband have lent the apartment to a friend who needed a place to stay, perhaps an associate passing through?”

“When he wasn’t there, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I would absolutely rule that out.”

“Why?”

“Because Giovanni is very possessive. Of me, of his things, of everything that belongs to him. You can imagine how he would feel about leaving his apartment to someone...”

She stopped short when she saw Montalbano signal to Fazio, who handed him the envelope he was holding.

The inspector pulled out three photographs and laid them down on the table. The first was the photo of the bedroom, which Dolores recognized immediately.

“But that’s . . . May I?”

“Of course.”

Dolores picked it up, looked at it, and didn’t say a word, but from her half-open mouth came a sort of faint, long lament. Then, photograph still in hand, she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She remained that way for a moment, chest rising and falling with her anxious breath, waiting for the effect of what she’d seen to pass. Then she sighed deeply, opened her eyes, bent down brusquely, and grabbed the other two photos. She didn’t even need to study them, and tossed them back onto the table.

She must have turned pale, because her skin, which was naturally dark, had now lightened to a kind of gray.

“Somebody . . . somebody went in after I . . . It’s not possible . . . I left everything in order...”

Montalbano then took the fourth photograph out of the envelope, the enlargement of the shot of the trousers, and handed it to her.

“I know this is a difficult question, but can you tell me if these trousers belong to your husband?”

She took a long look at the photograph. Then she leaned back in her chair again, closed her eyes again. This time, however, a tear fell from her left eye. Only one, very round. It looked like a pearl. That single tear was more tragic, more desperate than a whole waterfall of tears. Dolores managed to say, in a soft voice:

“They’re the ones he was wearing when he left to board the ship.”

“Are you sure?”

Without answering, Dolores Alfano stood up, went to a chest in the living room, opened a drawer, returned to the table with a magnifying glass in hand, and picked up the photo again. Then she passed the glass and photo to the inspector. She had regained complete control of herself.

“See? He left the belt in the trouser loops. If you look closely, the buckle is a large plate of copper with his initials interwoven, G and A. He had it made in Argentina.”

The inspector was unable to read the initials, but he could see that something had been carved into the copper plate.

“So it’s clear your husband waited for you to leave before going back into the flat. And he came with someone else.”

“But why?! To do what?!”

“Maybe he needed some time, was waiting until a certain hour and didn’t want to be seen out and about, since he had officially taken ship already. Does your husband drink wine?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t like beer.”

“Apparently whoever was with him did. Do you know if the beer and wine were already there in the apartment?”

“Yes. There was beer in the fridge, because I like to drink it.”

“As you can see, the bathroom was left a mess. Does your husband care about cleanliness and hygiene?”

“Inspector, anyone who spends long periods of time on a ship follows strict rules of hygiene. And my husband is a maniac for cleanliness.”

“So it couldn’t have been him who left the bathroom in that condition.”

“Absolutely not. And he must not even have realized that the person with him hadn’t—”

“Why would he have changed his trousers?”

“That’s something I can’t understand. Maybe he’d got them dirty or torn them.”

“It doesn’t look like it in the photo.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Did he have a change of clothes with him?”

“Of course. In two big bags he took away with him that morning.”

“Weren’t there any clothes in the armoire?”

“No, he’d taken everything away with him.”

“So, once back in Via Gerace, your husband opened a bag, took out a pair of trousers, and put them on instead of the ones he’d been wearing.”

“Apparently.”