The Terra-Cotta Dog

23

At the Gaetano Nicolosi & Son Construction Co. of Palermo, whose number Montalbano had got from directory assistance, nobody was answering the phone. It was too late in the day; the company's offices must have been deserted. Montalbano tried and tried again, eventually losing hope. Having cursed a few times to let off steam, he then requested the number of the engineer Cosimo Zirretta, assuming that he, too, was from Palermo. He'd guessed right.

"Hello, this is Inspector Montalbano from Vig. How did you manage the expropriation?"

"What expropriation?"

"The land that the road and tunnel you were building cuts through, outside of Vig."

"Look, that's not my domain, I'm only responsible for the construction. That is, I was responsible until an ordinance put a halt to the whole project."

"So who should I talk to?"

"Somebody from the company."

"I phoned there but nobody answered."

"Then try Commendatore Gaetano or his son Arturo. When they get out of Ucciardone."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. Extortion and bribery."

"So there's no hope?"

"Well, you can hope that the judges will be lenient and let them out in five years. Just kidding. Actually, you could try the company's lawyer, Di Bartolomeo."

...

"Listen, Inspector, it's not the company's job to deal with expropriation procedures. That's up to the City Council of the district in which the expropriated land is located."

"Then what are you people doing there?"

"That's none of your business."

And the lawyer hung up. A little touchy, this Di Bartolomeo. Maybe his job was to cover the asses of Nicolosi father and son from the repercussions of their frauds, except that this time he hadn't succeeded.

The office hadn't been open five minutes before the company land surveyor Tumminello saw Inspector Montalbano standing in front of him, looking somewhat agitated. And, in fact, it had been a restless night for Montalbano; he'd been unable to fall asleep and so stayed up reading Faulkner. The surveyor, whose troubled son who was mixed up with hoodlums, brawls, and motorcycles once again hadn't come home that night, turned pale, and his hands began to shake. Montalbano, noticing the others reaction upon seeing him, imagined the worst.

This guys trying to hide something.

He was still a cop, no matter how well read.

"Is anything wrong?" asked Tumminello, expecting to hear that his son had been arrested. Which, in fact, would have been a stroke of luck, or the least of all evils, since he might as easily have had his throat slit by his little friends.

"I need some information. About an expropriation."

Tumminello visibly relaxed.

"You over your scare now?" Montalbano couldn't resist asking him.

"Yes," the surveyor admitted frankly. "I'm worried about my son. He didn't come home last night."

"Does he do that often?"

"Yes, actually. You see, hes mixed up with"

"Then you shouldn't worry," Montalbano cut him off. "He didn't have time for the problems of youth. I need to see the bill of sale or expropriation for the land used to build the Crasto tunnel. That's your area, isnt it?"

"Yes, it is. But there's no point in taking out the documents; I know all the information. Tell me specifically what it is you want to know."

"I want to know about the land that belonged to the Rizzitano family."

"As I expected," said the surveyor. "When I heard about the weapons being discovered, and then about the two dead bodies, I thought: Didn't those places belong to the Rizzitano's? And so I went and looked at the documents."

"And what do the documents say?"

"First, there's something you should know. There were a lot of proprietors whose land stood to be damaged, so to speak, by the construction of the road and tunnel. Forty-five, to be exact."

"Jesus!"

"There's even a little postage stamp of land, two thousand square meters, which, because it was divided up in an inheritance, has five owners. The note of transfer cant be made out collectively to the heirs; it must be made out individually to each one. Once our order was granted by the prefect, we offered the proprietors a modest sum, since most of the land in question was farmland. For Calogero Rizzitano, who was a presumed proprietor, since there's no piece of paper confirming his ownership, I mean there's no deed of inheritance, since his father died without leaving a will for Calogero Rizzitano, we had to resort to Article 143 of the Code of Civil Procedure, which concerns rightful claimants who cannot be found. As you probably know, Article 143 states"

"I'm not interested. How long ago did you make out this note of transfer?"

"Ten years ago?"

"Therefore, ten years ago, Calogero Rizzitano could not be found."

"Nor after that, either. Because out of the forty-five landowners, forty-four appealed for a higher figure than the sum we were offering. And they got it."

"And the forty-fifth, the one who did not, was Calogero Rizzitano."

"Exactly. And we put the money due him in escrow. Since for us, to all intents and purposes, he's still alive. Nobody asked for a declaration of presumed death. So when he reappears, he can pick up his money."

...

When he reappears, the land surveyor had said. But everything pointed to the conclusion that Lillo Rizzitano was in no mood to reappear. Or, more likely, was no longer in any condition to reappear. Headmaster Burgio and Montalbano had taken for granted that the wounded Lillo, carried on board a military truck and driven who-knows-where on the night of July 9, had survived. But they had no idea how serious his wounds might have been. He could well have died in transit or in hospital, if they'd even brought him to a hospital. Why keep conjuring visions out of nothing? It was very possible that, at the moment of their discovery, the two corpses in the Crasticeddru were in better shape than Lillo Rizzitano had been in for some time. For fifty years and more, not a word, not a line. Nothing. Not even when they requisitioned his land and demolished the remains of his house and everything else that belonged to him. The meanders of the labyrinth the inspector had willingly entered led him straight into a wall. But perhaps the labyrinth was being kind to him by preventing him from going any further, stopping him in front of the most logical, most natural solution.

Supper was light, yet cooked, in every regard, with a touch the Lord grants only very rarely to the Chosen. But Montalbano did not thank the commissioner's wife; he merely looked at her with the eyes of a stray dog awarded a caress.The two men then retired to the study to chat. For Montalbano the commissioner's dinner invitation had been like a life preserver thrown to a man drowning not in a stormy sea, but in the flat, unrippled calm of boredom.

The first thing they discussed was Catania, and they concurred that informing the Catania police of their investigation of Brancato had led, as its first result, to the elimination of the very same Brancato.

"We're like a sieve," the commissioner said bitterly. "We can't take one step without our enemies knowing about it. Brancato had Ingrassia killed because he was getting too nervous, but when the people pulling the strings learned that we had Brancato in our sights, they took care of him as well. And so the trail we were so painstakingly following was conveniently obliterated."

He was gloomy. The idea that moles were planted everywhere offended him; it embittered him more than a betrayal by a family member.

Then, after a long pause during which Montalbano did not open his mouth, the commissioner asked:

"How's your investigation of the Crasticeddru murders coming along?"

From the commissioners tone of voice, Montalbano could tell that his superior viewed this investigation as mere recreation for the inspector, a pastime he was being allowed to pursue before he returned to more serious matters.

"I've managed to find out the mans name, too," he said, feeling vindicated in the eyes of the commissioner, who gave a start, astonished and now interested.

"You are extraordinary! Tell me how."

Montalbano told him everything, even mentioning the theatrics he'd performed for De Dominicis, and the commissioner was quite amused. The inspector concluded with an admission of failure of sorts. "It made no sense to continue the search," he said, "since, among other things, nobody could prove that Lillo Rizzitano wasn't dead."

"All the same," the commissioner said after a moments reflection, "if somebody really wants to disappear, it can be done. How many cases have we seen where people apparently vanish into thin air and then, suddenly, there they are? I don't want to cite Pirandello, but let's take Sciascia at least. Have you read the little book about the disappearance of Majorana, the physicist?"

"Of course."

"I am convinced, as was Sciascia himself, that in the end Majorana wanted to disappear, and succeeded. He did not commit suicide. He was too religious."

"I agree."

"And what about that very recent case of the Roman university professor who stepped out of his home one day and was never seen again? Everybody looked for him, police, carabinieri, even his students, who loved him. It was a planned disappearance, and he also succeeded."

"True," Montalbano concurred. Then he thought about what they were saying and looked at his superior. "It sounds to me as if you're encouraging me to continue the investigation, though on an another occasion you reproached me for getting too involved in this case."

"So what?"

"Now you're convalescing, whereas the other time you were on the job. "

"There's quite a difference, I think," the commissioner replied.

...

He returned home and paced from room to room. After his meeting with the surveyor, he had decided to screw the whole investigation, convinced that Rizzitano was good and dead. Now the commissioner had gone and resurrected him, so to speak. Didn't the early Christians use the word dormitio to mean death? It was quite possible Rizzitano had put himself in sleep, as the Freemasons used to say. Fine, but if that was the case, Montalbano would have to find a way to bring him out of the deep well in which he was hiding. That would require something big, something that would make a lot of noise, something the newspapers and television stations all over Italy would talk about. He had to unleash a bombshell. But what? He needed to forget about logic and dream up something fantastic.

It was eleven oclock, too early to turn in. He lay down on the bed, fully dressed, and read Pylon.

At midnight last night the search for the body of Roger Shumann, racing pilot who plunged into the lake on Saturday p.m., was finally abandoned by a three-place bi-plane of about eighty horsepower which managed to fly out over the water and return without falling to pieces and dropping a wreath of flowers into the water approximately three quarters of a mile away from the spot where Shumanns body is generally supposed to be....

There were only a few lines left until the end of the novel, but the inspector sat up in bed with a wild look in his eyes.

"It's insane," he said, "but I'm going to do it."

...

"Is Signora Ingrid there? I know it's late, but I need to speak to her."

"Signora no home. You say, I write."

The Cardamone's specialized in finding housekeepers in places where not even Tristan da Cunha would have dared set foot.

"Manau tupapau," said the inspector.

"No understand."

He'd cited the title of a Gauguin painting. That eliminated Polynesia and environs from the housekeepers possible land of origin.

"You ready write? Signora Ingrid phone Signor Montalbano when she come home."

...

When Ingrid got to Marinella, wearing an evening dress with a slit all the way up to her ass, it was already past two in the morning. She hadn't batted an eyelash at the inspectors request to see her right away.

"Sorry, but I didn't have time to change. I was at the most boring party."

"What's wrong? You don't look right to me. Is it simply because you were bored at the party?"

"No, your intuitions right. It's my father-in-law. He's started pestering me again. The other morning he pounced on me when I was still in bed. He wanted me right away. I convinced him to leave by threatening to scream."

"Then we'll have to take care of it."

"How?"

"We'll give him another massive dose."

At Ingrids questioning glance, he opened a desk drawer that had been locked, took out an envelope, and handed it to her. Ingrid, seeing the photos portraying her getting fucked by her father-in-law, first turned pale, then blushed.

"Did you take these?"

Montalbano weighed the pros and cons; if he told her it was a woman who took them, Ingrid might knife him then and there.

"Yeah, it was me."

The Swedish womans mighty slap thundered in his skull, but he was expecting it.

"I'd already sent three to your father-in-law. He got scared and stopped bothering you for a while. Now I'll send him another three."

Ingrid sprang forward, her body pressing against Montalbano's, her lips forcing his open, her tongue seeking and caressing his. Montalbano felt his legs giving out, and luckily Ingrid withdrew.

"Calm down," she said, "it's over. It was just to say thank you."

On the backs of three photos personally chosen by Ingrid, Montalbano wrote: resign from all your posts, or next time you'll be on tv.

"I'm going to keep the rest here," said the inspector. "When you need them, let me know."

"I hope it won't be for a long time."

"I'll send them tomorrow morning, and then I'll make an anonymous phone call that'll give him a heart attack. Now listen, because I have a long story to tell you. And when I'm done, I'm going to ask you to lend me a hand."

...

He got up at the crack of dawn, having been unable to sleep even a wink after Ingrid had left. He looked in the mirror: his face was a wreck, maybe even worse than after he'd been shot. He went to the hospital for a checkup, and they pronounced him perfect. The five medicines they'd been giving him were reduced to just one. Then he went to the Montelusa Savings Bank, where he kept the little money he was able to put aside. He asked to meet privately with the manager.

"I need ten million lire."

"Do you need a loan, or have you got enough in your account?"

"I've got it."

"I don't understand, then. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that it's for a police operation I want to pay for myself, without risking the States money. If I go to the cashier now and ask for ten million in bills of one hundred thousand, it'll seem strange. That's why I need your help."

"Understanding, and proud to take part in a police operation," the manager bent over backwards for Montalbano.

...

Ingrid pulled her car up alongside the inspectors, right in front of the road sign indicating the superhighway for Palermo, just outside of Montelusa. Montalbano gave her a bulging envelope with the ten million lire inside, and she put it in her shoulder bag.

"Call me at home as soon as you're done. And be careful not to get your purse snatched."

She smiled, waved him a kiss from her fingertips, and put her car in gear.

In Vig he got a new supply of cigarettes. On his way out of the tobacco shop, he noticed a big green poster with black lettering, freshly pasted up, inviting the town's people to attend a cross-country motorbike race the following Sunday, starting at three in the afternoon, in the place called the Crasticeddru flats.

He could never have hoped for such a coincidence. Perhaps the labyrinth had been moved to pity and was opening another path for him?