The Potter's Field

She sounded like Torquemada. Women! Never before had Livia begun a phone conversation with a question like that. Tonight, however, when another woman was sleeping in her man’s bed, she came out with this inquisitorial tone. What was it? A sixth, animal sense? Or did she have telescopic X-ray vision? He felt spooked, which muddled his brain, and instead of telling her the truth—that he was sitting and watching the sea—for God knows what reason he replied with a pointless, idiotic lie.

“I was watching a film on television.”

“What channel?”

She must have realized at once that he was speaking falsely. They’d been together for years, and by now Livia could tell, from the slightest inflection of his voice, whether he was telling the truth or not. So how was he going to wiggle out of this now? The only hope was to continue down the same path.

“Three. But what—”

“I’m watching it too. What’s it called?”

“I don’t know, it had already started when I turned it on. But what’s with all these questions? What’s got into you?”

“Why are you speaking softly?”

She was right, dammit! He was keeping his voice down instinctively, so as not to wake Ingrid. He cleared his throat.

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Who’s there with you?”

“Nobody! Who could possibly be here with me?”

“Never mind. Beba called me. Mimì told her he would have to do another stakeout tomorrow night.”

Good. That meant he had calculated correctly.

“Did you tell Beba to be patient a little while longer?”

“Yes. But you’re not being straight with me.”

“What am I not being straight—”

“You’re not alone.”

Jesus, what a nose! What, did she have antennae or something ? Did she talk with the dead?

“Come on, knock it off!”

“Swear it!”

“If you really care that much, I swear it.”

“Bah. Good night.”

Well, that was that. Livia had got what she deserved. She had pushed things so far that he, in all innocence, had been forced to lie to her, and to swear to the lie. In all innocence? Not so fast! In reality he wasn’t all that innocent. Livia had been right on target. It was true there was another person there with him, and a woman at that, but how could he ever have explained to her that this woman wasn’t . . . He imagined how their conversation would have gone.

“But she’s sleeping in our bed!”

Dammit and dammit again! She was right. That bed was not just his; it was both of theirs.

“Yes, but, you see, she’s going to leave afterwards.”

“Afterwards? After what?”

Forget about it.

He went back out on the veranda and sat down. Reaching into his pocket, he dug out Mimì’s letter, which he had brought with him to show Ingrid, later changing his mind. He didn’t reread it, but only stared at the envelope, thinking.

Why had Mimì had Galluzzo copy a letter so personal and confidential? This was one of the first questions he’d asked himself when Galluzzo brought it to him. Mimì could very well have typed it up himself, stuck it in an envelope, and had someone pass it on to him, if he really didn’t want to do it in person.

Didn’t Mimì realize that in so doing he was involving a third party in the delicate situation between the two of them? And then, why choose Galluzzo of all people, who had a loose tongue and a journalist for a brother-in-law?

Wait a minute. Maybe there was an explanation. What if, in fact, Mimì had done it on purpose? Steady, Montalbà, you’re almost there.

Mimì had acted in this fashion because he wanted others to know about the matter—because he wanted it to have a certain amount of publicity.

And why would he do that? Simple: because he wanted to put his—Montalbano’s—back to the wall. In so doing, the matter could no longer be resolved in secret, behind closed doors, far from the eyes of others. No, in this way Mimì would force him to give an official reply, whatever it was. Smart move, no doubt about it.

He picked up the envelope, pulled out the letter, and reread it. There were at least two things about the letter that caught his attention.

The first was the tone.

When Mimì had asked him in person what his intentions were as to who should conduct the investigation, ruling out any possibility of collaboration, he was aggressive, rude, obnoxious, scornful.

In the letter, on the other hand, his tone had changed. Here, in fact, he presented the reasons for his request, explaining that he needed space and total autonomy. He let it be known that there wasn’t enough breathing room for him in the police department. And this was understandable. Mimì had been working for many years under him, and very rarely had he given him free rein. He had to be honest and recognize this.

In the letter he also said that by entrusting the case to him, the inspector could put all of Mimì’s abilities to the test.

In conclusion, Mimì was asking for help.

Exactly that. He had even used the word: help. A word that a man like Mimì didn’t use lightly.