The Potter's Field

They were talking in chorus again.

“I mean you’ve become accustomed to today’s Mafia and no longer understand a thing about semiology.”

“Semiology? I’ve never even—” Gullotta began doubtfully.

“You see, Montalbano,” Musante interrupted him, “if you had actually identified the body, and we were certain that it belonged to a mafioso, then—”

“I get it,” said the inspector. “You want your lunch served to you on fine china.”

In perfect sync, the chorus threw their hands up in the air to express their regret.

Montalbano stood up; the chorus stood up.

“Can I ask you something?”

“If we can be of help...”

“As far as you know, was there any notable Mafia activity in the Vigàta area about two months ago?”

Montalbano realized that these words had got the attention of the two-man chorus. They had sort of straightened themselves up from the relaxed posture of goodbye they had assumed.

“Why?” the chorus asked warily.

Damned if he was going to tell them now that the dismembered stranger’s death dated from about two months ago.

“Oh, I dunno, just wondering...”

“No, there hasn’t been anything,” said Musante.

“Nothing at all,” Gullotta confirmed.

Apparently, when they had to lie, they become soloists. It was clear they had no intention whatsoever of letting a borderline madman like him in on a secret investigation.

They said goodbye.

“Take care of yourself,” Gullotta suggested.

“Take a few days off,” Musante advised.

So something had definitely happened two months earlier. Something the Antimafia Commission was keeping hidden because the investigation was still ongoing.

When he got to the station he called Fazio and told him of his talk with Musante and Gullotta. He did not tell him, of course, that they thought he was crazy.

“Have you got any friends at Antimafia?”

“Sure, Chief. Morici.”

“Is he about fifty, with a mustache?” asked Montalbano, alarmed.

“No.”

“Could you talk to him?”

“What do you want me to say to him?”

“Ask him if he knows what happened two months ago, which Musante and Gullotta didn’t want to tell me.”

“I can try, Chief, but...”

“But what?”

“Morici and I may be friends, but he’s a man of few words. The guy’s like a statue. He doesn’t even sweat.”

“Well, try to make him sweat a little. Have you started working on Pecorini?”

“Yessir. I’ve started and I’ve even finished. The response was negative.”

“Meaning?”

“He doesn’t work at customs in Catania and never has. Nobody with that name has.”

“Ah, I see. Maybe the person who gave me this information didn’t mean ‘customs’ as in ‘customs office,’ but was simply referring to that part of town. People do talk that way, sometimes.”

“So where am I supposed to find him now, this Pecorini?”

Wasn’t it possible that Mimì went through some agency to rent that house?

“Listen, how many real estate agencies are there in Vigàta?”

Fazio did a quick mental tally.

“Five and a half, Chief.”

“What do you mean by ‘a half’?”

“There’s one that also sells cars.”

“See if Pecorini used one of them to rent a house.”

“To rent it himself or to rent it out to others?”

“To rent it out. He owns the house. And if you have any luck, have them tell you where he works, or at least where he lives. He must have an address and phone number with the agency.”

“Do you know the address of the house?”

“No.”

It was best not to give Fazio too much information. He was liable to discover that Mimì was renting it.

That afternoon, as he was coming back in to the station, he nearly collided with Mimì Augello, who was coming out in a hurry.

“Greetings, Mimì.”

“Greetings,” Mimì replied brusquely.

Montalbano turned around to look at him as he headed through the parking lot towards his car. Mimì seemed to be walking with his back slightly hunched.

At that very moment another car parked right beside Mimì’s, and from it emerged a woman of more than considerable beauty.

But Augello didn’t consider her at all. He didn’t even look at her, in fact, but only started up his car and left.

How he had changed! Once upon a time, Mimì would most certainly have tried to strike up a conversation and make friends with a woman like that.

9

Five minutes after the inspector had sat down at his desk, the door flew open and slammed against the wall with such force that it frightened Catarella himself, the author of what should have been a simple knock.

“Man, whatta crash! Even scared me m’self, Chief! Ahhh Chief! Whatta woman!”

“Where?”

“Right ’ere, Chief. Inna waitin’ room. Says ’er name’s Dolorosa. I say it oughter be Amorosa! Says she wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson. Jesus, whatta woman! Ya gotta have eyes t’see this one!”

She must be the woman the inspector saw get out of the car. A woman who puts even Catarella in a state like that, and Mimì doesn’t deign to give her a glance? Poor Mimì! He was in a really bad way!

“Send her in.”