The Potter's Field

Before going to bed, he turned on the television. The purse-lipped mouth of Pippo Ragonese’s chicken-ass face was saying something related to him.

“. . . and I certainly am not referring to possible developments in the investigation of the dismembered murder victim found in the area called ’u critaru. To be perfectly frank, I am, unfortunately, quite certain that that case will eventually be closed without the killer’s or the victim’s names ever being discovered. No, I am referring to what might happen later, in the investigation of some future crime of great importance. Will the Vigàta Police be able to work as a unit on a complex case, without internal misunderstandings that could undermine their solidarity? This, in fact, is our fear. And you can count on my coming back to this subject in the very near future.”

Those words disturbed the inspector greatly as they began to sink in. Internal misunderstandings. Clearly Ragonese had got wind, in one way or another, of what was happening in the department because of Mimì. He knew only half the story. And it was absolutely crucial to stop him before he knew all of it. But how? The inspector would have to think about this.

The following morning he got dressed up, even putting on a tie. It didn’t seem right to go see Dolores Alfano dressed casually, having, as he did, to give her news that, no matter how you looked at it, was bad.

But since it was still too early—a few minutes to nine—to pay her a call, the inspector dropped by the station first.

“Ahh Chief Chief! Y’look so fancy when y’get dressed up all fancy!” Catarella commented in admiration.

“Anyone here?”

“Yessir. Fazio.”

“Send him to me.”

Fazio came in, looked at him, and asked:

“You on your way to see Signora Alfano?”

“Yeah, in a little bit. And you’re coming too.”

Fazio was unprepared for this.

“But . . . why? Aren’t you enough?”

“Didn’t you say yourself that she bites? If you’re there too, you might help keep her still and prevent her from biting me.”

“Whatever you say, Chief. Meanwhile, I’ve already seen Morici.”

“So soon?”

“Yeah, Chief. Yesterday he was told he had to go to Palermo for a week, and so he phoned me and moved the appointment up to seven o’clock this morning.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Well, something strange. He said they’d received a tip that turned out to be a red herring.”

“Meaning?”

“About two months ago, they received an anonymous letter.”

“For a change!”

“But this one seemed different, like it might contain a grain of truth.”

“What did it say?”

“That Don Balduccio Sinagra had somebody killed.”

“Don Balduccio? The guy’s over ninety years old! Hasn’t he retired from the family business?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Chief. That’s what the letter said. It explained that Don Balduccio intervened in that particular instance because he had felt personally offended.”

“I see. And who was it that offended him and got liquidated?”

“The letter didn’t give his name. But it did say the guy was a courier who instead of delivering some merchandise had sold it himself.”

“And then?”

“The Antimafia people got moving right away. If they could get their hands on even a little proof, it would be a major coup. And they didn’t ask for any help from Narcotics—you know how these things are. But if they had, they would have saved themselves some time.”

“Why?”

“After four frantic days of investigation, Inspector Musante happened to run into Inspector Ballerini from Narcotics, who, in the course of the conversation, told him that Don Balduccio Sinagra was in a coma in a Palermo hospital. And so they decided that Balduccio couldn’t have given the order to have anyone killed. And, at any rate, they hadn’t found anything, not even the courier’s dead body.”

“And what was their conclusion?”

“That someone had taken them for a ride, Chief.”

“Or someone wanted to make trouble for Don Balduccio, not knowing he was in a coma.”

“. . . and so, to conclude, your husband never boarded the Ruy Barbosa.”

Dolores Alfano froze like a statue.

She was standing in front of Montalbano and Fazio, who were sitting in two armchairs in her living room, and about to serve them coffee. Her left arm remained raised in midair, perhaps to brush her hair back, while her right arm reached downwards.

For a split second, the inspector felt as if he were looking at a sugar doll of a dancing girl, which were almost always Spanish dancers. Even the scent of cinnamon, which immediately grew stronger, added to this impression. He felt a terrible desire to stick out his tongue and lick her neck, so he could taste her skin, which must surely be sweet.

The lady then came back to life. Saying nothing, she completed the movements she had begun. She brushed the hair away from her eyes, bent forward to pour the coffee into the two cups with a steady hand, asked them how much sugar they took, put this in the cups, which she then handed them, and sat down on the sofa.