The Potter's Field

“Them again? Haven’t we heard enough about them? What’s your rank with the police?”

“I’m an inspector.”

“Ah, well, then, can’t you ask your colleague Macannuco about it instead of hassling me again? Do I have to keep repeating the same story to all the inspectors in the kingdom?”

“I think you mean the republic, signora.” Montalbano was starting to have fun.

“Never! I do not recognize this republic of shit! I am a monarchist and I’ll die a monarchist!”

Montalbano smiled cheerfully, then assumed a conspiratorial air, looked around carefully, bent down towards the ball, and said in a low voice:

“I’m a monarchist, too, signora, but I can’t say so openly, or else my career . . . You understand.”

“My name is Esterina Trippodo,” the ball said, holding out a tiny, doll-like hand to him. “Please come with me.”

They went down a flight of stairs and entered an apartment almost identical to the Alfanos’. On the right-hand wall in the entrance hall was a portrait of King Vittorio Emanuele III under a little lamp, which was lit. Next to this, lit up in turn, was a photo of his son, Umberto, who had been king for about a month, though Montalbano’s memory was a bit hazy. On the left-hand wall, on the other hand, was a photograph, unlit, of another Vittorio Emanuele, Umberto’s son, the one known in the scandal sheets for a stray shot he had once fired. The inspector looked at the photo in admiration.

“He certainly is a handsome man,” said Montalbano, bullshitter extraordinaire, without shame.

Esterina Trippodo brought her index finger to her lips, then applied her kiss to the photograph.

“Come in, come in, please make yourself at home.”

The kitchen–living room was ever so slightly bigger than the Alfanos’.

“Can I make you some coffee?” asked Esterina.

“Yes, thank you.”

As the lady was fumbling with the napoletana, Montalbano asked:

“Do you know the Alfanos?”

“Of course.”

“Did you see them the last time they were here, on the third and the fourth of September?”

Esterina launched into a monologue.

“No. But they were here, in fact. He’s a gentleman. He called me to ask me to buy a bouquet of roses and to have them left in front of the door to their apartment, and said they would be arriving in the early afternoon. He’d asked me to do this before. But that evening, the roses were still in front of the door. The next day I dropped by a little before noon to pick up the money for the roses. The flowers were gone, but nobody answered the door. They’d already left. So I opened their gate—I’m the only one’s got a key—to empty the garbage—it’s my job—but all I found inside the bin was a syringe full of blood. They didn’t even put it in a bag or a piece of paper! Nothing! Just thrown there! Disgusting! Good thing I had gloves on! Who knows what the hell the goddamn slut was up to!”

“Did you mention these things to Inspector Macannuco?”

“No, why? He’s not one of us!”

“What about the roses, were you paid for them?”

“Good things come to those who wait!”

“If I may presume . . . ,” said Montalbano, reaching into his wallet.

Signora Trippodo magnanimously allowed him to presume.

“I noticed an electric bill under the little table in the entrance,” said the inspector.

“When the bills come, I slip them under the door. Apparently she didn’t take that one away with her and pay it.”

And in the name of their common faith in the monarchy, she answered all his other questions in generous detail.

About half an hour later, Montalbano got back in his car, and after barely five minutes on the road, he saw the sign indicating the way to Palmi. It was logical, therefore, that Dolores had taken this road instead of the autostrada. At once the sign for the bypass to Lido di Palmi appeared before him.

Jesus! It was barely two and a half miles from the apartment on Via Gerace! You could even walk there! Taking the bypass, he spotted a motel barely a hundred yards farther on. If Dolores had her accident right at the bypass, there was a very good chance this was the motel she went to.

He parked the car, got out, and went into the bar, which was also the motel’s front desk. It was empty. The coffee machine was even turned off.

“Anybody here?”

Behind a bead curtain that concealed a door on the left, a voice called out.

“I’ll be right there!”

A man without a hint of hair on his head appeared: short, fat, ruddy, and likeable.

“Can I help you?”

“Hello, the name’s Lojacano, I’m with the insurance company, and I need a little information from you, if you’d be so kind. And who are you, if I may ask?”

“I’m Rocco Sudano, I own this place. But at the moment, since it’s the low season, I take care of almost everything myself.”

“Listen, was your motel open on this past September the fourth?”

“Of course. That’s still high season.”

“Were you here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember whether that morning, a dark, very attractive women came in after having a minor accident at the bypass?”