The Potter's Field

“Yes, you. Last night I watched Ragonese on TV. I told you I wanted to be informed of every move you made.”

“But, Salvo, how was I going to inform you if you weren’t here? Anyway, what did I say or do that was new? All I did was relate to Tommaseo what Fazio filled me in on.”

“Namely?”

“That you thought the critaru body belonged to Dolores Alfano’s husband, and that he’d been killed by the Mafia for being a courier who had betrayed the family. Not one word more or less than that.”

The inspector should have embraced and thanked Mimì, but he couldn’t.

“But you also told the journalists.”

“I had Tommaseo’s authorization to do so.”

“Well, okay. How did your meeting go this morning?”

“Badly.”

“Why?”

“Because Tommaseo wants to proceed very cautiously with Balduccio Sinagra. He says we have nothing against him at the moment. But I say how can that be? Isn’t Balduccio Sinagra a Mafia thug and a killer?”

“So what, Mimì? It’s true he’s a killer, but what if he didn’t kill Alfano? Do you still want to pin the murder on him anyway? Are you saying that one murder more, one murder less makes no difference? Well, I’ve got news for you: It does.”

“So, now you’re defending him?”

Montalbano had a flash. He suddenly remembered the nightmare he’d had a few nights before, when Totò Riina had offered him the post of minister of the interior.

“Mimì, cut the crap,” he said, though in his mind the words were directed at Riina. “I’m not defending a mafioso, I’m telling you to be careful about accusing someone, mafioso or no, of a crime he cannot have committed.”

“I’m convinced he had Alfano killed.”

“Then try to convince Tommaseo. Where does the commissioner stand on this?”

“He agrees with Tommaseo. But he suggested I talk to Musante.”

“I don’t think he’ll be of any help to you. How are Beba and the boy doing?”

“Fine.”

Mimì got up to leave, but Montalbano stopped him before he could open the door.

“I’m sorry, Mimì, but I’ve been wanting to ask you something for a long time, and since lately we haven’t had any chance to talk, I—”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you know anything about three men from Catania . . .” He broke off, opened the top drawer on the left of his desk, grabbed the first sheet of paper that came within reach, and pretended to read: “ . . . whose names are Bonura, Pecorini, and Di Silvestro?”

Having uttered the question, Montalbano felt poised at the edge of a cliff. He stared at Mimì with both eyes pointed at him like shotgun barrels and hoped that what he felt inside didn’t show on his face. The first and third names he had invented. Mimì looked genuinely befuddled.

“Wait a second. I think I remember a certain Di Silvestro we dealt with last year, though I can’t remember why. The other two I’ve never heard of before. Why, are they of interest to you?”

“They came up a while ago in a case of attempted murder I was investigating. But that’s all right, it’s not important. I’ll be seeing you.”

It was an extremely risky question to ask, but he was glad he had asked it. If he had said he knew Pecorini, or had acted suspiciously, then Mimì’s position, in Montalbano’s eyes, would have been seriously compromised. Dolores therefore must not have told him about her earlier affair with the butcher. All things considered, it wouldn’t have been in her interest. More importantly, she also had not told him that the house where they had their amorous encounters belonged to Pecorini. The inspector felt so pleased that he caught himself whistling, something he’d never been able to do.

The second move he had been expecting was made late that evening, just as he was heading to the bathroom to get undressed and go to bed.

“Inspector Montalbano?”

“Speaking.”

“I am terribly embarrassed to have to phone you at this hour, disturbing you in the intimacy of your home, probably after a long day of hard work...”

The inspector immediately recognized the voice at the other end of the line. It wasn’t just the voice, but the manner of speaking, the flowery phrases, that gave him away. Still, he had to play along.

“Could you please tell me who I’m speaking to?”

“I am Orazio Guttadauro, the lawyer.”

The very first time he’d had any dealings with Guttadauro, it had seemed to Montalbano that a worm had a keener sense of honesty than this lawyer, who was Don Balduccio Sinagra’s consigliere and right-hand man. And after getting to know him a little, he had become convinced that a pile of dog shit had a keener sense of honesty.

“Good evening, sir! And how is your friend and client?”

There was no need to mention any names. Guttadauro heaved a tortured sigh, then another. And then he spoke.

“It’s so sad, dear Inspector, so sad!”

“He’s not well?”

“I don’t know whether you’re aware that he got very sick a few months ago.”

“I’ve heard mention.”

“Then he recovered somewhat, at least physically, thank God.”

Montalbano asked himself a subtle theological question: Should God be thanked for letting a multiple murderer like Balduccio get better?