The Potter's Field

“Before going back to board his ship, Giovanni Alfano—who, you will have understood, is the person we’re talking about—came here with his wife to say goodbye to Don Balduccio.”

“Yes, I know. Signora Dolores showed me the photographs.”

“Good. On that occasion, Don Balduccio called Giovanni aside to give him something. A letter. To be delivered in person to a friend in Villa San Giovanni, who would be waiting for him at an appointed place. And he begged him not to tell anyone about that letter, not even his wife.”

“And what happened?”

“Only about ten days ago, Don Balduccio learned that this letter was never delivered.”

“Why did it take so long to find out?”

“Well! First there was my friend’s illness, then the long convalescence, then the person who was supposed to have received the letter had an accident and was unable to get in touch with us . . . He was shot three times, but by mistake, you know . . . by someone who has remained anonymous . . .”

“I see. Was it an important letter?”

“Very important,” the old man said from deep in his bed.

“And did you tell Alfano how important it was?”

“Yes,” said Don Balduccio.

“Could you tell me what it said?”

Guttadauro didn’t answer right away, but looked over at Don Balduccio, who nodded yes.

“You know, Inspector, Don Balduccio has a very wide range of business interests . . . The letter contained—how shall I put it—instructions, if you will, concerning a possible agreement with some of our business competitors in Calabria . . .”

A nice little pact between the Mafia and the ’Ndrangheta, in short.

“But why didn’t you just mail it?”

A strange noise came from the bed, a series of hi hi sounds halfway between sneezes and drunken hiccups. Montalbano realized the old man was laughing.

17

“Mail it? You surprise me,” said the lawyer. “As you know, my friend has been the target of a genuine persecution campaign by the police and the judiciary for many years. They intercept his letters, perform surprise searches, arrest him for no plausible reason . . . They carry out acts of terrorism on him, that’s the word.”

“And what, in your opinion, was the reason this letter was never delivered?”

“In our opinion, Giovanni wasn’t able to deliver it.”

“Why not?”

“Because, in all probability, Giovanni never crossed the strait.”

“And where do you think he stopped?”

“We think he got no farther than Catania.”

So that was how things had gone, according to Balduccio and Guttadauro.

“But you . . . why haven’t you got busy trying to find out what happened? Don Balduccio has many friends, he could have easily—”

“You see, Inspector, the point was not to find out what happened . . . Don Balduccio knew it intuitively . . . He told me everything as if he had been there himself . . . It’s extraordinary . . . If anything, it was only a matter of confirming his intuition.”

“All right, but it amounts to the same thing: Why didn’t you seek out this confirmation?”

“Shit . . . is not something . . . I touch with my hands,” the old man said with difficulty.

Guttadauro the lawyer translated this for him.

“Don Balduccio felt that it was a matter for the law to handle.”

“So I was supposed to pick up the shit with my own hands?”

Guttadauro shrugged.

“It’s what we were hoping. However, at that point, you stepped back and put your deputy into the mix,” he said.

“Who is making . . . big . . . mistake,” the old man chimed in.

“But we can’t let him continue in his mistake for very long,” the lawyer said by way of conclusion.

“I’m very tired,” said Don Balduccio, closing his eyes.

Montalbano stood up and left the room, followed by Guttadauro.

“I didn’t like your last statement one bit,” the inspector said harshly.

“I didn’t either, having said it,” the lawyer replied. “But don’t take it as a threat. Don Balduccio doesn’t know yet, because I asked that he not be told. But I know.”

“Know what?”

“That your deputy and Dolores have been . . . well, let’s say ‘meeting.’ It is in everyone’s best interests that this affair end as soon as possible.”

He showed him to the car, opened the door for him, closed it when Montalbano got in, and bowed when the car drove off.