The Potter's Field

He got up and, instead of locking himself in the bathroom, went into the dining room and dialed directory assistance. A horrendous, recorded woman’s voice answered. In the end the robotess gave him the number he wanted. Before dialing it, he drank his coffee. And before anyone answered at the other end, he had time to review the multiplication tables for seven, eight, and nine. At last a female voice picked up.

“Hello!”

“Hello, is this Signora Esterina Trippodo?”

“Who the fuck do you think it would be when you dial my home phone number?”

Always so gracious and refined, that woman!

“Inspector Montalbano here. Do you remember me?”

“How could I forget? Long live the king!”

“Long live the king! I have a little favor to ask of you, signora.”

“At your service. If we of the same faith don’t help one another . . .”

“I need for you to go and get the Alfanos’ garbage bin, exactly as it is, and bring it to your place. And for heaven’s sake don’t clean it! And don’t remove the lid. My colleague Macannuco will come sometime today to pick it up.”

“No, Macannuco, no!”

“Please, Esterina, in the name of our common faith.”

It took him a good fifteen minutes to persuade her, all the while cursing inside every time he had to sing the praises of the House of Savoy. Afterwards, he called the station.

“Your orders, Chief!”

“Cat, I’ll be coming in late.”

“You’re the boss, sir.”

“If Fazio’s there, put him on.”

Tables for three.

“Hello, Chief ?”

“Fazio, is Mimì in his office?”

“No, he went to Montelusa to see Musante.”

“Listen, there’s something I want resolved by the end of the morning, but I don’t want Mimì to know about it. All right?”

“Whatever you say, Chief.”

“I want you to find me the exact date Filippo Alfano was murdered in Colombia.”

“The records office here must certainly have the death notice.”

“Good. When you’ve got everything in hand, give it to Catarella. Before the morning’s over, I want him to find out, via the Internet, what newspapers there were in Colombia at the time and to get in touch with one of them.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know the exact circumstances of the death of Filippo Alfano.”

Fazio remained silent for a moment.

“I know it won’t be easy, Fazio, but—”

“Chief, I think I remember that the person who told me the story of Filippo Alfano also mentioned that the papers here talked about it too.”

“So much the better. In short, one way or another, I want an answer.”

Next, he called Macannuco. And he spoke with him for half an hour. In the end, they were in agreement on everything except one small detail.

“No, I refuse to say ‘Long live the king’ to that woman!”

“C’mon, Macannù, what the hell do you care? Just say it, and you’ll see, she’ll open up to you.”

Now he had to prepare his third move, which would be a shot in the dark and therefore the riskiest of all. But if he was on the mark, it would be the one that resolved everything.

“Adelina!”

“Wha ’s it, signore?”

“Grab a sheet of paper and start writing.”

“Me? You know I don’ write...”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s do this. I’ll write something for you on a sheet of paper, and you copy it over onto another clean sheet. Okay?”

He took a sheet and wrote in block letters:

I’VE GOT THAT SYRINGE YOU KNOW ABOUT. GUESS WHO I AM AND GET IN TOUCH, AND WE CAN MAKE A DEAL.

“Matre santa!” said Adelina. “Tha’ss a long writing!”

“Take your time. I’m going into the bathroom.”

He stayed in there for almost an hour, purposely taking things slow. And, in fact, when he came out, Adelina had just finished.

“I’m all asweaty, signore. Jeez, ’at was hard! Whaddya wan’ me a do, sign it?”

“No, Adelì, it’s an anonymous letter!”

Adelina looked at him with surprise.

“Wha? You’s a man o’ the law, sir, an’ you mekka me write a ’nonymous letter?”

“You know what Machiavelli said?”

“No, sir, I don’ know ’im. Wha’d ’e say?”

“He said the end justifies the means.”

“I don’ unnastann, I think I go becka the kitchen.”

I GOTTA SYRINCE YOU KNOW ABOUT. GESS WHO I AM AND GET IN TUCH, AND WE MAKE A DEEL.

It was perfect. He took an envelope, put the anonymous letter inside, and sealed it. Then he wrote a short note.

Dear Macannuco,

I want you to send the attached letter by express mail from Gioia Tauro to the following address: Dolores Alfano, Via Guttuso 12, Vigàta.

Thanks,

Salvo

He inserted the note and letter into a bigger envelope, wrote Macannuco’s address on this, and put it in his jacket pocket.

“Goodbye, Adelì, I’m going out.”

“Whaddya wan’ me a make a you to eat?”

“Whatever you want. After all, everything you make is good.”

He stopped at the first tobacco shop he passed, bought a pack of cigarettes and a priority-mail stamp, pasted this on the envelope, and put it in a mailbox, hoping the postal service wouldn’t take eight days, as it usually did, to deliver a letter over a distance of a hundred and twenty miles.