The Potter's Field

“So our murder looks pretty much like Balduccio’s follow-up act,” said Fazio.

Montalbano was thinking that, yes, Balduccio had confessed to the murder of Filippo Alfano, but he had neglected that little detail about having had him chopped up into thirty pieces, the same number as Judas’s silver coins. That was why he had admitted to the crime, certain that Montalbano would look into it. He had omitted that detail on purpose. Once the inspector discovered the shambles that had been made of Filippo Alfano’s body, he would understand that the repetition of the carnage was like forging his signature.

“Take this article and put it away somewhere.”

“Shouldn’t I show it to Inspector Augello?”

“Only when I tell you to.”

“I’m sorry, Chief, but this article looks to me like proof that it was definitely Balduccio who—”

“Only when I tell you to,” Montalbano repeated coldly.

Fazio put the sheet of paper in his pocket, but seemed more doubtful than ever.

“So how should I act with Inspector Augello?”

“How do you feel like acting? Just act the way you always do.”

“Chief, I’ve still got hundreds more questions for you.”

“So many? We’ll have plenty of time for that later.”

“You coming back in the afternoon?”

“Yes, but late. After lunch I’m going home. You can reach me there if you need me.”

Lost in all the potential complications of what he had decided to do, the inspector ate so listlessly that Enzo noticed.

“What’s wrong, Inspector? No appetite?”

“I’ve got some worries on my mind.”

“That’s bad, Inspector. Eating, like sex, wants no worries.”

Montalbano took his customary stroll, but, when he got to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty, he didn’t sit down on his rock, but turned back and went home.

They had agreed that Macannuco would phone him at four o’clock. The inspector didn’t want to be called at the office; there were too many people constantly going in and out of his room. At four on the dot, the telephone rang.

“Montalbano? This is Macannuco.”

“What do you say?”

“You were right on the money. The stains on the bottom of the garbage bin are definitely blood. Forensics’s got the bin now and are checking to see if the blood’s the same as in the sink.”

“How long’s that going to take?”

“I asked them to be as quick as possible. They assured me they’ll have an answer for me by tomorrow morning. What’ve you done in the meanwhile?”

“I sent you a letter that I want you to mail back here to Vigàta. Do it as soon as you get it, it’s very important. Did you talk to your prosecutor?”

“Yes, he granted me authorization to tap the phone. They’re working on it now.”

“Did you ask him not to say anything to Tommaseo?”

If the public prosecutor for Reggio Calabria mentioned anything to his counterpart in Vigàta, the latter was sure to talk about it with Mimì. And they could make a great big omelet with all the broken eggs.

“Yes. He put up some resistance, but in the end he agreed.”

“Look, I mustn’t have any part in any of this, not now, not later, understood?”

“Not to worry. I never once mentioned your name.”

“How’d it go with Esterina Trippodo?”

“She promised to cooperate. She said she’s doing it for you.”

“Did you tell her ‘Long live the king’?”

“Would you please go fuck yourselves, you and Esterina Trippodo!”

18

When the inspector got back to the station around five, Mimì was beside himself.

“It certainly helps the Mafia around here when you’ve got people like Musante fighting them! Incompetent fucking idiot!”

“Would you please calm down and tell me what happened?”

“I had an appointment with him at nine o’clock. He made me wait till eleven-thirty. We’d barely started talking when he’s called away. He comes back five minutes later, saying he’s very sorry but has to postpone our meeting until one o’clock. So I go out for a stroll in Montelusa and come back at one. He’s waiting for me in his office. I bring him up to date on the investigation and tell him that all the evidence points to Balduccio Sinagra . . . So what does he do? He laughs. And he tells me that this is old news. He says that some time ago they’d received an anonymous letter accusing Balduccio of having had one of his couriers murdered for selling drugs on his own, and they’d investigated this and come to the conclusion that Balduccio had nothing to do with it. He says it was a trick to throw them off the trail. Fucking idiots! On top of everything else, he says the courier’s body was never found. But now it has been found, I tell him, and it even has a name: Giovanni Alfano. And you know what he said to me?”

“Mimì, if you don’t tell me, how can I—”

“He said that it couldn’t have been Balduccio because it was entirely in Balduccio’s interest to keep the man alive. And he mentioned some business about a letter that Alfano was supposed to deliver to someone in Villa San Giovanni...”

“Did he tell you how they found out about this letter?”