The Potter's Field

“Yes, it was actually a trap set by Narcotics. They had set things up so that Balduccio would have to get in touch with this person. They were waiting for the letter to be delivered so they could screw Balduccio. But since it never arrived, they decided that Balduccio had nothing to do with Alfano’s murder. I don’t really get it, to be honest with you.”

“I don’t either. What do you intend to do?”

“I’m not giving up, Salvo. I am certain, you realize, absolutely one hundred percent certain, that Balduccio did it!” Mimì replied wildly.

Poor guy! What a state Dolores had reduced him to! She was contributing to the delinquency of a minor police inspector . . . She must have been stirring his pot without respite, not giving him a moment’s peace.

“When you questioned Signora Alfano, did you ask her if her husband had ever told her how his father, Filippo, was killed?”

“Yes. She told me that Balduccio had him offed with a pistol shot at the base of the skull.”

“And that’s all?”

Mimì looked a bit puzzled.

“Yes. One pistol shot, and that’s all. Why do you ask?”

Montalbano chose not to answer the question straight off.

“But why didn’t Giovanni ever try to get back at Balduccio, if he knew he was behind his father’s murder?”

“Dol—Signora Alfano said that Balduccio wanted so badly to be forgiven by Giovanni, and did so much for him, that in the end he succeeded.”

“Want some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Ask the lady if she remembers the name of a Colombian newspaper of the time. Then look up this newspaper’s archive on the Internet and ask for any articles dealing with the killing. Something useful might turn up.”

“You know, that’s a good idea! First I’ll talk to Dol—Signora Alfano, and then I’ll put Catarella to work.”

“Better not bring Catarella into this,” Montalbano said quickly. “Everyone who comes into headquarters passes by his workstation. We should be more careful. Why don’t you do the research at home, on your own computer?”

“You’re right, Salvo.”

And he was off like a rocket. Dolores was sure to waste some of his time before pretending to remember the name of a newspaper from twenty or thirty years before. And then Mimì would be completely taken up with his research. It was essential that he didn’t get any brilliant ideas about moving in on Balduccio in the three or four days ahead.

Adelina had prepared him a special dish. Four slices of freshgrilled tuna, not overly done, with a side dish of tiny shelled shrimp, all of it topped with a salmoriglio sauce. With his belly satisfied, and his spirit, too, he sat down at the table and began to write:

Dear Macannuco,