The Potter's Field

This is what I ask of you in exchange for having given you the solution to a complex case. You can take all the credit yourself, but you must repay me with your silence. I shall fax you this letter to the private number you gave me.

Please call me at home, not at headquarters. The best time would be after ten p.m.

Affectionately,

Salvo

Is it an honest letter? he wondered, rereading it.

Is it a dishonest letter? he wondered, rereading it a second time.

It is useful to the purpose for which it is intended, and no more, he concluded as he started getting undressed to go to bed.

The following evening, around ten o’clock, came Macannuco’s first phone call.

“Montalbano? This morning I got a phone call from Forensics.”

“Yes, and?”

“You hit the nail on the head. The blood at the bottom of the garbage bin was the same as what was found in the sink.”

“You mean you hit the nail on the head, Macannù. Congratulations.”

The next evening, Macannuco called again.

“I got your anonymous letter and forwarded it to youknow-who,” he said.

The third night after the inspector had made the decisive move, he was so nervous he didn’t sleep a wink. He was getting too old to put up with this level of tension. When the sun finally appeared, Montalbano found himself looking out on a beautiful December morning, cold and bright, without a cloud in the sky. He realized he had no desire either to go to the office or to stay at home. Cosimo Lauricella, the local fisherman, was busying himself with his boat on the beach.

“Cosimo!” the inspector called from the window. “Could I come out with you in the boat?”

“But I’ll be out till the afternoon!”

“That’s not a problem.”

He himself didn’t catch a single fish, but the effect on his nerves was better than a month in a specialized clinic.

The long-awaited phone call from Macannuco came two days later, by which time the inspector was seriously unshaven, hadn’t changed his shirt, its collar ringed with grease, and his eyes were so bloodshot he looked like a monster out of a science-fiction movie. Mimì, too, was no joke: also unshaven and red-eyed, hair standing straight up so that he looked like the advertisement for Presbítero pencils. A terrified Catarella was afraid to say anything to either one of them when they passed in front of his closet, and would only slink down in his chair to the floor.

“Half an hour ago we intercepted a very brief phone call from Dolores Alfano to Signora Trippodo,” said Macannuco.

“What did she say?”

“She merely asked if she could come by tomorrow around three in the afternoon. Trippodo answered, ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’ And we’ll be there waiting for her, too.”

“Give me a call at the station as soon as you arrest her. Oh, and listen, I had an idea about the syringe...”

Macannuco liked the idea. Montalbano, however, didn’t care what happened to Dolores; his main concern was to keep Mimì completely out of the loop. He had to pull him out and keep him busy for the next twenty-four hours. He called Fazio.

“Fazio? Sorry to bother you at home, but I need you to come to my place right now, in Marinella.”

“I’m on my way, Chief.”

When Fazio got there, he was worried and full of questions. He found Montalbano clean shaven, wearing a crisp new shirt, spic and span. The inspector sat him down and asked him:

“Would you like a whisky?”

“To be honest, I’m not in the habit...”

“Take my advice, I think it’s better if you have one.”

Fazio obediently poured himself two fingers’ worth.

“Now I’m going to tell you a story,” Montalbano began, “but you’d better keep the whisky bottle within reach.”

By the time he’d finished his story, Fazio had drunk a quarter of a brand-new bottle. During the half hour in which Montalbano was talking, Fazio’s only comment, which he said five times, was:

“Holy shit!”

The color of his face, on the other hand, changed often: initially red, it turned yellow, then purple, and then a blend of all three colors.

“So, tomorrow morning, what I want you to do,” the inspector concluded, “is this: The minute Mimì gets to the office, you tell him that an idea came to you during the night, and then you hand him a copy of the article.”

“What do you think Inspector Augello will do?”

“He’ll race to Montelusa to talk to Tommaseo, claiming it’s proof, then he’ll do the same with the commissioner and even with Musante. He’ll waste the whole morning running from one office to another. You, then, will throw down your ace, and make things more difficult for him.”

“And then what?”