"Idiots," said the commissioner.
They passed through at least five checkpoints, growing more irritated each time, then finally reached the ward where Tanos room was. All other patients had been cleared out, transferred elsewhere amid curses and obscenities. At each end of the corridor were four armed policemen, plus two outside the door of the room Tano was obviously in. The commissioner showed them his pass.
"Congratulations," he said to the corporal.
"For what, Mr. Commissioner?"
"For maintaining order."
"Thank you," said the corporal, brightening, the commissioners irony sailing far over his head.
"You go in alone," the commissioner said to Montalbano, "I'll wait outside."
Only then did he notice how ashen the inspector was, his forehead bathed in sweat.
"My God, Montalbano, what's wrong? Do you feel ill?"
"I'm perfectly fine," the inspector replied through clenched teeth.
He was lying. In fact, he felt terrible.The dead left him utterly indifferent. He could sleep with them, pretend to break bread with them, play hearts or spades with them. They didn't bother him in the least. The dying, on the other hand, made him break into a sweat: his hands would start to tremble, he would go cold all over, a hole would open up in his stomach.
Under the sheet that covered him, Tanos body looked shrunken, smaller than the inspector remembered it. His arms lay stretched along his sides, the right arm wrapped in thick bandages. Oxygen tubes sprouted from his nose, which had turned almost transparent, and his face looked unreal, as if it belonged to a wax doll. Overcoming the desire to run away, Montalbano pulled up a metal chair and sat down beside the dying man, who kept his eyes shut, as if asleep.
"Tano? Tano? It's Inspector Montalbano."
The other reacted immediately, opening his eyes and making as if to sit up in bed, a violent start surely triggered by the animal instinct of one who has long been hunted. Then his eyes brought the inspector into focus, and the tension in his body visibly relaxed.
"You wanted to talk to me?"
Tano nodded yes, and gave a hint of a smile. He spoke very slowly, with great effort.
"They ran me off the road anyway."
He was referring to the discussion they'd had in the cottage. Montalbano didn't know what to say.
"Come closer," the old man said.
Montalbano rose from his chair and leaned over.
"Closer."
The inspector bent down so far forward, his ear actually touched Tano's lip. The man's burning breath made him feel disgusted. Tano then told him what he had to tell, lucidly and precisely. But the talking had worn him out, and he closed his eyes again. Montalbano didn't know what to do, whether to leave or stay a little while longer. He decided to sit down, and Tano said something again, in a gurgly voice. The inspector stood back up and leaned over the dying man.
"What did you say?"
"I'm spooked."
Tano was afraid, and in his present state he didn't hesitate to admit it. Was it pity, this sudden wave of heat, this flutter of the heart, this agonizing surge of emotion? He put a hand on Tanos forehead, and the intimate words came out spontaneously.
"You needn't be ashamed to say so. I'ts one more thing that makes you a man. We'll all be scared when our time comes. Good-bye,Tano."
He walked out quickly, closing the door behind him. In the hallway, together with the commissioner and policemen, were De Dominicis and Sciacchitano. He ran up to them.
"What did he say?" De Dominicis asked anxiously.
"Nothing. He didn't manage to say anything. He wanted to, but couldn't. Hes dying."
"Hah!" said Sciacchitano, doubtful.
Very calmly, Montalbano placed his open hand on Sciacchitanos chest and gave him a violent push. The man reeled three steps backward, stunned.
"Stay right where you are and don't come any closer," the inspector said through clenched teeth.
"That's enough, Montalbano," the commissioner intervened.
De Dominicis seemed to pay no mind to the two mens differences.
"Who knows what he wanted to tell you," he persisted, eyeing Montalbano inquisitively, as if to say: Youre not talking straight.
"If you'd like, I can try and guess," Montalbano retorted insolently.
Before leaving the hospital, Montalbano knocked back a double J&B, neat, at the bar. Then they headed back to Montelusa. He figured he'd be back in Vig by 7:30, and therefore could keep his appointment with Ingrid.
"He talked, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"Anything important?"
"Yes, in my opinion."
"Why did he choose you?"
"He said he wanted to give me a present, for playing fair with him throughout this whole business."
"I'm listening."
Montalbano told him everything, and when he had finished, the commissioner looked pensive. Then he sighed.
"You work it all out yourself, with your men. It's better if this remains a secret. Nobody else should know about it, not even in my office. As you've just seen, there are moles everywhere."
He visibly sank back into the bad mood he'd been in during the drive to the hospital. "So it's come to this!" he said angrily.
Halfway home, the cell phone rang. "Yes?" answered the commissioner.
Somebody spoke briefly at the other end.
"Thank you," said the commissioner. He turned to Montalbano. "That was De Dominicis. He kindly informed me that Tano died virtually as we were leaving the hospital."
"They'd better be careful," said Montalbano.
"Careful?"
"Not to let anyone steal the body," the inspector said with bitter irony.
They rode another while in silence.
"Why did De Dominicis bother to inform you that Tano was dead?"
"That call, for all practical purposes, was meant for you, my friend. Obviously De Dominicis, who's no fool, correctly believes that Tano managed to tell you something. And he would like a share of the pie, if not the whole thing."
Back at headquarters, he found only Catarella and Fazio. It was better this way; he preferred talking to Fazio with nobody around. Out of a sense of duty more than curiosity, he asked:
"Where are the others?"
"They went chasing after four kids who were racing each other on two motorbikes."
"Jesus! The whole squad is gone chasing after a pair of racing motorbikes?"
"It's a special kind of race," Fazio explained. "One motorbike is green, the other yellow. The yellow one starts out first and races the whole length of a street, snatching whatevers there to be snatched. An hour or two later, after the people have calmed down, the green one takes off and swipes whatevers still there to be swiped. Then they change street and neighborhood, but this time the green one goes first. It's a race to see who can steal the most."
"I see. Listen, Fazio, this evening I want you to drop by the Vinti warehouse and ask the manager, in my name, to lend us some shovels, pickaxes, mattocks, and spades, ten or so. We'll all meet here tomorrow morning at six. Inspector Augello and Catarella will stay behind at headquarters. I want two cars, no, make that one car, cause you're going to ask Vintis to give you a Jeep, too. By the way, who has the key to our garage?"
"Whoevers on duty always has it. At the moment, that would be Catarella."
"Get it from him and give it to me."
"Right away. But if you don't mind my asking, what do we need shovels and pickaxes for?"
"We're changing profession. As of tomorrow, we're going into farming, the healthy life, working in the fields. What do you say?"
"You know, Inspector, for the last few days there's just no reasoning with you. Maybe you could tell us what's got into you? You're always obnoxious and rude."
8
He first met Ingrid in the course of an investigation in which, through a series of false leads, she'd been offered up to him, though completely innocent, as the scapegoat. Since then a strange sort of friendship had developed between the inspector and that splendid woman. From time to time Ingrid would call him up and they would spend the evening chatting. The young woman would talk about her problems, confiding in Montalbano, and he would dispense wise, brotherly advice. He was a kind of spiritual father, a role he'd had to impose on himself by force, since Ingrid didn't exactly arouse spiritual feelings and his recommendations were always studiously ignored. At none of their meetings there'd been six or seven had Montalbano ever shown up before she did. Ingrid had a mania for punctuality.