"How long ago? Do you know?"
"Of course I know. It was around 1941, when oil, flour, and wheat were growing scarce because of the war. At that time, all the land around the Crasto and the Crasticeddru belonged to Giacomo Rizzitano, Lillos grandfather, who had made a lot of money in America by less-than-legitimate means, or at least that's what people in town said. Anyway, it was Giacomo Rizzitano's idea to seal off the cave by turning that boulder into a door. And inside the cave they kept all sorts of good things, selling them on the black market with the help of his son Pietro, Lillo's father. They were unscrupulous men, who'd been implicated in other affairs which decent people at the time never talked about, including, apparently, some acts of violence. Lillo, on the other hand, had turned out differently. He was sort of literary, he wrote nice poems and read a lot. It was he who first introduced me to Paveses Paesi tuoi, Vittorinis Conversazione in Sicilia, and so on. I used to go visit him, usually when his folks werent there, in a small house right at the foot of the Crasto, on the seaward side."
"Was it demolished to build the tunnel?"
"Yes. Or, more precisely, the earthmovers working on the tunnel merely got rid of the ruins and foundations, since the house was literally pulverized during the bombings that preceded the Allied landing in 1943."
"Think you could track down this Lillo friend of yours?"
"I don't even know whether hes dead or alive, or where he's lived since then. I say this because you should bear in mind that Lillo was, or is, four years older than me."
"Tell me, Mr. Burgio, have you ever been inside that cave?"
"No. I once asked Lillo, but he said no. He had strict orders from his father and grandfather. He was very afraid of them; the fact that hed even told me the secret of the cave was already a lot."
...
Officer Balassone, despite his Piedmontese name, spoke Milanese dialect and always wore a haggard face worthy of the Day of the Dead.
Ll di mort, alegher! Montalbano thought upon seeing him, reminded of the title of a poem by Delio Tessa.
After half an hour of fussing about with his instrument at the back of the cave, Balassone removed his headset and gave the inspector an even more disconsolate look than usual, if that was possible.
I was wrong, thought Montalbano, and now I'm going to look like a stupid shit in Jacomuzzi's eyes.
Jacomuzzi, for his part, after ten minutes inside the cave, had made it known he suffered from claustrophobia and gone outside.
Maybe because now there aren't any TV cameras pointed at you? Montalbano thought maliciously.
"So?" the inspector finally asked Balassone, to confirm his failure.
"It's there, behind the wall," Balassone said mysteriously. He was not only a melancholic, but also a man of few words.
"Would you please tell me, if it's not asking too much, exactly what is there behind the wall?" asked Montalbano, who was becoming dangerously polite.
"On sit voeuij."
"Would you please have the courtesy to speak Italian?"
The appearance and tone seemed those of an eighteenth- century gentleman of the court. Baldassone had no idea that, if he went on at this rate, he was in line to have his nose rearranged. Luckily for him, he obeyed.
"There's a hollow," he said, "and it's as big as this cave here."
The inspector took comfort. He'd seen right. At that moment Jacomuzzi came in.
"Find anything?"
With his immediate superior, Baldassones tongue suddenly loosened. Montalbano gave him a dirty look.
"Yessir," said the Piedmontese. "There apparently is another cave behind this one. It's like something I saw once on television. There was this Eskimos house, what do you call them?oh, yes, this igloo, and right next to it was another igloo. And the two igloos were connected by a kind of passageway, a short, low corridor. It's the same here."
"At a rough glance," said Jacomuzzi, "I'd say the passage between the two caves must date from a good number of years ago."
"Yessir," said Baldassone, looking more and more weary. "If any weapons were hidden in the other cave, they'd have to go back as least as far as the Second World War."
...
The first thing Montalbano noticed about the piece of cardboard, which the crime lab had dutifully inserted in a little transparent plastic bag, was that it had the same shape as Sicily. In the middle of it were some letters printed in black: ato-cat.
"Fazio!"
"At your service!"
"Get Vintis to lend you the Jeep and shovels and pickaxes again. We're going back to the Crasticeddru tomorrow, you, me, German and Galluzzo."
"This is becoming a bad habit!" Fazio cried out.
...
Montalbano felt tired. In the fridge he found some boiled squid and a slice of nicely aged caciocavallo cheese. He set himself up on the veranda. When he had finished eating, he went to look in the freezer, and there he found a tub of lemon ice, which the housekeeper made regularly for him by following a one-two-four formula: one glass of lemon juice, two of sugar, and four of water. A finger-licking delight. Then he decided to stretch out on the bed and finish the novel by Montalb he was unable to read even a chapter. Despite his interest, sleep got the better of him.
He woke up with a start less than two hours later. He looked at his watch: barely eleven oclock. As he was putting the watch back on the bedside table, his eye fell on the piece of cardboard, which he'd brought with him. He picked it up and went into the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet in the cold fluorescent light, he studied it closely. Suddenly an idea flashed in his brain. For a moment it seemed as if the bathroom light were growing steadily in intensity, until it exploded in a luminescent burst. He started laughing.
Is it possible ideas only come to me when I'm on the john?
He studied the piece of cardboard again and again.
I'll try again tomorrow morning, with a cooler head.
But it was not to be. After fifteen minutes of tossing and turning in bed, he got up, grabbed the phone book, and looked up the number of Captain Aliotta of the Customs Police in Montelusa, who was a friend of his.
"Sorry to call so late, but I urgently need some information. Have you ever done any inspections at the supermarket of a certain Carmelo Ingrassia in Vig?"
"The name doesn't ring a bell. And if I cant remember, it probably means that there was an inspection, but it turned up nothing irregular."
"Thanks."
"Wait. The person responsible for these kinds of procedures is Sergeant Lagan. If you want, I'll have him phone you at home. You're at home, right?"
"Yes."
"Give me ten minutes."
He had enough time to go into the kitchen and drink a glass of ice water before the telephone rang.
"Lagan speaking. The captain filled me in. The last inspection check at that supermarket was two months ago. Everything was in order."
"Was it done at your own instigation?"
"Just a routine check. Nothing out of order. In fact, it's not that often we come across a store-owner with his papers in such good order. If somebody wanted to screw him, they'd have nothing to grab onto."
"And you checked everything? Accounts, invoices, receipts?"
"Excuse me, Inspector, but how do you think we do our checks?" asked the sergeant, starting to sound a little testy.
"For heavens sake, Sergeant, I didn't mean to cast any doubt...That wasn't the reason for my question. You see, I'm unfamiliar with certain procedures, and that's why Im asking for your help. How do these supermarkets get their stocks?"
"From wholesalers. They might use five or ten different ones, depending on what they need."