“Once it took them forty-five minutes to get up there,” said Ingrid.
“Is it always the same three?”
“Yes. By tradition.”
“Your attention, please! Will the competing ladies please go with their horses to their assigned starting cages!”
“How are the cages assigned?” asked Montalbano.
“They draw lots.”
“How come there’s no sign of Lo Duca?”
“He’s probably with Rachele. The horse she’s racing today is one of his.”
“Do you know which cage she’s got?”
“The first one, the one closest to the inside track.”
“And it could not have been otherwise!” commented a guy who had overheard their conversation, as he was standing just to the left of Montalbano.
The inspector turned to face him.The man was about fifty and sweaty, and had a head so bald and shiny that it hurt the eyes to look at it.
“What do you mean to say?”
“Exactly what I said. With Guido Costa in charge of it, they have the gall to call it a lottery!” said the sweaty man, indignant, before walking away.
“Have you any idea what he was talking about?” he asked Ingrid.
“Of course! The usual nasty gossip! Since Guido is in charge of the lots, the man was claiming that the lottery was rigged in Rachele’s favor.”
“So this Guido would be—”
“Yes.”
So, in that social circle, it was well known that there was something between the two.
“How many laps do they run?”
“Five.”
“Your attention, please! As of this moment, the starter may give the starting signal whenever he sees fit.”
Less than a minute passed before a pistol shot rang out.
“And they’re off !”
Montalbano was expecting the baron to act as the announcer and narrate the race, but Piscopo di Militello fell silent, set down the microphone, and picked up a pair of binoculars.
At the end of the first lap, Rachele was in third place.
“Who are the two in the lead?”
“Benedetta and Beatrice.”
“Think Rachele will make it?”
“It’s hard to say.With a horse she doesn’t know . . .”
Then they heard a great roar, and on the far side of the track there was a great commotion and a lot of people running.
“Beatrice has fallen,” said Ingrid. Then she added, maliciously, “Maybe she didn’t put herself in the right condition to feel the horse properly.”
“Mesdames et messieurs! I inform you that rider Beatrice della Bicocca has fallen from her horse, but luckily with no untoward consequences whatsoever.”
After the second lap, Benedetta was still in the lead, though followed closely by a rider the inspector didn’t recognize.
“Who’s she?” he asked.
“Veronica del Bosco, who shouldn’t be any problem for Rachele.”
“But why hasn’t Rachele taken advantage of the fall?”
“No idea.”
As they began the final lap, Rachele moved up into second place. For about fifty yards she engaged in a tight, rousing head-to-head dash with Benedetta, as the crowd seemed to go completely mad with shouting. Even Montalbano found himself yelling:
“Come on, Rachele! Come on!”
Then, about thirty yards from the finish line, Benedetta’s horse seemed to grow ten extra legs, and there wasn’t much Rachele could do about it.
“Too bad!” said Ingrid. “If she’d had her own horse, she would surely have won. Are you sorry?”
“Well, a little.”
“Mostly because you won’t be kissed by Rachele, right?”
“So what do we do now?”
“Now the baron is going to read the results.”
“What results? We already know who won.”
“Just wait.They’re interesting.”
Montalbano torched a cigarette. Three or four people who were standing near him stepped away, staring at him with annoyance.
“Mesdames et messieurs!” the baron called out from his turret. “It is my pleasure to announce to you that the sum total of the bets amounts to over six hundred thousand euros! I am truly grateful to all of you.”
Figuring there were about three hundred people present, and most were either blue bloods or businessmen or landowners, you couldn’t exactly say they had opened their wallets.
“The rider who received the highest number of bets was Signora Rachele Esterman!”
The crowd applauded. Rachele had lost the race, but raised the most money.
“I ask our distinguished guests please not to linger on the lawn, where we shall need to set up the tables for dinner, but to gather in the salons inside the villa.”
When Montalbano and Ingrid turned their backs on the track, the last thing they saw were two manservants who, having picked up Colonel Romeres, were lowering him from the turret.
“I’m going to go change,” said Ingrid, slipping away. “See you in about an hour, in the salon of the ancestors.”
Montalbano went into the salon, found a mysteriously unoccupied armchair, and sat down. He had to get through an hour without thinking about what he had realized as he was watching the race, which had put him on edge. He had noticed that he couldn’t see very well.There was no denying it. Each time the horses were running on the far side of the track from where he stood, he could no longer make out the different colors of the riders’ silks. Everything became muddled, the outlines blurred. If not for Ingrid he would not even have realized that it was Beatrice della Bicocca who had fallen.
“Well, what’s so unusual about that?” asked Montalbano One. “It’s old age. Mimì Augello was right.”
“That’s bullshit!” Montalbano Two rebelled. “Mimì Augello says you hold things at arm’s length in order to read.That’s presbyopia, which is typical of aging.Whereas what we have here is myopia, which has nothing to do with age!”
“Then what’s it got to do with?”
“It could be fatigue, a temporary loss of—”
“Whatever the case, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go have—”
The discussion was interrupted by a man who planted himself directly in front of the armchair.
“Inspector Montalbano! Rachele had told me you were here, but I couldn’t find you.”
It was Lo Duca.About fifty, tall, most distinguished, most tanned from solar lamps, most glistening smile, salt-and-pepper hair groomed to perfection. One could only use superlatives to describe him. Montalbano stood up, and they shook hands. He was most fragrant as well.
“Why don’t we go outside?” Lo Duca suggested. “It’s stifling in here.”
“But the baron said . . .”
“Never mind the baron. Come with me.”
They passed back through the salon of armor, went out one of the French doors, but instead of taking the broad lane, Lo Duca immediately turned left. On this side there was a very well tended garden with three gazebos.Two had people in them, but the third was free. It was starting to get dark, but one of the gazebos had its light on.
“You want me to turn on the light?” asked Lo Duca. “But take my word for it, it’s better if we don’t. We’d be eaten alive by mosquitoes.Which will happen anyway during dinner.”
There were two comfortable wicker easy chairs and a little table with a vase of flowers and an ashtray on it. Lo Duca took out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to the inspector.
“Thanks, but I prefer my own.”
They lit their cigarettes.
“Excuse me for getting straight to the point,” said Lo Duca. “Perhaps you don’t feel like talking about work at the moment, but—”
“Not at all, go right ahead.”
“Thank you,” Lo Duca began. “Rachele told me she went to the Vigàta police to report the disappearance of her horse, but then didn’t file the report after you told her it had been killed.”