Fazio turned slightly pensive.
“I’m beginning to think that maybe the illegal aliens—”
“—have nothing to do with this,” Montalbano completed his sentence.“After you all left this morning, I became convinced of it.The cart’s tracks did not lead all the way to their shanties; after some fifty yards or so, they turned towards the provincial road.Where there must certainly have been a truck waiting for them.”
“From what I can gather,” Mimì intervened, “it looks like they got rid of the only lead we had.”
“And that’s why it won’t be easy to identify the owner,” Fazio concluded.
“Barring some stroke of luck,” said Mimì.
Montalbano noticed that for some time now, Fazio seemed to lack confidence, as if finding things more and more difficult. Maybe the years were beginning to weigh on him, too.
But they were wrong, dead wrong, to think it would be so difficult to identify the horse’s owner.
At lunchtime the inspector went to Enzo’s, but he didn’t do justice to the dishes he was served. In his head he still had the scene of the bludgeoned horse lying on the sand. At a certain point he came out with a question that surprised him.
What’s it like to eat horsemeat?
I’ve never tasted it.They say it’s sort of sweet.
As he had eaten very little, he felt no need to take his customary stroll along the jetty. When he returned to the office, there were papers for him to sign.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, the telephone rang.
“Chief, that’d be a lady named Esther.”
“She didn’t give you her full name?”
“Yessir, she did, an’ iss what I juss tol’ you.”
“So she’s Miss or Mrs. Esther?”
“Zackly, Chief. An’ her lass name is Man.”
Esther Mann. He’d never heard of her.
“Did she tell you what it was about?”
“Nossir.”
“Well, have her talk to Fazio or Augello.”
“They ain’t presentable, Chief.”
“All right then, send her in.”
“My name is Esterman, Rachele Esterman,” said a fortyish woman in sport coat and jeans, tall, with blond hair falling onto her shoulders, blue eyes, long legs, and a solid, athletic body. In short, the way one imagines the Valkyries looked.
“Make yourself comfortable, signora.”
She sat down and crossed her legs. How was it that, when crossed, her legs looked even longer?
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m here to report the disappearance of a horse.”
Montalbano gave a start in his chair, but concealed the movement by feigning a coughing fit.
“I can see you’re a smoker,” said Rachele, gesturing towards the ashtray and pack of cigarettes on the desk.
“Yes, but I don’t think my cough has got anything—”
“I wasn’t referring to your cough, which, in any case, sounded clearly faked. I meant that since you smoke, I can smoke, too.”
And she pulled a pack out of her purse.
“Well, actually . . .”
“You mean it’s prohibited here? Do you feel like transgressing a little, for as long as it takes to smoke a cigarette? We can open the window afterwards.”
She stood up, went to close the door, which had been left open, sat back down, stuck a cigarette between her lips, and leaned towards the inspector so he could light it.
“So, tell me,” she said, blowing the smoke out her nose.
“I’m sorry, but it’s you who came here to tell me something . . .”
“At first. But when you reacted so clumsily to my words, I realized you were already informed of the disappearance. Am I right?”
The bright-eyed goddess[3] could probably see flutters in the nose hairs of anyone in front of her. He might as well lay his cards on the table.
“Yes, you are. But shall we proceed in orderly fashion?”
“Let’s.”
“Do you live here?”
“I’ve been in Montelusa for three days, staying at a friend’s house.”
“If you’re living in Montelusa, even temporarily, then by law you should file your report in—”
“But the horse had been put in the care of someone from Vigàta.”
“What’s the name?”
“Saverio Lo Duca.”
Shit. Saverio Lo Duca was easily one of the richest men in Sicily and had a stable in Vigàta.With four or five prized horses he kept just for the fun of it, for the pleasure of owning them. He never entered them in shows or races. Every so often he would come into town and spend an entire day with the animals. He had powerful friends, and it was always a pain to have any dealings with him, because there was always the danger that one would say the wrong thing and piss outside the urinal.
“Let me get this straight.You brought your horse along with you when you came to Montelusa?”
Rachele Esterman gave him a puzzled look.
“Of course. I had to.”
“And why’s that?
“Because, day after tomorrow, at Fiacca, there’s going to be the ladies’ race, the one organized every two years by Baron Piscopo di San Militello.”
“Ah, yes.”
It was a bluff. He had never heard of this race.
“When did you realize the horse had been stolen?”
“Me? I didn’t realize anything. I received a phone call in Montelusa at dawn this morning from the chief hand at Chichi’s stable.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m sorry. Chichi is Saverio Lo Duca.”
“But if you were informed of the disappearance first thing in the morning—”
“—why did I wait so long to report it?”
She was smart. But her way of finishing his sentences got on his nerves.
“Because my sorrel—”
“Your what? Is that the horse’s name? Like Julien Sorel?”
She laughed heartily, throwing her head backwards.
“You really don’t know the first thing about horses, do you?”
“Well . . .”
“Chestnut horses with light manes and tails are called sorrels. As I was saying, my horse—whose name, as it happens, is Super—has a habit of running away from time to time, forcing us to go out and look for him. So they looked for him but then phoned me around three to tell me they hadn’t found him. And I concluded that he hadn’t run away.”
“I see.You don’t think that, in the meantime, they may have—”
“They would have called me on the cell phone.”
She had him light another cigarette.
“And now give me the bad news.”
“What makes you surmise that—”
“Inspector, you’ve been very shrewd. With the excuse that we should proceed in orderly fashion, you’ve avoided answering my question.You’re stalling. And this can mean only one thing. Has he been kidnapped? Should I expect a demand for a great deal of money?”
“Is he worth a lot?”
“A fortune. He’s a Thoroughbred English racehorse.”
What to do? Better tell her everything, in small steps, since he would have to come out with it in the end anyway.
“He hasn’t been kidnapped.”
Rachele Esterman leaned back stiffly in her chair, suddenly pale.
“How can you know that? Have you spoken with anyone at the stable?”
“No.”
Looking at her, Montalbano felt as if he could hear the gears whirring in her brain.
“Is he . . . dead?”
“Yes.”
The woman pulled the ashtray towards herself, took the cigarette out of her mouth, and extinguished it with great care.
“Was he run over by—”
“No.”
She must not have understood the meaning of this at once, because she repeated the word “no” several times, under her breath, to herself.
Then she suddenly understood.
“Was he killed?”
“Yes.”
Without saying a word, she got up, went over to the window, opened it, leaned out with her elbows on the sill. Every so often her shoulders heaved. She was silently crying.
The inspector let her get it out of her system, then went and stood next to her at the window. He realized she was still crying, so he pulled a packet of tissues from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.