“Are you Francesco Bellavia?”
“Yes.”
“You are under arrest. And I should warn you that whatever you say in your defense, nobody will believe you.”
“That’s not the right formula,” said Bellavia, who started laughing.
Then he settled down and said:
“Don’t worry, Galluzzo, I won’t say I killed Gurreri, but I won’t say you killed him, either. So why are you arresting me?”
“For the theft of two horses.”
Bellavia started laughing even harder.
“You can imagine how scared I am! And what’s your proof ?”
“Lo Duca and Prestia have confessed,” said Montalbano.
“A fine pair, those two! One goes with little children, and the other is a doormat!”
He got up and held out his wrists for Galluzzo:
“Go on, handcuff me yourself ! That way the farce is complete!”
Without looking into Bellavia’s eyes, which were boring into him, Galluzzo put the handcuffs on him.
“Where are we taking him?”
“To Prosecutor Tommaseo.When you set off for Montelusa, I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”
He returned to headquarters and went into his office.
“Any news?” he asked Fazio.
“Nothing yet.What about you?”
“We’ve arrested Bellavia. He didn’t put up any resistance. I’m going to call Tommaseo from Mimì’s office.”
The prosecutor was still at his desk. He protested, reproaching the inspector for not telling him a thing about the case.
“It all happened in the space of a few hours, sir. There was simply no time whatsoever to—”
“And you arrested him under what charge?”
“The theft of two horses.”
“Well, for a figure like Bellavia it’s a pretty paltry charge.”
“You know what they say where I come from, sir? That every bit of fly shit counts. Anyway, I’m sure it was Bellavia who killed Gurreri. If we work him hard enough, and he’s a tough one, he’ll end up admitting to something.”
He went back into his office and found Fazio on the telephone.
“Yes . . . yes . . . All right. I’ll relay that to the chief.”
He set down the receiver and said to Montalbano:
“Inspector Augello told me they saw Prestia go into a house that has a stable next to it. But since there are four cars aside from Prestia’s parked outside the house, Augello thinks there may be a meeting going on inside. He wants to avoid a shoot-out: says it’s better to wait for the others to leave.”
“He’s right.”
A good hour went by without any phone calls coming in. Apparently it was a long meeting. Montalbano couldn’t wait any longer.
“Call Mimì and ask him what’s happening.”
Fazio spoke to Augello.
“He says they’re still inside, and there are at least eight of them. It’s best to wait a little longer.”
Montalbano glanced at his watch and leapt to his feet. It was already eight-thirty.
“Listen, Fazio, I absolutely have to go to Marinella. As soon as there’s any news, ring me.”
He raced home, opened up the French door, and set the table on the veranda.
He had barely finished when the doorbell rang. He went to answer. There were Ingrid and Rachele, loaded down with three bottles of wine, two of whisky, and a parcel.
“It’s a cassata,” Ingrid explained.
They therefore had serious intentions. Montalbano went into the kitchen to uncork the bottles when he heard the phone ring. It must be Fazio.
“One of you get that!” he said.
He heard Rachele’s voice say:
“Hello?”
Then:
“Yes, this is the home of Inspector Montalbano.Who is this?”
He suddenly had an inkling that sent chills down his spine. He dashed into the dining room. Rachele had just set down the receiver.
“Who was it?”
“A woman. She didn’t say her name. She hung up.”
He didn’t sink underground like the other times, but felt the ceiling come crashing down on his head. Surely that was Livia who had called! And now how was he going to explain to her that it was a perfectly innocent gathering? Damn the moment when he decided to invite them to dinner! He foresaw a bitter night ahead, spent mostly on the telephone. Chagrined, he returned to the kitchen, and the phone rang again.
“I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” he yelled.
This time it was Fazio.
“Chief ? It’s all done. Inspector Augello has arrested Prestia and is taking him to the prosecutor’s.They’ve recovered Esterman’s horse. It appears to be in excellent shape. They’ve put it into the van.”
“Where are they taking it?”
“To the stable of a friend of Inspector Augello’s.Augello has also informed Montelusa of everything.”
“Thanks, Fazio.We’ve really done a very fine job.”
“It was all your doing, Chief.”
He went out on the veranda. Leaning against the French door, he said to the two women:
“After we’ve eaten, I have something to tell you.”
He didn’t want to ruin the meal that was waiting for him with the tremendous bother of hugs, tears, emotions, and thanks.
“Let’s go see what Adelina has prepared for us,” he said.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Like the other novels with Inspector Montalbano as protagonist, the present one was suggested to me by two news items: a horse found slaughtered on a beach near Catania, and the theft of two horses from a stable in Grosseto province, in Tuscany.
By this point I think it useless to say—but I’ll do so anyway—that the names of the characters and the situations in which they find themselves have been entirely invented by me, and therefore have no connection whatsoever with any actual, living persons.
Should anyone happen to recognize him—or herself in this story, it only means they have a better imagination than I do.