As Zen picked up the leaden suitcase again, he noticed a tall thin man in a beige overcoat staring at him curiously.
His deception would be common knowledge by now, he realized, and his every action a cause for suspicion. He dumped the suitcase in the boot of the Mercedes, got inside and turned the ignition on. Nothing happened. It was a measure of his befuddlement that it took him several minutes to realize that nothing was going to happen, no matter how many times he twisted the key. At first he thought he might have drained the battery by leaving the lights on, but when he tried the windscreen wipers they worked normally. He had invented problems with the Mercedes as a way of breaking the ice with Turiddu and his friends the night before, and the wretched car was apparently now taking its revenge by playing up just when he needed it most. Then he noticed the envelope tucked under one of the wiper blades, like a parking ticket.
Zen got out of the car and plucked it free. The envelope was blank. Inside was a single sheet of paper. FURIO PADKDDA IS A LIAR,' he read. HE WAS NOT IN THE BAR THE NIGHT THE FOREIGNERS WERE KILLED BUT THE MELEGA CLAN OF ORGOSOLO KNOW WHERE HE WAS.
The message had been printed by a hand seemingly used to wielding larger and heavier implements than a pen. The letters were uneven and dissimilar, laboriously crafted, starting big and bold but crowded together at the right-hand margin as though panicked by the prospect of falling off the edge of the page.
Despite his predicament, Zen couldn't help smiling. So the humiliating disaster of the previous night had worked to his advantage, after all. Turiddu had seen an opportunity to even the score with his rival, no doubt easing his conscience with the reflection that Zen had not yet been officially identified as a policeman. If the information was true, it might be just what Zen needed to fabricate a case against Padedda and so keep Palazzo Sisti off his back.
Unfortunately Turiddu's hatred for the 'foreigner' from the mountains, whatever its cause, did not make him a very reliable informant. Nevertheless, there was something about the note which made Zen feel that it wasn't pure fiction, although in his present condition he couldn't work out what it was.
He stuffed the letter into his pocket, wondering what to do next. For no reason at all, he decided to ring Tania.
The phone was of the new variety that accepted coins as well as tokens. Zen fed in his entire supply of change and dialled the distant number. Never had modern technology seemed more miraculous to him than it did then, stranded in a hostile, poverty-stricken Sardinian village listening to a telephone ringing in Tania's flat, a universe away in Rome.
'Yes?'
It was a man's voice, abrupt and bad-tempered.
'Signora Biacis, please.'
'Who's speaking?'
'I'm calling from the Ministry of the Interior.'
'For Christ's sake! Don't you know this is Sunday?'
'Certainly I know!' he replied impatiently. The coins were dropping through the machine with alarming frequency. 'Do you think I like having to work today either?'
What do you want with my wife?'
'I am afraid that's confidential. Just let me speak to her, please.'
'Oh no, certainly not! And don't bother ringing any more, signore, because she isn't in! She won't be in! Nog ever, not for you! Understand? Don't think I don't know wpat's going on behind my back! You think I'm a fool, gon't you? A simpleton! Well, you're wrong about that! I'll peach you to play games with a Bevilacqua! Understand? I know what you've been doing, and I'll make you pay for it! Adulterer! Fornicator!'
At this point Zen's money ran out, sparing him the rest of Mauro Bevilacqua's tirade. He walked despondently pack to the Mercedes. By now the octopus had slackened its grip somewhat, but it still took Zen five minutes tp work out how to open the bonnet. Once he had done so, however, he realized at once why the car would not start.
This was no credit to his mechanical knowledge, which was non-existent. But even he could see that the spray of wires sticking out of the centre of the motor, each cut cleanly through, meant that some essential component had been deliberately removed.
He closed the bonnet and looked around the piazza. The phone box was now occupied by the man in the beige overcoat. With a deep sigh, Zen reluctantly returned to the hotel. Why on earth should anyone want to prevent him from leaving? Did Padedda need time to cover his tracks?
Or was this sabotage Turiddu's way of reconciling his anonymous letter with the burdensome demands of omerta?
The proprietor greeted Zen's reappearance with a perfectly blank face, as though he had never seen him before.
'My car's broken down,' Zen told him. 'Is there a taxi service, a car hire, anything like that?'
'There's a bus.'
'What time does it leave?'
'Six o'clock.'
'In the evening?'
'In the morning.'
Zen gritted his teeth. Then he remembered the railway down in the valley. It was a long walk, but by now he was prepared to consider anything to get out of this cursed place.
'And the train doesn't run on Sunday,' the proprietor added, as though reading his thoughts.
A phone started ringing in the next room. The proprietor went to answer it. Zen sat down at one of the tables and lit a cigarette. He felt close to despair. Just as he had received information that might well make his mission a success, every door had suddenly slammed shut in his face. At this rate, he would have to phone the Carabinieri at Lanusei and ask them nicely to come and pick him up. It was the last thing he wanted to do. To avoid compromising his undercover operation, he hacf left behind all his official identification, so involving the rival force would involve lengthy explanations and verifications, in the course of which his highly questionab]e business here would inevitably be revealed, probabli stymieing his chances of bringing the affair to a satisfactory conclusion. But there appeared to be no alternative, unless he wanted to spend the night in the street or:; cave, like the beggar woman.
He looked up as the thin man in the beige overcoat walked in. Instead of going up to the bar, he headed for the table where Zen was sitting.
'Good morning, dottore.'
Zen stared at him.
'You don't recognize me?' the man asked.
He seemed disappointed. Zen inspected him more carefully. He was about forty years old, with the soft, pallid look of those who work indoors. At first sight he had seemed tall, but Zen now realized that this was due to the man's extreme thinness, and to the fact that Zen had by now adjusted to the Sardinian norm. As far as he knew, he had never seen him before in his life.
'Why should I?' he retorted crossly.
The man drew up a chair and sat down.
'Why indeed? It's like at school, isn't it? The pupils all remember their teacher, even years later, but you can't expect the teacher to recall all the thousands of kids who pave passed through their hands at one time or other. But I still recognize you, dottore. I knew you right away. You haven't aged very much. Or perhaps you were already old, even then.'
He took out a packet of the domestic toscani cigars and broke one in half, replacing one end in the packet and putting the other between his lips.
'Have you got a light?'
Zen automatically handed over his lighter. He felt as though all this was happening to someone else, someone who perhaps understood what was going on. Certainly he didn't.