The same burst that killed Mimi woke the inspector up.
He was still lying on the pages of the newspaper, under the olive tree, drenched in sweat. At least a million ants had taken possession of his body.
13
Few, and at first glance insubstantial, were the ultimate differences between the dream and the reality. The secluded little farmhouse pointed out by Father Crucillà as Japichinu’s secret hideout was the same as the one Montalbano had dreamt, except that this one, instead of a little window, had an open balcony directly over the door, which was also wide open.
Unlike in the dream, the priest did not run off in haste.
“You might,” he said, “be needing me.”
And Montalbano, in his mind, had duly knocked on wood. Father Crucillà, crouching behind a huge sorghum bush with the inspector and Augello, eyed the house and shook his head in concern.
“What’s wrong?” asked Montalbano.
“I don’t like the look of the door and balcony. The other times I came to see him, it was all closed up, and you had to knock. Be careful, I mean it. I can’t swear that Japichinu is ready to turn himself in. He keeps a machine gun always within reach, and he knows how to use it.”
When he was sure that Fazio and Gallo had reached their positions behind the house; Montalbano looked at Augello.
“I’m going in now. You cover me.”
“What kind of novelty is this?” Mimi reacted. “We’ve always done it the other way around.”
Montalbano couldn’t tell him he’d seen him die in a dream.
“This time we’re doing it differently.”
Mimi didn’t answer. He merely hunkered down with his .38. He could tell, by the inspector’s tone of voice, when there was room for discussion and when there was not.
Night hadn’t fallen yet. There was that gray light that precedes darkness, making it possible to distinguish silhouettes.
“How come he hasn’t turned on the lights?” asked Augello, gesturing with his chin towards the darkened house.
“Maybe he’s waiting for us,” said Montalbano.
And he rose to his feet, out in the open.
“What are you doing? What are you doing?” Mimi said in a whisper, trying to grab him by the jacket and pull him down. Then all of a sudden a terrifying thought occurred to him.
“Have you got your gun?”
“No.”
“Take mine.”
“No,” the inspector repeated, taking two steps forward. He stopped and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Japichinu! This is Montalbano. I’m unarmed.”
There was no answer. The inspector advanced a short distance, calmly, as though out for a stroll. About ten feet from the door, he stopped again and said in a voice only slightly louder than normaclass="underline"
“Japichinu! I’m coming inside now. So we can talk in peace.”
Nobody answered, nobody moved. Montalbano raised his hands and entered the house. It was pitch-dark inside. He stepped slightly to one side, so as not to be visible in the doorway. And that was when he smelled it, that odor he had smelled so many times, which always gave him a vague feeling of nausea. Before turning on the light, he already knew what he would see. Japichinu lay in the middle of the room, on top of what looked like a red blanket but was in fact his blood. Throat slashed. He must have been taken by surprise, treacherously, when he turned his back to his assassin.
“Salvo! Salvo! What’s happening?”
It was Mimi Augello. Montalbano appeared in the doorway.
“Fazio! Gallo! Mimi! Come!”
They all came running, the priest following behind, out of breath. Then, at the sight of Japichinu, they froze. The first one to move was Father Crucillà, who knelt beside the dead man, unconcerned by the blood soiling his frock, blessed him, and began to murmur some prayers. Mimi, for his part, touched the corpse’s forehead.
“They must have killed him not two hours ago.”
“What do we do now?” asked Fazio.
“The three of you are going to get in one car and go,” said Montalbano. “You’ll leave me the other car. I want to stay and have a little talk with the priest. Just remember: We never came to this house, and we never saw Japichinu’s corpse. Anyway, we’re not authorized to be here; it’s outside our territory. There could be some hassles.”
“All the same—” Mimi Augello started to say.
“All the same, my ass. We’ll meet back at the office.”
They filed out like beaten dogs, obeying against their will. The inspector heard them muttering intensely as they walked away. The priest was lost in prayer. He had more than his share of Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and requiems to recite, what with the load of murders on Japichinu’s shoulders, wherever he might be sailing at that moment. Montalbano climbed the stone staircase that led to the room above and turned on the light. There were two cots with only their mattresses, a nightstand between them, a shabby armoire, and two wooden chairs. In one corner, a small altar consisting of a low table covered with an embroidered white tablecloth. On the altar stood three statuettes: the Virgin Mary, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and Saint Calogero. Each statue had a little light burning in front. Japichinu was a religious kid, as his grandfather Balduccio had said. So religious he even had a spiritual father. The only problem was that the kid and the priest both mistook superstition for religion. Like most Sicilians, for that matter. The inspector remembered once having seen a crude votive painting from the early twentieth century, depicting a viddrano, a peasant, fleeing from two plumed carabinieri in hot pursuit. On the upper right, the Madonna was leaning down from the clouds, showing the fugitive the best path of escape. The scroll bore the words: For excaping the cluches of the law. On one of the cots, lying crosswise, was a Kalashnikov. He turned off the light, went downstairs, pulled up one of the two wicker chairs, and sat down.
“Father Crucillà.”
The priest, who was still praying, roused himself and looked up.
“Eh?”
“Pull up a chair and sit down. We need to talk.”
The priest obeyed. He was congested and sweating.
“How am I ever going to tell Don Balduccio?”
“There’s no need.”
“Why?”
“Because by now he’s already been told.”
“By whom?”
“By the killer, naturally.”
Father Crucillà struggled to grasp this. He kept staring at the inspector and moving his lips without forming any words. Then he understood and, eyes bulging, bolted out of his chair, reeled backwards, slipped on the blood, but managed to remain standing.
Now he’s going to have a stroke and die, thought Montalbano, alarmed.
“In God’s name, what are you saying?!” the priest wheezed.
“I’m just saying how things stand.”
“But Japichinu was sought by the police, the carabinieri, the Secret Service!”
“Who don’t usually slit the throats of people they’re trying to arrest.”
“What about the new Mafia? Or the Cuffaros?”
“Father, you just don’t want to accept that you and I have both been taken for a ride by that sly fox, Balduccio Sinagra.”
“What proof do you have—”
“Sit back down, if you don’t mind. Would you like a little water?”
Father Crucillà nodded yes. Montalbano grabbed a jug full of water, still nice and cool, and handed it to the priest, who put his lips to it at once.
“I have no proof and don’t believe we ever will.”
“And so?”
“Answer me first. Japichinu wasn’t staying here alone. He had a bodyguard who even slept beside him at night, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“What’s his name, do you know?”
“Lollò Spadaro.”
“Was he a friend of Japichinu’s or one of Don Balduccio’s men?”
“One of Don Balduccio’s. It was the don who wanted it this way. Japichinu didn’t even like ‘im, but he said with Lollò around, he felt safe.”