The Terra-Cotta Dog (13 page)

He studied the piece of cardboard again and again.

But it was not to be. After fifteen minutes of tossing and turning in bed, he got up, grabbed the phone book, and looked up the number of Captain Aliotta of the Customs Police in Montelusa, who was a friend of his.

“Sorry to call so late, but I urgently need some information. Have you ever done any inspections at the supermarket of a certain Carmelo Ingrassia in Vigàta?”

“The name doesn't ring a bell. And if I can't remember, it probably means that there was an inspection, but it turned up nothing irregular.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait. The person responsible for these kinds of procedures is Sergeant Laganà. If you want, I'll have him phone you at home. You're at home, right?”

“Yes.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

He had enough time to go into the kitchen and drink a glass of ice water before the telephone rang.

“Laganà speaking. The captain filled me in. The last inspection check at that supermarket was two months ago. Everything was in order.”

“Was it done at your own instigation?”

“Just a routine check. Nothing out of order. In fact, it's not that often we come across a store-owner with his papers in such good order. If somebody wanted to screw him, they'd have nothing to grab onto.”

“And you checked everything? Accounts, invoices, receipts?”

“Excuse me, Inspector, but how do you think we do our checks?” asked the sergeant, starting to sound a little testy.

“For heaven's sake, Sergeant, I didn't mean to cast any doubt . . . That wasn't the reason for my question. You see, I'm unfamiliar with certain procedures, and that's why I'm asking for your help. How do these supermarkets get their stocks?”

“From wholesalers. They might use five or ten different ones, depending on what they need.”

“I see. Would you be able to tell me who the suppliers of the Ingrassia supermarket are?”

“I think so. I should have some notes around here somewhere.”

“I really appreciate this. I'll call you tomorrow at the barracks.”

“But I'm at the barracks right now! Stay on the line.”

Montalbano heard some whistling.

“Hello, Inspector? Here we are. The wholesalers that stock Ingrassia . . . there's three from Milan, one from Bergamo, one in Taranto, one in Catania. Take this down. In Milan—”

“Wait. Excuse me for interrupting. Start with Catania.”

“The corporate name of the Catanian company is ‘Pan,' you know, like ‘frying pan.' Owned by Salvatore Nicosia, who resides at—”

It didn't add up.

“Thanks, that's enough.”

“Wait, here's something else I'd forgotten about. The supermarket is also supplied by another wholesaler, also in Catania, for its household goods. That one's called Brancato.”

ATO-CAT, the piece of cardboard said. Brancato-Catania: it added up, and how! Montalbano's cry of joy thundered in the sergeant's earpiece, frightening him.

“Inspector? Inspector! Oh, my God, what happened? Are you all right, Inspector?”

11

Fresh and smiling, in jacket and tie and enveloped in a haze of cologne, Montalbano showed up at the home of Francesco Lacommare, manager of the Ingrassia supermarket, at seven o'clock in the morning. The manager greeted him not only with legitimate astonishment, but also in his underwear, with a glass of milk in hand.

“What is it?” he asked, turning pale upon recognizing the inspector.

“Two simple little questions and I'll get out of your hair. But, first, one very serious stipulation: this meeting must remain between you and me. If you speak to anyone at all about it, even your boss, I'll find an excuse to throw your ass in jail, and you can bank on that.”

As Lacommare was struggling to recover his breath, a shrill, annoying female voice exploded inside the apartment:

“Ciccino! Who's that at this hour?”

“It's nothing, Carmelina, go back to sleep,” Lacommare reassured her, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Do you mind, Inspector, if we talk over here on the landing? The top floor, the one right above us, is vacant, so there's no danger anyone will bother us.”

“Who do you buy from in Catania?”

“From Pan and Brancato.”

“Do they have fixed delivery schedules?”

“Once a week for Pan, once a month for Brancato. We've coordinated it with the other supermarkets that use the same wholesalers.”

“Very good. So, as I understand it, Brancato will load up a truck with merchandise and send it out to make the rounds of the supermarkets. Now, where on these rounds is your store situated? Let me explain better—”

“I understand, Inspector. The truck leaves Catania, services the Caltanissetta area first, then Trapani, then Montelusa. The Vigàta markets are the last ones the truck visits before heading back to Catania.”

“One last question. The merchandise those thieves took and then left behind—”

“You're very intelligent, Inspector.”

“You are, too, if you can answer me before I've asked you a question.”

“The fact is, this whole story's been keeping me up at night. Here's the problem: The Brancato merchandise was delivered early. We were expecting it first thing the next morning, but it arrived the evening before, just as we were closing. The driver told us one of his supermarkets in Trapani had been suddenly closed for mourning, so he was ahead of schedule. Mr. Ingrassia, to free up the truck, had it unloaded, checked the list, and counted the crates. But he didn't have anyone open them up. Said it was too late. He didn't want to pay anybody overtime and said we could do everything the next day. A few hours later, the store was robbed. So, my question is: Who told the robbers the merchandise had arrived early?”

Lacommare was putting some passion into his reasoning. Montalbano decided to play devil's advocate. After all, the manager must not be allowed to get too close to the truth; that might cause trouble. Most of all, it was obvious he was unaware of Ingrassia's trafficking.

“The two things aren't necessarily connected,” the inspector said. “The thieves could have come to rob what you already had in storage and ended up finding the freshly delivered merchandise instead.”

“Yes, but then why leave it all behind?”

That was indeed the question. Montalbano was hesitant to give an answer that might satisfy Lacommare's curiosity.

“But who the fuck is that anyway?” asked the now enraged female voice from within.

She must have been a woman of delicate sentiment, this Signora Lacommare. Montalbano took advantage of the interruption to leave. He'd found out what he wanted to know.

“My respects to your lovely wife,” he said, starting back down the stairs.

When he reached the front door, however, he sprang back upstairs like a tethered ball and rang the doorbell.

“You again?” Lacommare had drunk his milk but was still in his underwear.

“I'm sorry, I forgot something. Are you sure the truck was completely empty after you unloaded it?”

“No, I didn't say that. There were still about fifteen large crates. The driver said they belonged to that supermarket in Trapani that he'd found closed.”

“But what is all this fucking commotion so early in the morning?” Signora Carmelina shrieked from within, and Montalbano fled without even saying good-bye.

 
 
“I think I've determined, with reasonable accuracy, the route the weapons traveled before reaching the cave. Bear with me, Mr. Commissioner. Here goes: In some way that we have yet to discover, the weapons come to the Brancato firm in Catania from some other part of the world. Brancato warehouses them and puts them in big boxes with the company name on them, so they look like they contain normal electrical appliances to be sold in supermarkets. When they receive the order to deliver, the Brancato people load the boxes with the weapons onto the truck, along with the rest. As a precaution, along some stretch of road between Catania and Caltanissetta, they replace the company truck with a stolen one. That way, if anybody finds the weapons, Brancato's can claim they had nothing to do with it, they know nothing about it, the truck isn't theirs, and, in fact, they themselves were robbed. The stolen truck begins its circuit, dropping off the . . . uh . . . ‘clean' crates at the various supermarkets it supplies, then heads off to Vigàta. Before arriving, however, it stops in the middle of the night at the Crasticeddru and unloads the weapons in the cave. Early that morning—according to Lacommare, the store manager—they deliver their final packages to the Ingrassia supermarket and then leave. On the way back to Catania, the stolen truck is then replaced by the company's actual truck, which returns home as if it has made its full journey. Maybe they take care to tinker with the odometer each time. And they've been playing this little game for at least three years, since Jacomuzzi said that the outfitting of the cave in fact goes back three years.”

“Your explanation makes excellent logical sense,” said the commissioner. “But I still don't understand the whole charade of the phony robbery.”

“They acted out of necessity. Do you remember that gunfight between a patrol of carabinieri and three thugs in the Santa Lucia countryside, where one carabiniere was wounded?”

“Yes, I do remember it, but what's that got to do with this?”

“The local radio stations broadcast the news around nine P.M., right when the truck was on its way to the Crasticeddru. Santa Lucia is only about a mile and a half away from the cave. The traffickers must have heard the news on the radio. It would have been stupid to let themselves be spotted in a deserted place by some patrol—of which there were many that night, racing to the site of the shoot-out. So they decided to push on to Vigàta. They were certain to run into a roadblock, but that was the lesser evil at this point, since they stood a good chance of slipping through. And that's what happened. So: they arrive well ahead of schedule and make up the story about the supermarket closed for mourning in Trapani. Ingrassia, who's been alerted of the hitch, has his employees unload the truck, which then pretends to head back to Catania. It's still carrying the weapons, those same crates which they told Lacommare, the manager, were supposed to have gone to the supermarket in Trapani. The truck is then hidden somewhere around Vigàta, on Ingrassia's or some accomplice's property.”

“I ask you again:Why fake the heist? From where they'd hidden it, the truck could have easily gone back to the Crasticeddru without having to pass through Vigàta.”

“But it did have to pass through Vigàta. If they'd been stopped by the carabinieri, the Customs Police, or whomever, with those fifteen crates aboard, unaccompanied by any delivery note, they would have aroused suspicion. They'd have been forced to open one, and that would have been the end of that. They absolutely did have to take back the packages that Ingrassia had unloaded, and which he had every reason not to open.”

“I'm beginning to understand.”

“So, at a certain hour of the night, the truck returns to the supermarket. The night watchman is in no position to recognize either the deliverymen or the truck because he wasn't yet on duty when they came the previous evening. They load the still-sealed packages, head off to the Crasticeddru, unload the weapons crates, turn back around, ditch the truck in the lot behind the filling station, and their work is done.”

“But can you tell me why they didn't simply get rid of the stolen merchandise and head back to Catania?”

“That's the stroke of genius. By leaving the truck behind with all the stolen merchandise inside, they throw us off their trail. We're automatically forced to assume some kind of flap—a threat, a warning for not paying one's protection dues. In short, they force us to investigate at a lower level, the kind of stuff that is unfortunately an everyday matter in this part of Italy. And Ingrassia plays his part very well, absurdly calling it all a practical joke.”

“A real stroke of genius,” said the commissioner.

“Yes, but if you look closely enough, you can always uncover a mistake. In our case, they didn't realize that a piece of cardboard had slipped under the planks that served as the cave's floor.”

“Right, right,” the commissioner said pensively. Then, as if to himself: “Who knows where the empty boxes ended up?” he queried.

Now and then the commissioner would pause in idiotic wonder over meaningless details.

“They probably loaded them into some car and burned them out in the country. Because some accomplices brought at least two cars to the Crasticeddru, perhaps to take the driver away after he'd ditched the truck behind the gas station.”

“So without that piece of cardboard we would never have discovered anything,” the commissioner concluded.

“Well, not exactly,” said Montalbano. “I was following another path that would eventually have led me to the same conclusions. They were forced, you see, to kill a poor old man.”

The commissioner gave a start, darkening.

“A murder? Why was I not informed of this?”

“Because it was made to look like an accident. I only ascertained a couple of nights ago that the brakes on his car had been tampered with.”

“Was it Jacomuzzi who told you?”

“For the love of God! Jacomuzzi, bless his soul, is certainly competent, but mixing him up in this would have been like issuing a press release.”