The Track of Sand by Andrea Camilleri Page A

would it really be possible? God only knew how many people there would be around her. Wasn’t it perhaps better to call her now, as it wasn’t yet eight-thirty? He decided that this was best.
    “Hello? Signora Esterman?”
    “Yes.Who is this?”
    “Inspector Montalbano here.”
    “Oh, no you don’t! Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind!”
    “About what?”
    “Ingrid told me you were coming here to Fiacca tomorrow.”
    “I’ll be there, signora.”
    “That makes me so, so happy. Be sure to free yourself up for the evening as well. There will be a dinner, and you are one of my guests.”
    Matre santa! Not a dinner!
    “Look, actually, tomorrow evening—”
    “Don’t make up any silly excuses.”
    “Will Ingrid also be at the dinner?”
    “Can’t you take a single step without her?”
    “No, it’s just that, since she’ll be driving me to Fiacca, I was thinking that, for the return—”
    “Don’t worry, Ingrid will be there. Why did you call me?”
    “Why did I ...?”The prospect of the dinner, the people whose conversation he would have to listen to, the muck that would likely be served and that he would have to swallow even if it made him puke, had made him forget that it was he who had called her. “Oh, right, sorry. But I don’t want to take up any more of your time. If you could just give me about five minutes tomorrow—”
    “Tomorrow there’s going to be pandemonium. But I do have a little time right now, before I get ready to go out to eat.”
    With Guido? A candlelight dinner?
    “Listen, signora—”
    “Please call me Rachele.”
    “All right, Rachele. Do you remember when you told me that it was the watchman of the stables who had informed you that your horse—”
    “Yes, I remember saying that. But I must have been mistaken.”
    “Why?”
    “Because Chichi—I’m sorry, Lo Duca told me the poor night watchman was at the hospital. On the other hand . . .”
    “Go on, Rachele.”
    “On the other hand I’m almost certain he said he was the watchman. But I’d been asleep, you know, it was very early in the morning and I’d been up very late . . .”
    “I understand. Did Lo Duca tell you who he had asked to call you?”
    “Lo Duca didn’t ask anyone to call me. That would have been ungentlemanly. It was up to him to inform me.”
    “And did he?”
    “Of course! He phoned me from Rome around nine in the morning.”
    “And did you tell him that someone had already called?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did he make any comment?”
    “He said it was probably someone from the stable who had called of his own initiative.”
    “Have you got another minute?”
    “Listen, I’m in the bathtub at the moment and I am really enjoying it. Hearing your voice so close to my ear right now is . . . Never mind.”
    She played rough, this Rachele Esterman.
    “You told me you phoned the stables in the afternoon—”
    “You’re not remembering correctly. Someone from the stable called to tell me the horse hadn’t been found yet.”
    “Did the person identify himself ?”
    “No.”
    “Was it the same voice as in the morning?”
    “I . . . think so.”
    “Did you mention this second phone call to Lo Duca?”
    “No. Should I have?”
    “No, there was no need. All right, Rachele, I—”
    “Wait.”
    A minute of silence passed. They hadn’t been cut off, because Montalbano could hear her breathing. Then she said in a low voice:
    “I get it.”
    “You get what?”
    “What you suspect.”
    “Namely?”
    “That the person who called me twice was not from the stables, but was one of the people who stole and killed my horse. Am I right?”
    Shrewd, beautiful, and smart.
    “You’re right.”
    “Why did they do it?”
    “I can’t really say at the moment.”
    There was a pause.
    “Oh, listen. Is there any news of Lo Duca’s horse?”
    “They’ve lost all trace of it.”
    “How strange.”
    “Well, Rachele, that’s about all I had—”
    “I wanted to tell you