yesterday while I was cutting firewood, Inspector,” he explained. “But I couldn’t walk back three miles to Sagràte to give you the news right away. See, here’s the axe as I left it. I just turn my face a moment, and the bullet flies right past me. First thing I think is,
‘It must be the goddamn Germans,’ because I’ve seen them patrolling the fields for the past week. Quick-like, I throw myself on the ground and wait a good ten minutes before getting up again. No German shows up, and since it’s getting dark, I crawl indoors and wait wide awake until daytime. By this much, Inspector, it missed me! I haven’t been this scared since the Great War.”
Guidi only half-listened. He fingered the bullet he’d slipped into his coat’s pocket, alongside the daily sandwich his mother had stuffed in there. By now the marksman could be anywhere. Unless, of course, he was even now framing his head in the rifle sight from behind a distant hedgerow. Automatically, Guidi hunched his shoulders. It was windy, all right, but dry and without any snow. Trails would be hard to follow.
In order to calculate the direction of the shot, Guidi stood with his back to the hut and faced the pencil-thin poplars studding the edge of the farmland. Down there, Corporal Turco rummaged in the brushwood, bareheaded, with the fatalistic courage of the Sicilian race that centuries of oppression had inured to do what must be done in a near-stolid way.
Guidi sniffed the odourless wind. The army dogs kept at the German command in Lago might come useful, he thought. Since Bora had not offered them, he had to be asked – if he was willing to spare the soldier who went with the dogs.
He could see Turco’s stout figure emerging from behind the line of poplars and starting back. The urgency of his heavy step made Guidi hope he’d recovered the bullet casing, but it was a far larger object that Turco carried in his hand. Guidi walked up to meet him.
“Another shoe, Inspector,” Turco announced, holding the find aloft.
Guidi nodded. “It matches the one we have, all right.”
“What in the world is stu lazzu di furca doing, dropping shoes as he goes along? It don’t make any sense, Inspector.”
“It certainly doesn’t. ”
Following Turco and his handlebar moustache, Guidi examined the area where the shoe had been found. Invisible from the hut, beyond the row of poplars ran a deep irrigation ditch, which a man could easily straddle. Ice was already forming on its banks of yellow grass.
“Not on the ground, Inspector,” Turco pointed out. “Up there.” And he showed the fork of a lonesome mulberry tree behind the poplars. “The shoe was wedged in there, as if the madman had been sitting in the tree at some point.”
“He might have fired at the farmer from up there, too.”
The first shoe had been found nearly two miles away, stuck between two rocks along an overgrown country track. The anchoring of it had seemed significant to Guidi at the time, and now this. “I don’t think he lost the shoes,” he told Turco. “He left them behind for some reason.”
“For us to catch him?”
Guidi lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his usual response to uncertainty. “He lets us know he’s been there, that’s all.”
Bora was not at the Lago army post when Guidi called. Lieutenant Wenzel, Bora’s second-in-command, understood no Italian. He kept a freckled, unfriendly young face squared at him and would not volunteer any information. When Guidi gave him a scribbled message for the major, he took it and without a word walked to place it on Bora’s desk.
On his way out Guidi paused to listen to the threatening growls of dogs from the small fenced yard behind the building. There Bora kept his German shepherds, he knew. A soldier was trimming willow bushes on the side of the command post.
Guidi was careful not to stare, but he noticed that the army BMW parked on the street had a clear bullet hole through its windshield. Dirt was
‘It must be the goddamn Germans,’ because I’ve seen them patrolling the fields for the past week. Quick-like, I throw myself on the ground and wait a good ten minutes before getting up again. No German shows up, and since it’s getting dark, I crawl indoors and wait wide awake until daytime. By this much, Inspector, it missed me! I haven’t been this scared since the Great War.”
Guidi only half-listened. He fingered the bullet he’d slipped into his coat’s pocket, alongside the daily sandwich his mother had stuffed in there. By now the marksman could be anywhere. Unless, of course, he was even now framing his head in the rifle sight from behind a distant hedgerow. Automatically, Guidi hunched his shoulders. It was windy, all right, but dry and without any snow. Trails would be hard to follow.
In order to calculate the direction of the shot, Guidi stood with his back to the hut and faced the pencil-thin poplars studding the edge of the farmland. Down there, Corporal Turco rummaged in the brushwood, bareheaded, with the fatalistic courage of the Sicilian race that centuries of oppression had inured to do what must be done in a near-stolid way.
Guidi sniffed the odourless wind. The army dogs kept at the German command in Lago might come useful, he thought. Since Bora had not offered them, he had to be asked – if he was willing to spare the soldier who went with the dogs.
He could see Turco’s stout figure emerging from behind the line of poplars and starting back. The urgency of his heavy step made Guidi hope he’d recovered the bullet casing, but it was a far larger object that Turco carried in his hand. Guidi walked up to meet him.
“Another shoe, Inspector,” Turco announced, holding the find aloft.
Guidi nodded. “It matches the one we have, all right.”
“What in the world is stu lazzu di furca doing, dropping shoes as he goes along? It don’t make any sense, Inspector.”
“It certainly doesn’t. ”
Following Turco and his handlebar moustache, Guidi examined the area where the shoe had been found. Invisible from the hut, beyond the row of poplars ran a deep irrigation ditch, which a man could easily straddle. Ice was already forming on its banks of yellow grass.
“Not on the ground, Inspector,” Turco pointed out. “Up there.” And he showed the fork of a lonesome mulberry tree behind the poplars. “The shoe was wedged in there, as if the madman had been sitting in the tree at some point.”
“He might have fired at the farmer from up there, too.”
The first shoe had been found nearly two miles away, stuck between two rocks along an overgrown country track. The anchoring of it had seemed significant to Guidi at the time, and now this. “I don’t think he lost the shoes,” he told Turco. “He left them behind for some reason.”
“For us to catch him?”
Guidi lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his usual response to uncertainty. “He lets us know he’s been there, that’s all.”
Bora was not at the Lago army post when Guidi called. Lieutenant Wenzel, Bora’s second-in-command, understood no Italian. He kept a freckled, unfriendly young face squared at him and would not volunteer any information. When Guidi gave him a scribbled message for the major, he took it and without a word walked to place it on Bora’s desk.
On his way out Guidi paused to listen to the threatening growls of dogs from the small fenced yard behind the building. There Bora kept his German shepherds, he knew. A soldier was trimming willow bushes on the side of the command post.
Guidi was careful not to stare, but he noticed that the army BMW parked on the street had a clear bullet hole through its windshield. Dirt was
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