The Track of Sand Read Free

horse, and hidden nearby, waiting for the right moment.
    Some fifty yards down the beach, the wheel tracks made a turn and headed inland, where there was a concrete esplanade full of cracks, which had been in that state since the inspector first moved to Marinella.The esplanade provided easy entry onto the provincial road.
    Wait a second , he said to himself. Let’s think about this .
    Yes, the immigrants could move the cart more easily, and more quickly, on the provincial road than on the sand. But was it really such a good idea to let themselves be seen by all the passing cars? What if one of these cars belonged to the police or the carabinieri?
    They would surely be stopped and made to answer a lot of questions. And quite possibly a repatriation order would come out of it all.
    No, they weren’t that stupid.
    And so?
    There was another possible explanation.
    Namely, that the people who stole the horse were not illegals, but legals and then some.That is, from Vigàta.
    Or the surrounding area.
    So why did they do it? To recover the carcass and get rid of it.
    Perhaps the whole thing had gone as follows: The horse manages to escape and someone chases after it to finish it off. But he is forced to stop because there are people on the beach, maybe even the morning fisherman, who could become dangerous witnesses. So he goes back and informs the boss. The boss decides they absolutely have to get the carcass back. And he organizes the business with the cart. But at a certain point he, Montalbano, wakes up and throws a wrench into the boss’s plans.
    The people who stole the dead horse were the same ones who killed it.
    Yes, that must be exactly the way it went.
    And, at the side of the provincial road, right where the esplanade abutted it, there had surely been a van or truck ready for loading the horse and cart.
    No, illegal immigrants had nothing to do with this.

2
    Galluzzo set down on the inspector’s desk a large plastic bag with the rope inside it, along with another, smaller bag with the cigarette butts.
    “You said there were two brands?”
    “Yeah, Chief. Marlboro and Philip Morris, with the double filter.”
    Very common. He had hoped for some rare brand smoked by no more than five people in Vigàta.
    “You take all this,” Montalbano said to Fazio,“and take good care of it. The stuff may turn out to be useful to us later on.”
    “Let’s hope so,” said Fazio, not very convinced.
    At that moment a high-powered bomb seemed to explode behind the door, which flew open and crashed against the wall, revealing Catarella sprawled out on the floor with two envelopes in his hand.
    “I’s bringin’ the mail,” said Catarella, “but I slipped.”
    The three men in the office tried to collect themselves after the scare.They looked at one another and immediately understood.They had only two options before them. Either go ahead with a summary execution of Catarella, or make like it was nothing.
    They chose the second and said nothing.
    “Sorry to repeat myself, but I don’t think it’s gonna be so easy to identify the horse’s owner,” said Fazio.
    “We should have at least taken some photographs of it,” said Galluzzo.
    “Isn’t there some sort of registry for horses, like there is for cars?” asked Montalbano.
    “I don’t know,” replied Fazio. “Anyway, we don’t even know what kind of horse it was.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean we don’t know if it was a draft horse, a stud horse, a show horse, a racehorse . . .”
    “Horses are banded,” said Catarella, under his breath, still outside the door, envelopes in hand, since the inspector had never told him to come in.
    Montalbano, Fazio, and Galluzzo looked at him, stupefied.
    “What did you say?” asked Montalbano.
    “Me? I din’t say nothin’!” said Catarella, frightened for having made the mistake of opening his mouth.
    “Yes you did! You said something just now! What did you say horses were?”
    “I said they was banded,