The Track of Sand Read Online Free PDF

the house.
    “You were really scared just now. I’ve never seen you—”
    “You know, when those two left and I went inside and started calling you and you didn’t answer, I thought they had . . . ”
    She stopped, threw her arms around him, and kissed him on the mouth.
    Returning her kiss, Montalbano realized the evening was taking a dangerous turn. So he gave her a couple of friendly taps on the shoulder.
    She got the message and let go.
    “Who do you think they were?” she asked.
    “I haven’t the foggiest idea. Maybe some two-bit burglars who saw me go out and—”
    “Oh, stop telling me nonsense you don’t even believe yourself !”
    “I assure you that—”
    “How could these burglars have known there wasn’t somebody else in the house? And why didn’t they steal anything?”
    “You didn’t allow them enough time.”
    “But they never even saw me!”
    “Yes, but they heard you ring the doorbell and call me . . . Come on, let’s go. Adelina has cooked us—”
    “I’m afraid to eat outside, on the veranda.”
    “Why?”
    “You would be an easy target.”
    “Come on, Ingrid . . .”
    “Well then why did you go get your gun?”
    She wasn’t entirely wrong, when you came right down to it. But he wanted to calm her down.
    “Listen, Ingrid, I’ve been living in Marinella for years and years, and no one has ever come to my house with bad intentions.”
    “There’s always a first time for everything.”
    Once again, she wasn’t entirely wrong.
    “Where would you like to eat?”
    “In the kitchen. Bring everything in and then close the French door. Even though I’ve lost my appetite.”

    Her appetite returned after two glasses of whisky.
    They polished off the caponata and divided the mullets evenly, three apiece.
    “When does the interrogation begin?” asked Ingrid.
    “Here in the kitchen? Let’s go into the living room, where we can relax on the couch.”
    They brought along a bottle of wine they’d barely begun, as well as the bottle of whisky, already half empty. They sat down on the sofa, but then Ingrid got back up, pulled up a chair, and rested her legs on it. Montalbano set flame to a cigarette.
    “Fire away,” said Ingrid.
    “What I’d like to know about your friend is—”
    “Why?”
    “Why do I want to know? Because I don’t know anything about her.”
    “So why do you want to know more about her if you’re not interested in her as a woman?”
    “I’m interested in her as a police inspector.”
    “What has she done?”
    “She hasn’t done anything. But, as you probably know, her horse was killed, and in a rather barbaric fashion.”
    “How?”
    “Bludgeoned to death with iron rods. But don’t tell anyone, not even your friend.”
    “No, I won’t tell anyone. But how did you find out?”
    “I saw it with my own eyes.The horse came here to die, right outside the veranda.”
    “Really? Tell me about it.”
    “There’s nothing to tell. I woke up, opened the window, and saw it lying there.”
    “All right, but why do you want to know more about Rachele?”
    “Since your friend claims not to have any enemies, I am compelled by logic to think that the horse was killed to spite Lo Duca.”
    “So?”
    “I have to know if this is actually the case. How long have you known her?”
    “Six years.”
    “How did you meet?”
    Ingrid started laughing.
    “Do you really want to know?”
    “I’d say so.”
    “We met in Palermo, at the Igea Hotel. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and I was in bed with a certain Walter.We had forgotten to lock the door. And she burst in like a banshee. I didn’t know Walter had another woman. Stumbling to put his clothes back on, Walter managed to escape. So she pounced on me, as I was sitting there petrified in bed, and tried to strangle me. Luckily two clients who were walking by in the corridor came to my rescue.”
    “And after this fine start, how did you end up becoming friends?”
    “That same evening, as I was