Rounding the Mark by Andrea Camilleri

goat path whose countless holes had been poorly and only partially filled. How could a car ever have driven down it at high speed without risking a breakdown? Was it being chased by another car? Rounding a bend, Montalbano realized he’d reached the right place. At the base of a mound of gravel to the right of the path was a small bouquet of wildflowers. He stopped the car and got out to have a better look. The mound looked gouged out on one side, as if from a powerful impact. The gravel was stained with large, dark splotches of dried blood. From where he stood, he could see no houses, only cultivated fields. Off to the side, about a hundred yards down the path, a peasant was hoeing. Montalbano walked towards him, having trouble keeping his footing on the soft ground. The peasant was about sixty, thin and bent, and didn’t bother to look up.
    “Good afternoon.”
    “Good afternoon.”
    “I’m a police inspector.”
    “I figgered.”
    How so? Better not to dwell on it.
    “Was it you who put the flowers in the gravel?”
    “Yessir.”
    “Did you know that little boy?”
    “Never seen ’im afore.”
    “So why did you put those flowers there?”
    “He was a creature of God, not no animal.”
    “Did you see the accident happen?”
    “I both seen it and didn’t see it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Come over here and follow me.”
    Montalbano followed him. After about ten paces, the peasant stopped.
    “At seven o’clock this morning I was here, hoeing this spot right here. All of a sudden I hear this terrible scream. I look up and see a little kid run out from behind the bend. He’s runnin like a rabbit and screamin.”
    “Did you understand what he was saying?”
    “No sir. When he’s over there by that carob, a car come speedin really fast around the bend. The kid turned round to look and then tried to git off the road. Maybe he was tryin a come towards me. But then I din’t see ’im no more cause he’s hid behind that mound of gravel. Then the car swerved behind ’im, but I din’t see no more. I heard a kind of thud. Then the car went into reverse, went back out on the road, an’ disappeared around the next bend.”
    Though there was no chance the man was mistaken, Montalbano wanted to make especially sure.
    “Was that car being followed by another?”
    “No sir. It was alone.”
    “And would you say it deliberately swerved behind the boy?”
    “I dunno if he did it ’liberately, but he swerved all right.”
    “Did you manage to see the license plate number?”
    “You kiddin? Have a look fo’ y’self an’ see if you c’n see over there.”
    Indeed, it was impossible. The difference in elevation between the field and the road was too great.
    “What did you do next?”
    “I started runnin toward the mound. But when I got there I knew ’mmediately the kid was dead or just about. So I run back to my house, which you can’t see from here, an’ I called Montechiaro.”
    “Did you tell the Road Police what you just told me?”
    “No sir.”
    “Why not?”
    “Cause they din’t ask.”
    Ironclad logic: no question, no answer.
    “Well, I’m asking you straight out: do think they did it on purpose?”
    The peasant must have already pondered this question a long time. He answered with a question.
    “Coun’t the car swerve without wanting to, ’cause it hit a rock?”
    “Maybe. But you, deep down, what do you think?”
    “I don’t think, Mr. ’Nspecter. I don’t wanna think no more. The world’s become too evil.”
    The last statement was decisive. Obviously the old peasant had a very clear idea of what happened. The kid had been deliberately run over. Butchered for some inexplicable reason. But the peasant had immediately wanted to expunge that idea from his head. The world had become too evil. Better not to think about it.
    Montalbano wrote down the phone number of the Vigàta Police on a scrap of paper and handed it to the peasant.
    “That’s the phone number of my office in