The Terra-Cotta Dog by Andrea Camilleri Page A

soiled his hand. He looked at his fingers, then smelled them.
    â€œThat’s grease,” he said to Fazio, the only person remaining beside him.
    The other policemen had taken shelter in the shade. Gallo had found a clump of sheep’s sorrel and offered some to the others.
    â€œSuck the stalk,” he said, “it’s delicious and quenches your thirst.”
    Montalbano thought of the only possible solution.
    â€œDo we have a steel cable?”
    â€œSure do, inside the Jeep.”
    â€œAll right, then pull the car up here as close as you can.”
    As Fazio was walking away, the inspector, now convinced he’d found the proper expedient for moving the big slab, looked at the surrounding landscape with different eyes. If this was indeed the place that Tano the Greek had revealed to him on his deathbed, there must be some spot nearby from which one could keep it under surveillance. The area seemed deserted and remote; one would never have imagined that right behind the bluff, a few hundred yards away, was the highway with all its traffic. Not far from there, on a rise of dry, rocky terrain, was a minuscule cottage, a cube consisting of a single room. He called for some binoculars. The little structure’s wooden door, which was closed, looked solid. Next to the door, at the height of a man’s head, was a small window without shutters, protected by two crisscrossing iron bars. The cottage appeared uninhabited, and it was the only possible observation point in the vicinity. All the other houses were too far away. Still doubtful, he called to Galluzzo.
    â€œGo have a look at that little house. Do what you can to open the door, but don’t break it in. Be careful, we may need to use it. See if there are any recent signs of life inside, if anyone’s been living there in the last few days. But leave everything exactly as it was, as if you’d never been there.”
    The Jeep had meanwhile backed almost all the way up to the base of the boulder. The inspector took the end of the steel cable, inserted it easily into the hole and started pushing it inside. This required little effort, for the cable slid into the boulder as if following a well-greased, unobstructed groove. In fact, a few seconds later, the cable end popped out on the other side of the slab, looking like the head of a snake.
    â€œTake this end,” Montalbano told Fazio, “affix it to the Jeep, put the car in gear and pull away, but very, very gently.”
    As the Jeep began to move, so did the boulder, its right side starting to come detached from the rock face as if turning on invisible hinges.
    â€œOpen sesame . . .” Germanà murmured in amazement, recalling the children’s formula that magically served to open all doors.
    Â 
 
“I assure you, Commissioner, that stone slab was turned into a door by a superb master craftsman. Just imagine, the iron hinges were totally invisible from the outside. Reclosing the door was as easy as opening it. We went in with flashlights. Inside, the cave was very carefully and intelligently fitted out. They’d made a floor, for example, out of a dozen or so puncheons nailed together and set down on the bare earth.”
    â€œWhat’s a puncheon?”
    â€œI can’t think of the proper word. Let’s just say they’re very thick planks. They built a floor to keep the crates of weapons from coming into direct contact with the damp ground. The walls are covered with lighter boards. The whole inside of the cave is a sort of giant wooden box without a top. They obviously worked a long time on it.”
    â€œWhat about the weapons?”
    â€œA veritable arsenal. About thirty machine guns and submachine guns, a hundred or so pistols and revolvers, two bazookas, thousands of ammunition rounds, cases of every kind of explosive, from TNT to Semtex. And a large quantity of police and carabinieri uniforms, bulletproof vests, and various other