The enmity in the beast’s deportment was obvious at once. Even Ingrid, who was new to the island, could see that something was amiss. She looked to Gabriel for an explanation. His voice, when at last he spoke, was heavy with despair.
“The goat belongs to Don Casabianca.”
“And?”
“We’ve had our disagreements in the past.”
“You and Don Casabianca?”
“No.”
“Not the goat?” asked Ingrid.
Gabriel nodded gravely.
“Were you unkind to him?”
“Other way around.”
“You must have done something to upset him.”
“It’s possible I insulted him once, but he had it coming.”
“Honk the horn,” said Ingrid. “I’m sure he’ll move out of the way.”
“Trust me, it will only make matters worse.”
She reached across the front seat and sounded the horn. The goat, incensed, lowered its head and delivered four piledriver blows to the front end of the car. The last shattered glass.
“I warned you,” said Gabriel.
“What now?”
“One of us has to have a word with him.”
Ingrid raised a hand toward the windscreen. “Be my guest.”
“If I set foot outside this car, it will be a fight to the death.”
“What about Philippe?”
“Impossible. The goat is Corsican. He loathes the French.”
Ingrid opened her door and placed a foot on the dusty track. “Any advice?”
“Whatever you do, don’t look him directly in the eye. He has the occhju.”
Ingrid, incredulous, climbed out of the car and addressed the goat in Danish. Gabriel, of course, had no idea what she was saying, but the goat appeared to hang on her every word. At the conclusion of her remarks, the creature cast a malevolent final glance at Gabriel, then retreated into the macchia.
Ingrid settled into the passenger seat with a smile and closed the door. Gabriel pushed the throttle to the floor and sped away before the goat had a chance to change his mind.
“What did you say to him?”
“I assured him that you were sorry for hurting his feelings. I also implied that you would take steps to atone for your conduct.”
Gabriel, seething, drove in silence for a moment. “Did he apologize for attacking the car?”
“I didn’t raise it.”
“How bad is the damage?”
“Bad,” she answered.
Gabriel glanced at Lambert over his shoulder. “I’m going to need another thousand euros.”
33
Haute-Corse
The secluded villa that stood at the end of the track had a red tile roof, a large blue swimming pool, and a broad terrace that received the sun in the morning and in the afternoon was shaded by laricio pine. Gabriel made entry into the property without aid of a key or unlocking device and showed Ingrid and Philippe Lambert inside. The furniture in the sitting room was draped with white linen. Ingrid threw open the French doors and surveyed the weighty volumes of history and politics lining the handsome shelves.
“Who lives here?” she asked, her neck craned sideways.
“The villa is owned by a British subject.”
Ingrid tapped the spine of a biography of Clement Attlee. “That would explain why all of these books are in English.”
“It would,” agreed Gabriel.
