Andrea Camilleri - The Dance of the Seagull

“Can’t you give me a hint of these new developments?”

“It’d be better when we had a little time.”

“And where are you going now?”

“I’m not gonna tell you, or you’ll get envious. What time did you tell Rizzica to come in?”

“I told him to come around noon, but he said he’d be busy all morning. He’ll be by around four in the afternoon.”

The inspector made his way through the crowd, cursing the saints. A TV reporter tried to buttonhole him, but he told him to go to hell, then got in his car and drove off. Turning down a narrow, deserted side street, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Di Mattia’s number.

“Signor Di Mattia? Inspector Montalbano here, police.”

“What is it, Inspector?”

“Are you aware that the concierge of your building has been murdered?”

“Yes, my wife called and told me. And just now she called back to tell me she gave you my cell phone number.”

“Listen, Signor Catalfamo told me you went out this morning around five.”

“As always.”

“When you went downstairs, was the front door to the building open or closed?”

“It was closed, but poor Signora Matilde was about to open it, because someone had just buzzed outside.”

“Did you notice anything strange?”

“Well, strange , no, not really. Signora Matilde had just put a large telescope in the entrance to be taken away.”

“Did she say whose it was?”

“I asked her myself. She said it belonged to Signor Manzella, who’d called her the day before and said he would send a small van to come and pick it up. And, in fact, when I went out, I stopped for a second to retie my shoelace and saw Signora Matilde talking to the driver of the van. But . . .”

“But what?”

“Isn’t five o’clock in the morning a little early to come and get a telescope?”

Smart man, Signor Di Mattia.

Now he had to go to Manzella’s other home. But he’d already forgotten the address Fazio had given him. The only thing was to call him.

“Fazio? Montalbano here.”

“I recognized you, Chief.”

“How are you?”

“Good.”

“Any news?”

“This morning one of our police doctors came and then went off to talk to Dr. Bartolomeo.”

“What did they decide?”

“That an ambulance is going to come this evening around six and take me to Palermo.”

“Why Palermo?”

“Because he says I have to remain under strict surveillance for another three or four days. Then I can leave. But our doctor says I need a good twenty days at the very least to fully recover.”

“So much the better for you.”

“I’m going to spend my convalescence in Vigàta, Chief.”

“So? That way I can come and see you every so often.”

“Every so often? I’m gonna come to the station every day, just like I was on the job.”

Montalbano said nothing. Without Fazio around, he felt as if one of his arms had been cut off.

“I’m sorry I don’t have the time to come and say hello.”

“Listen, Chief, since my wife’s coming to see me in Palermo tomorrow morning, she’ll bring your gun back to you this evening at the station.”

“All right. Well, goodbye then. Ah, I almost forgot! Could you tell me that address Manzella gave you again?”

“Sure. Via Bixio 22.”

“Thanks, Faz. Take care, and I’ll see you soon.”

He decided to make another call immediately. He glanced at his watch: ten-thirty.

Too bad if he woke her up.

“Ciao, Angela. Montalbano here.”

“Ciao, Salvo.”

She sounded still asleep.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, I just got up, but I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“Then I’ll let you go. I just wanted to know whether your friend had called yet to find out what had happened between us and what I told you.”

“Not yet. But I’m sure he’ll be calling soon.”

“Listen, I wanted to let you know that Fazio’s going to be picked up by ambulance this evening around six and taken to Palermo.”

“Am I supposed to tell them that, too?”

“Yes. It’s why I called you.”

“What exactly do you want me to say?”

“Tell them I called to hear your voice and find out if you’d had a good sleep, things like that, and in the course of the conversation I mentioned the ambulance. That should work, no?”

“Yes, I think so. Listen, since I get off work at ten tonight, I was thinking it’ll be too late to go out to eat at a restaurant.”

“I’ll have something made here.”

“Then I’ll just come to your place in my car. And stay until four.”

“All right.”

And while he was at it . . .

“Adelì? Montalbano here.”

“Wha’ izzit, Isspector?”

“Could you please change the sheets on my bed? And then why don’t you go ahead and set up the sofa with a mattress and three chairs the way you do? And cook me up something nice for this evening, and make a lot of it.”

And while he was still at it . . .

“Catarella? Montalbano here.”

“Yessir, Chief.”

“I need you to search through the files for two guys who probably have records.”

“Jess a sec, Chief, whiles I git a pin and paper. Whass the names?”

“The first is Angelo Sorrentino. Write it down correctly. Did you write it?”

“Yeah.”

“Repeat it for me.”

“Ponentino.”

“No, not Ponentino! Shit! Sorrentino. Like someone who was born in Sorrento. Don’t you know the song?”

“Chief, if I sing the song, i’ comes out Surrientino .”

Finally, after the inspector had cursed a number of saints, Catarella got it right.

“An’ whatta ’bout th’other one, Chief?”

“His name’s Vittorio Carmona. Did you get that?”

“Cammona, Chief.”

“No, not Cammona, but Carmona, with an r !”

“An’ wha’d I say? I said Cammona wit’ an r !”

“Listen, when you find them, don’t put the files on my desk. Give ’em to me personally in person when I get back.”

15

He had utterly no idea where Via Bixio was. And he didn’t dare ask Catarella, who would surely have thought he’d said Via Piscio. He had a map of Vigàta that he kept with him in the car. He took it out of the glove compartment and studied it. The index of street names said it was in box C4. It was like playing Battleship. Naturally, and predictably, a piece of the map had been torn away, the very part that contained box C4. But the inspector managed to figure out that Via Bixio was past San Giusippuzzo, in a district that was almost open country.

It took him about half an hour to get there. Number 22, Via Bixio, which at a certain point turned into an out-and-out dirt road, was a tiny one-story house surrounded by what must have once been a cross between a kitchen garden and a yard but was now in a state of total abandon. In front was a wrought-iron gate, left open. Montalbano went in and down the little path to the house. The door was locked, and the windows too. There was a doorbell, which he rang and rang, but nobody came. Seeing that the closest house was a good fifty yards away and there wasn’t a single car to be seen anywhere all the way to the horizon, he pulled out of his jacket pocket a special set of keys a burglar friend of his had given to him. On his fourth try, the door came open, and he leapt backwards, just as he had done when Signor Catalfamo had opened the door. But this time it wasn’t garlic he smelled. It was the bittersweet and thoroughly unpleasant odor of blood, which he had smelled so many times before. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, holding his breath. He felt the wall, searching for the light switch, found it, and flipped it on. He was in a living room whose furniture had all been pushed up against the walls. Alone in the middle of the room was a wicker chair, completely darkened with dried blood. Blood had also been spattered all over the walls, furniture, and floor. A real slaughter. The chair stood at the center of a broad circle of brown blood, as if someone had gone round and round it . . .