Andrea Camilleri: The Dance of the Seagull

“Do you have some old female relative that you can think of, say, over eighty, preferably a widow, half senile, who doesn’t live in Fiacca but is in the phone book?”

“Have you gone crazy?”

“Almost. Do you or don’t you?”

“Well, there’s Zia ’Ntunietta . . .”

“Excellent. Now listen to me very carefully.”

He then took a shower and went to bed. He slept soundly and peacefully, like a baby, until seven.

The telephone rang at seven-thirty, as planned. He’d barely had time to take a quick shower, shave, and drink a cup of coffee.

“Hello?”

“MontalbanothisisTommaseowhat’sthisbusinessabouta letterfromayoungwomanyouhaven’tanswered?”

The prosecutor spoke as if all the words were stuck together. He sounded quite agitated.

“What letter, sir?” Montalbano asked, feigning great surprise.

“A young woman with a very sensuous voice, among other things?”

Tommaseo stopped. He must have heard Angela’s voice again in his mind. Whenever a case had anything to do with women, the prosecutor lost his head.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go and get a drink of water.”

He returned a few moments later, speaking normally.

“. . . Her name is Antonietta Vullo, from Rivera, she says she sent you a letter in which she claims that a certain Franco Sinagra is holding a transsexual named Giovanna Lonero prisoner at his residence in Via Roma 28 and routinely and repeatedly torturing this man—I mean, er, woman. But you’ve done nothing about this letter. Why not?”

“To be honest, the whole story seemed a little far-fetched to me.”

“Look, I can tell you that Antonietta Vullo is in the Rivera phone book. She’s real. Did you call her up to check? No, right? Well, I did!”

Montalbano turned frosty.

“And what did she tell you?”

“An old woman answered the phone, she sounded senile. I couldn’t understand a word she said. She must be the girl’s grandmother. But she said she wasn’t there. At any rate, I’ve already sent you a search warrant, Montalbano.”

“Look, sir, this is a complicated matter. This Franco Sinagra is a Mafia boss with some very powerful friends.”

“You know what the girl said to me, Montalbano? That if we don’t immediately try to free this man—I mean, this transsexual—she will go straight to the newspapers and television. So, if the story turns out to be true, we’ll all be neck-deep in shit. Because we didn’t take a letter seriously even though it was signed by a real person with a real address. Speaking of which, do you still have it?”

“Nah, I threw it away.”

“It doesn’t matter. But it would be a serious breach of duty not to clear this up. Do you understand?”

“And what, sir, if the whole thing turns out to be the fantasy of a crazy girl? How will Sinagra react?”

“If you don’t find the wom—I mean, the transsexual—you’ll find something else, I’m sure of it. Can you imagine not finding anything in a mafioso’s—”

“All right, sir, if you put it that way . . . I guess I have no choice but to follow your orders.”

“As well you should, for once.”

“Zito? Montalbano here.”

“What’s up?”

“I want to return the favor you did for Fazio. I want you and a cameraman here in Vigàta at Via Roma, number 28, in half an hour. But don’t let yourselves be seen before I arrive.”

“But Via Roma 28 is Franco Sinagra’s house!”

“Exactly.”

“Holy shit!”

As soon as he hung up, the inspector rang the station and asked for Galluzzo. Once he’d given him instructions, he called Mimì.

“Are you at Via Bixio?”

“Yeah, it looks a massacre took place in there. I immediately called Forensics and am now outside waiting for them. I couldn’t stay inside.”

“Don’t tell me you felt metaphysically disconcerted!”

“Metaphysically, no. But did you see the condoms on the floor? Do you realize what they did to Manzella? Who are these animals anyway? Oh, and listen, I almost forgot to tell you: Arquà’s coming in person, know what I mean? What are you going to do?”

“I’m on my way to headquarters; Tommaseo’s looking for me.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s he want?”

“Dunno.”

The two squad cars arrived about twenty minutes later. Galluzzo, who was driving the first one, handed the inspector the warrant and let him in on the passenger’s side. The other car was driven by Lamarca, who was accompanied by another young officer, Di Grado.

“Do exactly as I do,” Galluzzo said to Lamarca.

As they entered Vigàta, Galluzzo put on the siren and started racing as if chasing a speeding car. Lamarca did the same. Pedestrians jumped onto the sidewalks, hurling curses and epithets at them as they passed. Total pandemonium, in short. Galluzzo came to a screeching halt in front of the house at number 28, Via Roma, then got out of the car with a machine gun in his hand while the inspector jumped out the other side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door of a car parked nearby fly open, and Zito and his cameraman came out. A window on the top floor of the house opened partway and was immediately closed.

Before ringing the doorbell, Montalbano gave Lamarca and Di Grado, also holding machine guns, the time to take up positions well in view of the TV camera. Meanwhile, a great number of rubberneckers started gathering round.

Come one, come all, ladies and gentlemen, to the great fireworks spectacular of the award-winning Salvo Montalbano & Co.! Who knows what you’ll see? Maybe the master pyrotechnist himself will get roasted to death in one of his own fireballs, but whatever happens, you can be sure to see a show you’ll never forget! Come one, come all!

So, when ringing the doorbell, he heard its chimes as a cross between a Gloria and a Requiem.

“Who’s there?” asked a frightened female voice.

“Police! Open up!”

The door opened, and a woman of about thirty-five with black hair and big eyes appeared, a hot-blooded sort, but scared out of her wits.

“Are you Signora Sinagra?”

“Yes, but . . . my husband’s not here.”

“It doesn’t matter. We have a search warrant. Please let us in and then close the door immediately.”

She stood aside. The ground floor consisted of a large living room, a dining room, bathroom, and kitchen. They found nothing there.

Montalbano went upstairs, and the first thing he saw, inside a sort of study, was Manzella’s telescope in front of the window. On the desk was the case for the binoculars. For an instant, his knees buckled, and he grabbed on to Galluzzo to keep from falling.

“You feel okay, Chief?”

“I feel fantastic, Gallù!”

The triumphal march from Verdi’s Aida had started playing in his head. As he’d imagined, the thieving magpie hadn’t been able to resist the allure of the sparkling chrome telescope! And he’d dug his own grave.

In a small bedroom, they found a single bed unmade and still warm. But it was clear that two people had slept in the double bed in the master bedroom.

The inspector went back downstairs, sat down in an armchair, and fired up a cigarette. Signora Sinagra, sitting in front of him, had gone from pale to increasingly red in the face. She was starting to get angry, and with every noise the policemen made upstairs, she became more upset.

In the end she blurted out:

“Mind telling me what you’re looking for?”

In his mind, Montalbano flipped a proverbial coin. He’d already won, because Sinagra would have a very hard time explaining what Manzella’s telescope and binoculars were doing in his house. But he wasn’t satisfied yet. He wanted to have the man himself, Franco Sinagra, in his hands. The coin fell to the ground: heads. And so Montalbano decided to take another gamble.