Andrea Camilleri: The Dance of the Seagull

“Let’s go for a little walk,” the inspector said.

“Where to?”

“To the area between the slips and the two storehouses.”

There were about ten cold storage warehouses, all in a row on the outside part of the central wharf, which was a sort of arm jutting out right in the middle of the harbor. The trawlers would moor directly there, and once they’d unloaded their haul, they would go over to the inside part of the wharf, where they would dock at their respective berths and their crews would disembark and go home to sleep.

Montalbano and Augello walked up and down the slipway as far as the second storehouse, eyes glued to the ground.

The road was a mire of mud grooved with deep furrows left by truck tires. The storehouses were all closed except for the third one, which had a Ford Transit van in front of it with its doors open. Inside the van one could see electrical cables, quadrants, knobs, and valves. Perhaps the refrigeration system had failed and was being repaired. Despite the van, there wasn’t a living soul about.

“Let’s go, we’re not going to find anything here,” said Mimì. “We’re wasting our time. We would have to dig through the mud to find any clues. Anyway, the stink in the air is starting to get to me. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

To Montalbano, however, that smell not only was not a stink, he actually liked it. It was the product of a combination of algae, rotting fish, dilapidated cordage, seawater, and tar, with a light touch of diesel fuel thrown in. Delicious, indeed exquisite.

At the very moment they’d given up hope and were about to go back to the office, Mimì saw something sparkle parallel to the slipway. It was an empty shell that hadn’t been buried in the mud because it had fallen onto a piece of rotten plank. He bent down, picked it up, and wiped it with his hand. It wasn’t the least bit rusted or damaged. Clearly it had been there for only a few hours, not days or months.

“Now we know for certain that it wasn’t a motorcycle,” Montalbano concluded.

“At a glance, I’d say a 7.65,” said Augello. Then he asked: “What should we do with this shell?”

“Make soup.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mimì, how do you expect that cartridge to help us? All it gives us is confirmation that a gun was fired. For the moment, it can’t tell us anything else.”

After hesitating for a moment, Augello put it in his pocket.

Montalbano, having stopped, made no sign of resuming his walking.

He was thinking, head bent as he stared at his shoe tops. He had a cigarette between his lips but had forgotten to light it. Mimì stood there in silence. Then the inspector started talking, but more than talking to Augello, he was thinking out loud.

“So they fired the first shot at Fazio—assuming it was Fazio—as he was going back towards the northern gate. Apparently he’d already finished doing whatever it was he had to do in the area of the storage houses and was now heading out of the port, but someone was waiting for him here and fired at him.”

“But why would they wait till he was at the slipway?” Mimì asked. “It’s the most dangerous spot because it’s the closest to the gate where there’s always a Customs agent.”

“They had no choice. Say they grabbed him and killed him in front of one of the storehouses. If they didn’t get rid of the body real fast, they would have been forced to leave it there. But once the corpse was discovered, we definitely would have searched the storehouses. Which they didn’t want. The slipway, on the other hand, is a no-man’s-land. Everyone who docks at this wharf is forced to pass that way. It would be like shooting him on the main street in town.”

“At any rate, they didn’t get him with the first shot.”

“Right. But then Fazio realizes he can’t keep running towards the gate. His path is barred by the guy who shot at him. So what does he do?”

“What does he do?”

“He turns tail and runs straight back the way he came, that is, towards the storehouses.”

“But that’s even worse!”

“Why?”

“Because the road that passes in front of the storehouses ends at the sea! There’s no access to the wharf. Therefore he wouldn’t have been able to escape his pursuer. There was no way out. He ran straight into his own trap.”

“But he knew exactly what the situation was at that moment, whereas we don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe there were some storehouses still open where he could ask for help. The fact is, as the Customs officer told us, they fired a second shot at him when he’d reached the second or third storehouse. And the fact that he didn’t hear any other shots is a bad sign.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that that second shot may have wounded or killed him.”

“Jesus Christ!” Augello cried out.

“But it’s also possible that Fazio, seeing there was no way out, put his hands up and let them capture him.”

“Listen, what if we requested a search warrant for the storage houses?” Augello proposed.

“A waste of time.”

“Why on earth?!”

“If they killed him, they certainly wouldn’t have kept the body. And even if he’s wounded or captured, they couldn’t keep him in a cold storage facility for more than a couple of hours, or he’d turn stiffer than a stockfish.”

“Okay, but if he’s dead, where’d they put the body?”

“I think I have an idea. Want to hear it?”

“Of course.”

“In the sea, Mimì. Well ballasted.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“It’s just an idea, Mimì, no need to get upset. Try to think. If they did in fact kill him, throwing him into the sea was the easiest and safest thing to do. I’m convinced there was no way they could hide the body in one of the storehouses. Even if most of the heavy work was already done at that hour, there had to be a few people still about. It would have been too risky. Trust me, we should stop thinking about it.”

“All right.”

“Tell you what. Call the commissioner. Tell him half the story. Actually, no. Don’t tell him anything about Fazio. Tell him we need to recover a weapon that fell into the water. Get him to send you two frogmen.”

“Sorry, but what if he asks me whose weapon it is?”

“Tell him it’s mine.”

“And how did it end up in the water?”

“Through a hole in the back pocket of my trousers.”

“And what if he says not to bother? That it’s not worth going to all the trouble?”

“Tell him it’ll be his responsibility.”

“What’ll be his responsibility?”

“Explain to him that when my gun fell out, there were a lot of people around. And that if one of them felt like getting wet, they might recover the weapon and use it.”

Mimì Augello took a few steps away and started talking on his cell phone. It was a long call, then Mimì started shaking his head and walking back towards Montalbano. He held out the phone to him.

“He wants to talk to you,” he said.

“Montalbano! What the hell is going on?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Commissioner, it’s all because of this hole in—”

“This is sheer lunacy! These things only happen to you! A hole! And what if the weapon had fallen onto a crowded street and gone off?”

“I never keep it loaded, sir.”

“Look, Montalbano, I can’t request two frogmen for something so silly as this!”

“If you prefer, I can jump into the sea myself. I can stay underwater for a very long time, you know.”

“Montalbano, every time I talk to you it’s an ordeal! Give me Augello again.”

Mimì talked for another five minutes, then signed off and said to Montalbano:

“I managed to persuade him.”