Read Online The Dance of the Seagull by Andrea Camilleri - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrea Camilleri
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Do you understand?”
He understood. With a tugging heart, and against his will, he understood.
“Okay, all right.”
Zito, who’d been standing aside the whole time, came up to him. He realized the situation his friend was in. He knew what kind of relationship Montalbano and Fazio had.
“Salvo, do you think I can call the studio?”
“Why?”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to have someone come and cover this. It’s important for us.”
He did owe Nicolò a good turn, by way of thanks. If not for him, he would still be searching for Fazio around the port.
“Go ahead.”
He started walking alone down the footpath that led to the third well. It went uphill, and after barely ten steps he was out of breath. He was too tired, and his concern for Fazio raged in his mind like a furious wind, preventing him from putting his thoughts in order, from thinking with the least bit of logic. He wasn’t just exhausted; he still felt scared.
He was waiting, at any moment, to hear some bad news or to see, with his own eyes, what he could never put into words. At last he came to the third well. On the ground beside the opening there were still some rusted remains of what must have once been a large suction pump.
He sat down on the crumbling wall of the well to rest. The sun beat down hard, and the day had turned hot, but he was in a cold sweat. The ground all around the well was a sort of fine dust like sand, and he noticed some shoeprints on the surface. But since it seldom rained, and there wasn’t much wind in that dead land, he was unable to determine whether they were recent or old. Then he rolled over onto his belly and started gazing down into the well. Total darkness. No, they needed the fireman to go down there. And, at any rate, if Fazio had ended up in there, there wasn’t the slightest chance he might still be alive.
As the inspector walked back towards the firemen and his own men, he had an idea, and it seemed like a good one to him. He pulled Mimì aside.
“Listen, Mimì, the fire chief and I agreed that after they pull the body out, we’ll go and check the third well.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
“If, as I’m hoping, Fazio’s not in there, I want us to stay behind after everybody else leaves.”
“To do what?”
“What do you mean, ‘to do what?’ To look for Fazio. I’m positive he’s around here somewhere.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Fazio was wounded at the port, right? Then they put him in a car and brought him here, right? Once he was here, it’s not like they treated him so well, you know, they kept on punching him, right? Therefore, if they didn’t kill him and get rid of the body, then Fazio is somewhere around here, still wounded, because it would make no sense for them to put him back in the car and take him back to the port.”
“But what can we do, in your opinion?”
“As soon as we’ve taken care of this cadaver, I want you to get in the car, go straight to the commissioner, and tell him everything. We have to organize a large search party.”
“All right. And what about you?”
“Me and Gallo, together with Galluzzo and Lamarca, are going to start looking around.”
“Okay.”
The traveling circus that normally came together whenever there was a killing took two hours to arrive on the scene from Montelusa. The first to straggle in were the Forensics team, who began taking a few of the thousands of photographs, most of them useless, that they usually took on these occasions. This time they concentrated on the rim of the well and environs. Since Vanni Arquà, the chief of Forensics whom Montalbano didn’t like one bit, wasn’t present, the inspector went up to the guy who was giving orders and told him that it might be a good idea to inspect the drinking trough very carefully, as there could be blood stains on it.
“But how do you know they held him in the trough before throwing him into the well?” the man asked with a suspicious glint
He understood. With a tugging heart, and against his will, he understood.
“Okay, all right.”
Zito, who’d been standing aside the whole time, came up to him. He realized the situation his friend was in. He knew what kind of relationship Montalbano and Fazio had.
“Salvo, do you think I can call the studio?”
“Why?”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to have someone come and cover this. It’s important for us.”
He did owe Nicolò a good turn, by way of thanks. If not for him, he would still be searching for Fazio around the port.
“Go ahead.”
He started walking alone down the footpath that led to the third well. It went uphill, and after barely ten steps he was out of breath. He was too tired, and his concern for Fazio raged in his mind like a furious wind, preventing him from putting his thoughts in order, from thinking with the least bit of logic. He wasn’t just exhausted; he still felt scared.
He was waiting, at any moment, to hear some bad news or to see, with his own eyes, what he could never put into words. At last he came to the third well. On the ground beside the opening there were still some rusted remains of what must have once been a large suction pump.
He sat down on the crumbling wall of the well to rest. The sun beat down hard, and the day had turned hot, but he was in a cold sweat. The ground all around the well was a sort of fine dust like sand, and he noticed some shoeprints on the surface. But since it seldom rained, and there wasn’t much wind in that dead land, he was unable to determine whether they were recent or old. Then he rolled over onto his belly and started gazing down into the well. Total darkness. No, they needed the fireman to go down there. And, at any rate, if Fazio had ended up in there, there wasn’t the slightest chance he might still be alive.
As the inspector walked back towards the firemen and his own men, he had an idea, and it seemed like a good one to him. He pulled Mimì aside.
“Listen, Mimì, the fire chief and I agreed that after they pull the body out, we’ll go and check the third well.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
“If, as I’m hoping, Fazio’s not in there, I want us to stay behind after everybody else leaves.”
“To do what?”
“What do you mean, ‘to do what?’ To look for Fazio. I’m positive he’s around here somewhere.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Fazio was wounded at the port, right? Then they put him in a car and brought him here, right? Once he was here, it’s not like they treated him so well, you know, they kept on punching him, right? Therefore, if they didn’t kill him and get rid of the body, then Fazio is somewhere around here, still wounded, because it would make no sense for them to put him back in the car and take him back to the port.”
“But what can we do, in your opinion?”
“As soon as we’ve taken care of this cadaver, I want you to get in the car, go straight to the commissioner, and tell him everything. We have to organize a large search party.”
“All right. And what about you?”
“Me and Gallo, together with Galluzzo and Lamarca, are going to start looking around.”
“Okay.”
The traveling circus that normally came together whenever there was a killing took two hours to arrive on the scene from Montelusa. The first to straggle in were the Forensics team, who began taking a few of the thousands of photographs, most of them useless, that they usually took on these occasions. This time they concentrated on the rim of the well and environs. Since Vanni Arquà, the chief of Forensics whom Montalbano didn’t like one bit, wasn’t present, the inspector went up to the guy who was giving orders and told him that it might be a good idea to inspect the drinking trough very carefully, as there could be blood stains on it.
“But how do you know they held him in the trough before throwing him into the well?” the man asked with a suspicious glint
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