Read Online The Dance of the Seagull by Andrea Camilleri - Free Book Online Page A

in his eye.
    Shit, the guy was right! Montalbano had made a colossal mistake, confusing Fazio with the corpse in the well! He was completely fried, his head wasn’t working anymore.
    “Just do as I said!” he said sternly.
    The guy replied that he would get to it as soon as he was done with the corpse.
    Then Dr. Pasquano arrived with the ambulance and stretcher bearers and immediately began to bellyache:
    “What are you thinking? That I’m going to go down into the well to examine the corpse? Just pull him out for me, for the love of God!”
    “We have to wait for Prosecutor Tommaseo to get here.”
    “For heaven’s sake, the guy drives so slow the snails pass him on the highway! Next time don’t call me until he’s already here!”
    It wasn’t true. Prosecutor Tommaseo did not go so slowly that the snails passed him on the highway. The reality, known to one and all, was that he drove like a drunken dog. And, in fact, when he arrived on the scene, he said that it had taken him three hours to get there from Montelusa because he’d run off the road twice and a third time had crashed into a tree. He added that in running into the tree, he’d hit his forehead and therefore felt a little confused.
    “Is it a man or a woman?” he asked the fire chief.
    “Man.”
    Immediately Tommaseo lost all interest in the case. All he cared about were corpses of the female variety, preferably naked, and crimes of passion.
    “Okay, okay. Pull him up. Good day.”
    And he turned his back, got into his car, and drove off. Probably towards another tree. Everyone present, without exception, wished him Godspeed to you-know-where.
    This time they added a second sling to the windlass, a large piece of oilcloth with many ropes hanging from its sides. Montalbano felt sorry for the fireman, whose work was not going to be easy or pleasant. It was a job for a gravedigger. And as he was thinking this, the cars, the men, and the landscape started spinning all around him. He lost his balance, and to avoid falling to the ground like an empty sack, he grabbed Mimì’s arm.
    “Salvo, get out of here and go home. I’ll stay and take care of things. You should see your face,” said Mimì.
    “No.”
    “You can’t even stand up!” Zito cut in. “Do me a favor and go sit in the car at least.”
    “No.”
    If he sat down, he would be out like a light in seconds.
    At last, after many attempts and failures, the corpse appeared at the top of the well, wrapped like a mummy in the oilcloth and bound by the ropes, and was set down on the ground and untied.
    Everybody drew near to look, covering their noses and mouths with their handkerchiefs. From what they could tell, it was a man just under sixty years old, completely naked, and in a rather bad state. His face was a pulp of flesh and bone. The fireman went back down into the well.
    “What are you doing?”
    “I want to go get the blanket that was under the body.”
    Pasquano, meanwhile, had a quick look at the dead man.
    “I can’t do anything here,” he said. “Bring it to the lab for me.”
    “How did he die, Doctor?”
    “What’s wrong with you, Montalbano? Has old age made you blind? Can’t you see they emptied at least an entire cartridge of bullets in his face?”
    The Free Channel team arrived just in the nick of time to film the scene.
    When they were done, Zito approached Montalbano, gave him a big hug, and left with his colleagues.

    As the Forensics team was also leaving, fire chief Mallia came up to the inspector.
    “It might have been better for them to stay.”
    “Why?”
    “Because if we’re unlucky enough to find some remains in the last well, we’ll have to call them all back.”
    “What a tragedy! Listen, please don’t waste any time.”
    Mallia gave an order, and the truck started on towards the third well.
    “Get in the car,” Mimì said to him.
    “No, I’ll walk.”
    They didn’t seem to realize that if he sat down, he was finished.
    When he got to the