Read Online The Potter's Field by Andrea Camilleri - Free Book Online

tone:
    â€œAny news of the wife?”
    Lattes was fixated on the misconception that the inspector was married with children, and there was no way to convince him otherwise. Montalbano froze in terror at the question. What the hell had he told the man the previous time they had met? Luckily, he remembered he’d confessed that his wife had run off with an immigrant. Moroccan? Tunisian ? He couldn’t remember the details. He slapped a smile of contentment on his face.
    â€œAh, good Dr. Lattes! I have excellent news! My wife is back under the conjugal roof.”
    Dr. Lattes went into raptures.
    â€œHow wonderful! How very wonderful! Giving thanks to the Blessed Virgin, the home fires are burning again!”
    â€œYes, and it’s getting pretty toasty in there now! We’re even saving on the utility bills!”
    Lattes gave him a puzzled look. He hadn’t quite understood. Then he said:
    â€œI’ll let the commissioner know you’re here.”
    He disappeared, then reappeared.
    â€œThe commissioner will see you now.”
    But he was still a bit perplexed.
    Bonetti-Alderighi did not look up from the papers he was reading, and did not invite him to sit down. At last he leaned back in his armchair and looked at the inspector a long time without saying anything.
    â€œDo you find me very different from the last time we saw each other?” Montalbano asked him, donning a worried expression.
    He bit his tongue. Why could he never resist provoking the commissioner whenever he found himself standing before him?
    â€œMontalbano, how old are you?”
    â€œI was born in 1950. You do the math.”
    â€œSo we can say you’re a mature man.”
    If I’m mature, then you must be over the hill , Montalbano thought. But he said:
    â€œIf you want to say so, go right ahead.”
    â€œThen can you explain to me why you behave like a child?”
    What were these words supposed to mean? When had he behaved like a child? A quick review of his recent memory brought nothing to mind.
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œThen let me explain a little better.”
    The commissioner picked up a book, under which was a tiny piece of paper with torn edges. He handed this to the inspector. It was the start of a letter, a phrase of a word and a half, but Montalbano immediately recognized the handwriting. It belonged to former police commissioner Burlando, who had written to him often after retiring. So how had this scrap of an old letter ended up in Bonetti-Alderighi’s hands? Whatever the case, what did that word and a half have to do with the accusation that he had behaved like a child? Montalbano assumed a defensive stance, just in case.
    â€œWhat’s this piece of paper supposed to mean?” he asked, his expression halfway between shock and surprise.
    â€œDon’t you recognize the handwriting?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWould you read it aloud, please?”
    â€œCertainly. ‘ Dear Mont .’ That’s all it says.”
    â€œAnd in your opinion, what might the whole name be?”
    â€œI dunno, but I could take a few guesses. Dear Montale—who would be the poet—Dear Montanelli—who would be the journalist—Dear Montezuma—who was king of the Aztecs—Dear Montgomery—who was that English general who—”
    â€œHow about ‘Dear Montalbano’?”
    â€œThat, too.”
    â€œListen, Montalbano. Let’s stop beating around the bush. This scrap of paper was sent to me by the newsman Pippo Ragonese, who found it inside a garbage bag.”
    Montalbano made a face of utter astonishment.
    â€œSo now even Ragonese’s taken to rummaging through garbage bags? It’s a kind of addiction, you know. You have no idea how many people—even well-to-do people—go about in the middle of the night, from house to house—”
    â€œI’m not interested in the habits of certain people,” the