Read Online The Terra-Cotta Dog by Andrea Camilleri - Free Book Online

man who looked to me like the night watchman. No passerby would have seen anything unusual in this scene; had I noticed anything out of the ordinary, I would have made sure to alert the police myself.
    The night following my testimony, I was too upset from the arguments I’d had with my Party colleagues to fall asleep, and thus I had occasion to review the scene of the robbery in my mind. Only then did I remember a detail that could prove to be very important. On my way back from Montelusa, agitated as I was, I took the wrong approach route for Vigàta, one that has been recently made very complicated by a series of incomprehensible one-way streets. Instead of taking the Via Granet, I turned onto the old Via Lincoln and found myself going against the flow of traffic. After realizing my mistake about fifty yards down the street, I decided to retrace my path in reverse, completing my maneuver at the corner of Vicolo Trupìa, thinking I would back into this street, so that I could then point my car in the right direction. I was unable to do this, however, because the vicolo was entirely blocked by a large car, a model heavily advertised these days but available only in very limited quantities, the “Ulysses,” license plate Montelusa 328280. At this point I had no choice but to proceed in my directional violation. A few yards down the street, I came out into the Piazza Chiesa Vecchia, where the supermarket is.
    To spare you further investigation: that car, the only one of its kind in town, belongs to Mr. Carmelo Ingrassia. Now, since Ingrassia lives in Monte Ducale, what was his car doing a short distance away from the supermarket, also belonging to Mr. Ingrassia, at the very moment when it was being burgled? I leave the answer to you.
    Â 
Yours very sincerely,
    CAV. GERLANDO MISURACA
    Â 
 
 
“You’ve fucked me royally this time, Cavaliere!” was Montalbano’s only comment as he glared at the letter he had set down on the dining table. And dining, of course, was now out of the question. He opened the refrigerator only to pay glum homage to the culinary mastery of his housekeeper, a deserved homage, for an enveloping fragrance of poached baby octopus immediately assailed his senses. But he closed the fridge. He wasn’t up to it; his stomach was tight as a fist. He undressed and, fully naked, went for a walk along the beach; at that hour there was nobody around anyway. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Around four o’clock in the morning he dived into the icy water, swam a long time, then returned home. He noticed, laughing, that he had an erection. He started talking to it, trying to reason with it.
    â€œIt’s no use deluding yourself.”
    The erection told him a phone call to Livia might be just the thing. To Livia lying naked and warm with sleep in her bed.
    â€œYou’re just a dickhead telling me dickheaded things. Teenage jerk-off stuff.”
    Offended, the erection withdrew. Montalbano put on a pair of briefs, threw a dry towel over his shoulder, grabbed a chair and sat down on the veranda, which gave onto the beach.
    He remained there watching the sea as it began to lighten slowly, then take on color, streaked with yellow sun-beams. It promised to be a beautiful day, and the inspector felt reassured and ready to act. He’d had a few ideas, after reading the cavaliere’s letter; the swim had helped him to organize them.
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“You can’t show up at the press conference looking like that,” pronounced Fazio, looking him over severely.
    â€œWhat, are you taking lessons from the Anti-Mafia Commission now?” Montalbano opened the padded nylon bag he was holding. “In here I’ve got trousers, jacket, shirt, and tie. I’ll change before I go to Montelusa. Actually, do me a favor. Take them out and put them on a chair; otherwise they’ll get wrinkled.”
    â€œThey’re already wrinkled, Chief. But I