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

wasn’t talking about your clothes; I meant your face. Like it or not, you gotta go to the barber.”
    Fazio had said “like it or not” because he knew him well and realized how much effort it cost the inspector to go to the barber. Running a hand behind his head, Montalbano agreed that his hair could use a little trim, too. His face darkened.
    â€œNot one fucking thing’s going to go right today!” he predicted.
    Before exiting, he left orders that, while he was out beautifying himself, someone should go pick up Carmelo Ingrassia and bring him to headquarters.
    â€œIf he asks why, what should I tell him?” asked Fazio.
    â€œDon’t tell him anything.”
    â€œWhat if he insists?”
    â€œIf he insists, tell him I want to know how long it’s been since he last had an enema. Good enough?”
    â€œThere’s no need to get upset.”
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The barber, his young helper, and a client who was sitting in one of the two rotating chairs that barely fit into the shop—which was actually only a recess under a staircase—were in the midst of an animated discussion, but fell silent as soon as the inspector appeared. Montalbano had entered with what he himself called his “barber-shop face,” that is, mouth shrunken to a slit, eyes half-closed in suspicion, eyebrows furrowed, expression at once scornful and severe.
    â€œGood morning. Is there a wait?”
    Even his voice came out deep and gravelly.
    â€œNo sir. Have a seat, Inspector.”
    As Montalbano took his place in the vacant chair, the barber, in accelerated, Chaplinesque movements, held a mirror behind the client’s head to let him admire the finished product, freed him of the towel round his neck, tossed this into a bin, took out a clean one and put it over the inspector’s shoulders. The client, denied even the customary brush-down by the assistant, literally fled from the shop after muttering “Good day.”
    The ritual of the haircut and shave, performed in absolute silence, was swift and funereal. A new client appeared, parting the beaded curtain, but he quickly sniffed the atmosphere and, recognizing the inspector, said:
    â€œI’ll pass by later.” Then he disappeared.
    On the street, as he headed back to his office, Montalbano noticed an indefinable yet disgusting odor wafting around him, something between turpentine and a certain kind of face powder prostitutes used to wear some thirty years back. The stink was coming from his own hair.
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“Ingrassia’s in your office,” Tortorella said in a low voice, sounding conspiratorial.
    â€œWhere’d Fazio go?”
    â€œHome to change. The commissioner’s office called. They said Fazio, Gallo, Galluzzo, and Germanà should also take part in the press conference.”
    I guess my phone call to that asshole Sciacchitano had an effect , thought Montalbano.
    Ingrassia, who this time was dressed entirely in pastel green, started to rise.
    â€œDon’t get up,” said the inspector, sitting down behind his desk. He distractedly ran a hand through his hair, and immediately the smell of turpentine and face powder grew stronger. Alarmed, he brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed them, confirming his suspicion. But there was nothing to be done; there was no shampoo in the office bathroom. Without warning, he resumed his “barber-shop face.” Seeing him suddenly transformed, Ingrassia became worried and started squirming in his chair.
    â€œIs something wrong?” he asked.
    â€œIn what sense do you mean?”
    â€œWell . . . in every sense, I suppose,” said Ingrassia, flustered.
    Montalbano shrugged evasively and went back to sniffing his fingers. The conversation stalled.
    â€œHave you heard about poor Cavaliere Misuraca?” the inspector asked, as if chatting among friends in his living room.
    â€œAh! Such is life!” The other sighed