Read Online Treasure Hunt by Andrea Camilleri - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrea Camilleri
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don’t let a single thing slide. Further proof that he was getting old.
The road continued up the hill, but now on either side of the road there were small homes without pretension, luckily, with little gardens in back where chickens and dogs circulated freely. Then, all at once, the little houses disappeared and the road continued between two dry-walls and then, about a hundred yards ahead, suddenly ended.
Montalbano stopped and got out.
It wasn’t true, actually, that the road ended; it was only the asphalt that did, because from that point forward the road turned into the dirt track of old, all the way down into the valley. He’d reached the very top of the hill and stood there a few moments, enjoying the panorama.
Behind him the sea, before him the distant town of Gallotta, perched atop a hill, to the right the ridge of Monserrato, which divided the territory of Vigàta from that of Montelusa. Not many patches of green. Nowadays hardly anyone worked the land anymore, a waste of effort and money.
And what now? Where was he supposed to go? In the spot where he found himself, at the top of the hill, not only were there no houses, but there wasn’t a living soul about.
travel the whole road and you’ll see
a place quite familiar to you
So said the poem, whose directions he had followed. He’d traveled the whole road, but there wasn’t anything familiar to him. Was this some kind of joke?
About ten yards from the road stood a wooden shack, about ten feet by ten, in bad shape, and it certainly wasn’t familiar to him. At any rate it was the only place where he might ask for information.
It wasn’t really a proper lane that led to the shed, but rather a dirt path barely showing any sign of the passage of man. To see it you had to study the ground very carefully, indicating that it wasn’t trod on very often.
Montalbano took the path to the closed front door. He knocked, but no one answered. Pressing his ear to the wood, between planks, he heard nothing at all. By this point it was clear the shack was uninhabited.
So what to do now? Should he force open the door or turn back and admit defeat?
“Let’s go for broke,” he said.
He went back to the car, took out a monkey wrench, and returned to the hut. Since the door wasn’t flush with the jamb, he stuck the wrench in the gap and used it as a lever. The wood was very damp and broke on the third try. Two kicks were enough, and the lock fell to the floor on the inside. Montalbano opened the door and went in.
There was no furniture, not even a chair or stool. Nothing.
But the inspector remained paralyzed, mouth open, throat suddenly dry, and broke into a cold sweat.
Because there wasn’t an inch of wall space that wasn’t covered with photographs of him. So that was why the poem said the place would be familiar to him.
Finally managing to move, he went up to the wall in front of him to have a better look at them. They weren’t exactly photographs, but computer printouts of the images that TeleVigàta had broadcast.
Him talking to Fazio, him starting his climb up the firemen’s ladder, him coming down after Gregorio Palmisano had shot his gun, him climbing back up, stopping halfway, resuming his climb, and leaping over the balustrade . . . On every wall in the hut the same images were repeated. But a white envelope stood out in the middle of the central wall, attached with a piece of adhesive tape. He tore it off angrily, so that five or six of the photographs fell to the floor. He grabbed one at random, stuck it in his jacket pocket together with the envelope, and left.
“Wha’ssa story, Chief? You back? You tol’ me y’wasn’t comin’ back,” said Catarella, half surprised, half pleased.
“Are you sorry I am?”
Montalbano had changed his mind in the car. Catarella nearly had a heart attack.
“Whatcha sayin’, Chief? If y’ask me, whinniver y’appear ’ere poissonally in poisson, I almos’ feel like gittin’ down on my
The road continued up the hill, but now on either side of the road there were small homes without pretension, luckily, with little gardens in back where chickens and dogs circulated freely. Then, all at once, the little houses disappeared and the road continued between two dry-walls and then, about a hundred yards ahead, suddenly ended.
Montalbano stopped and got out.
It wasn’t true, actually, that the road ended; it was only the asphalt that did, because from that point forward the road turned into the dirt track of old, all the way down into the valley. He’d reached the very top of the hill and stood there a few moments, enjoying the panorama.
Behind him the sea, before him the distant town of Gallotta, perched atop a hill, to the right the ridge of Monserrato, which divided the territory of Vigàta from that of Montelusa. Not many patches of green. Nowadays hardly anyone worked the land anymore, a waste of effort and money.
And what now? Where was he supposed to go? In the spot where he found himself, at the top of the hill, not only were there no houses, but there wasn’t a living soul about.
travel the whole road and you’ll see
a place quite familiar to you
So said the poem, whose directions he had followed. He’d traveled the whole road, but there wasn’t anything familiar to him. Was this some kind of joke?
About ten yards from the road stood a wooden shack, about ten feet by ten, in bad shape, and it certainly wasn’t familiar to him. At any rate it was the only place where he might ask for information.
It wasn’t really a proper lane that led to the shed, but rather a dirt path barely showing any sign of the passage of man. To see it you had to study the ground very carefully, indicating that it wasn’t trod on very often.
Montalbano took the path to the closed front door. He knocked, but no one answered. Pressing his ear to the wood, between planks, he heard nothing at all. By this point it was clear the shack was uninhabited.
So what to do now? Should he force open the door or turn back and admit defeat?
“Let’s go for broke,” he said.
He went back to the car, took out a monkey wrench, and returned to the hut. Since the door wasn’t flush with the jamb, he stuck the wrench in the gap and used it as a lever. The wood was very damp and broke on the third try. Two kicks were enough, and the lock fell to the floor on the inside. Montalbano opened the door and went in.
There was no furniture, not even a chair or stool. Nothing.
But the inspector remained paralyzed, mouth open, throat suddenly dry, and broke into a cold sweat.
Because there wasn’t an inch of wall space that wasn’t covered with photographs of him. So that was why the poem said the place would be familiar to him.
Finally managing to move, he went up to the wall in front of him to have a better look at them. They weren’t exactly photographs, but computer printouts of the images that TeleVigàta had broadcast.
Him talking to Fazio, him starting his climb up the firemen’s ladder, him coming down after Gregorio Palmisano had shot his gun, him climbing back up, stopping halfway, resuming his climb, and leaping over the balustrade . . . On every wall in the hut the same images were repeated. But a white envelope stood out in the middle of the central wall, attached with a piece of adhesive tape. He tore it off angrily, so that five or six of the photographs fell to the floor. He grabbed one at random, stuck it in his jacket pocket together with the envelope, and left.
“Wha’ssa story, Chief? You back? You tol’ me y’wasn’t comin’ back,” said Catarella, half surprised, half pleased.
“Are you sorry I am?”
Montalbano had changed his mind in the car. Catarella nearly had a heart attack.
“Whatcha sayin’, Chief? If y’ask me, whinniver y’appear ’ere poissonally in poisson, I almos’ feel like gittin’ down on my
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