The Dance of the Seagull by Andrea Camilleri

Author:Andrea Camilleri [Camilleri, Andrea]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, Thriller
ISBN: 9780143122616
Amazon: 0143122614
Barnesnoble: 0143122614
Goodreads: 15808360
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 2013-02-26T06:00:00+00:00

When he entered his office, he found Mimì sitting there, waiting for him.

“What can you tell me?”

“Found them all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Montalbano, who at that moment was thinking about Angela.

“It means all five gentlemen around sixty who like to have their feet pedicured answered the call. I also checked the Montelusa phone book, which Galluzzo gave me. All alive and kicking. Therefore the victim did not go to any of the pedicurists in Vigàta or Montelusa. Nor did he have anything to do with the callus specialist. Fazio tell you anything?”

“Yes.”

The inspector told him about Manzella.

“And why did they shoot at him at the port?”

“I’ll find that out in the next installment.”

“I believe I heard you say Manzella told Fazio he was married and his wife was pregnant,” said Mimì.

“You heard right. And it’s the only thing we’ve got to go on at the moment.”

Without saying a word, Augello got up, went out, and returned with the telephone book, which he started thumbing through.

“There are two Filippo Manzellas in Vigàta. And another in Montelusa,” he concluded from his search.

“Turn on the speakerphone and start with Vigàta.”

The first Filippo Manzella was a surly old man who started verbally abusing Mimì. The second wasn’t at home, a woman calling herself his wife assured him; he’d left about an hour earlier on a fishing boat.

“So we have to rule this one out, too, since at least until an hour ago, he was still alive,” Augello concluded.

Montalbano looked at him with an expression somewhere between admiration and astonishment.

“Mimì, you sometimes arrive at staggering conclusions that would put even Monsieur Lapalisse to shame.”

“I’ve learned from you,” Augello rebutted, dialing the Montelusa number.

“Hello, who’s there?” asked a female voice.

“Police,” said Mimì.

The woman got scared.

“Ohmygod, what happened?”

“Please don’t be alarmed, signora. I’m just calling about a fine. Does Filippo Manzella live there?”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that my husband and I no longer live together. We separated five years ago.”

“I see. Do you know where he lives now?”

“Well, until about two weeks ago I knew he was living in Vigàta at 13, Via della Forcella, but the last time he called me on the phone, he said he’d moved.”

“When was the last time he called?”

“As I said, about two weeks ago.”

“And he hasn’t called back since then?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you worried that he hasn’t contacted you?”

“No, I’m used to these silences. He only calls me for news of his son. But sometimes he’ll go a whole month without calling.”

“Did he give you his new address?”

“No.”

At this point Montalbano took the phone away from him.

“Hello, signora, this is Chief Inspector Montalbano. Would you mind if I came to Montelusa to talk to you?”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Let’s say in about half an hour.”

“No, I was just about to go out. If you want, you can come tomorrow morning anytime after eleven.”

Montalbano thanked her, hung up, and rose.

“You coming with me?” he asked Augello.

“Where?”

“Wake up, Mimì! To 13, Via della Forcella!”

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