Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories by Andrea Camilleri

Author:Andrea Camilleri
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2016-01-21T16:00:00+00:00

4

For once, Catarella had understood and correctly reported the information provided by an anonymous caller as to the exact location where a murder victim could be found. Pizzutello was an area barely five hundred yards away from Piccolo’s house, thick with Mediterranean scrub still untouched by concrete, and a favorite haunt of furtive couples. Indeed the traffic of these couples had formed a complex web of trails and clearings through the brush, a labyrinth which, despite the wealth of information, made finding the right path a real conundrum. The two vehicles—a squad car and the inspector’s car—were twice forced to make complicated maneuvers in order to turn around and try another path. In the end they managed. The dead man lay facedown, arms spread. It was hard to tell what color his jacket was, so soaked was it with the blood, now clotted, which had come out of a small but visible hole just below his right shoulder blade. Not far away from the body was a motor scooter equipped with an ample parcel rack in back.

“Even without seeing his face,” said Fazio, “I think I know this guy.”

“It’s Dindò,” said Montalbano, “the kid who used to make deliveries for the supermarket. Already last night Aguglia, the manager, told me Dindò hadn’t come in to work that day. And this morning he came and reported the theft of the motor scooter by Dindò.”

“But he was just a poor half-wit!” exclaimed Germanà, who was part of the squad on duty with Tortorella and Imbrò.

“We have to find the weapon,” said Montalbano.

“You mean the one he was killed with?” Tortorella asked in surprise.

“No,” replied Fazio, after a quick glance at Montalbano, having immediately understood his thoughts. And he added: “The one Dindò had with him and fired.”

He looked back at Montalbano as if seeking confirmation that what he’d said was correct. The inspector nodded in assent.

“Jesus Christ! I haven’t understood a thing!” Germanà complained.

“Never mind understanding and just start looking,” Fazio ordered him.

They looked and looked, going as far as Piccolo’s house, but didn’t find anything.

“Maybe the gun’s under the body,” Tortorella suggested.

They raised the body up on one side, enough to see what they needed to see.

“If Arquà saw what we’re doing, he’d have a heart attack,” Fazio commented.

The weapon wasn’t there. In compensation, they discovered that his flesh and jacket had been literally torn apart around the exit wound.

“Maybe he threw it away while crawling to this secluded spot,” said Fazio.

Montalbano suddenly felt a lump of sorrow in his throat. Poor Dindò, a mortally wounded man-child coming here to die unseen, exactly the way animals do . . . Wasn’t Mortally Wounded the title of a beautiful book by Raffaele La Capria he’d read and loved many years ago?

“He bled to death,” said Fazio, as if he’d been reading Montalbano’s mind.

“Inform whoever you need to inform,” said the inspector. “But let me speak to Dr. Pasquano.”

Moments later, Fazio passed the cell phone to him.

“Doctor? Montalbano here. Were you able to have a look at Gerlando Piccolo?”

“Yes indeed.

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