The Age of Doubt by Andrea Camilleri

Author:Andrea Camilleri [Camilleri, Andrea]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780143120926
Amazon: 0143120921
Barnesnoble: 0143120921
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 2012-05-29T05:00:00+00:00

Montalbano felt satisfied with his reconstruction.

Most of all, he felt pleased that he’d been able to go a whole hour without thinking of Laura—Laura, who was opening her eyes and smiling at Mimì, as she lay beside him in bed . . .

10

He got into his car and headed straight for Montelusa Central Police, without dropping by the station.

Luckily for him, the office he needed to go to was located on the opposite side of the building from the commissioner’s office. At least there was no danger of running into that colossal pain in the ass Lattes.

But sooner or later they were bound to cross paths. How was he going to resolve the problem once and for all? He’d promised Livia he would tell him the truth—that is, that he wasn’t married and had no children, and was a bachelor though he’d been with the same woman for many years. But hadn’t he already told him this at least five times in the past, and each time the guy seemed not to hear him, so that, when next they met, he was immediately back to square one and asking the inspector how his family was doing? Trying to convince Lattes was therefore a waste of breath.

Perhaps, however, there was a solution: to show up in front of Lattes one fine morning, dressed in deep mourning and unshaven, and say, between sobs, that his wife and sons had died in a car accident. Yes, that seemed to be the only solution.

But wouldn’t Livia then make a big stink? Wouldn’t she accuse him at the very least of having wiped out his whole family? Was it worth the risk?

To say nothing of the fact that there would be no mention of the crash in the papers.

No, he had to find another solution.

Meanwhile, he’d arrived at Montelusa Central. Going in through a back door, he climbed two flights of stairs and stopped in front of a small table at which a uniformed policeman he knew was seated.

“Is Inspector Geremicca in?”

“Yes, the inspector’s in his office. You can go in.”

Montalbano knocked and entered.

Attilio Geremicca was about fifty years old, thin as a beanpole, and smoked foul-smelling cigars. Montalbano was convinced he had the things specially made for him out of a blend of chicken shit and tobacco. Geremicca was standing and looking at a fifty-euro note through a sort of gigantic microscope on a tall counter.

Looking up, he saw Montalbano and went up to him with open arms. They embraced, genuinely happy to see each other.

After chatting a bit, Geremicca asked Montalbano if he needed anything, and the inspector, after handing him Lannec’s passport, told him the whole story.

“And what do you want from me?” Geremicca asked.

“I want you to find out if that passport is authentic or not.”

Geremicca studied it carefully while lighting another cigar.

Thinking he would never manage to hold his breath for the whole time, Montalbano pretended to sneeze, giving himself an excuse to put his handkerchief over his nose and keep it there.

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