The Age of Doubt by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online

able to recover the crate. Grabbing it, he brought it back to the flat rock, and then chucked it back into the sea.
    This time, it took barely half an hour for him to see that the crate was heading straight out of the harbor.

    He got back in his car and headed off to Montelusa to talk with Dr. Pasquano.
    “The doctor’s in his office,” said the operator/doorman.
    Arriving at the door, Montalbano knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. So he turned the doorknob and went in.
    Pasquano was sitting behind the desk, engrossed in writing, and didn’t even look up to see who had come in.
    “I’ll bet my balls,” he said, “that it was the woefully impolite Inspector Montalbano who just entered the room.”
    “Your balls are safe, Doctor. You’re right on the money.”
    “Only momentarily safe, because you certainly will now try to break them.”
    “Right again.”
    “If only I could be so right when I play poker!”
    “How’d it go at the club last night?”
    “Don’t remind me! I had three-of-a-kind in my hand and asked for two cards and . . . Never mind. What do you want?”
    “You know damn well what I want.”
    “Just over forty, athletic build, in perfect physical condition, white skin, no sign of surgery, teeth that had never seen a dentist, perfect heart and lungs, and he wore neither glasses nor contact lenses. Is that enough for you?”
    “Yes, for when he was alive. And after his death?”
    “Let’s say that when he was found, he’d been dead for at least three days.”
    “Was he killed when they smashed up his face that way?”
    “Nuh-unh,” said the doctor, shaking his head.
    “Shot or stabbed?”
    “Nuh-unh.”
    “Strangled?”
    “Nuh-unh.”
    “You could at least say if I’m getting warmer or colder! Eh? A little help, the way they do on quiz shows?”
    “Poisoned, my friend.”
    “With what?”
    “Common rat poison.”
    Montalbano was so obviously bewildered that Pasquano noticed.
    “Do you find that disturbing?”
    “Yes. Nowadays, poison is—”
    “No longer in fashion?”
    “Well . . .”
    “Listen, I would strongly advise all aspiring murderers to use it. A gunshot makes such a racket that the neighbors are sure to hear it; stabbing spatters blood all over the place: on the floor, the walls, your clothes . . . Whereas poison . . . Don’t you agree?”
    “And what about his face?”
    “They worked on that postmortem.”
    “Apparently to make it harder to identify him.”
    “I’m glad to see that, despite your considerably advanced age, you, Inspector, still possess a certain degree of lucidity.”
    Montalbano decided to ignore the provocation.
    “What state are the fingertips in?”
    “Intact, in keeping with the rest of the body except the face.”
    “Which means his fingerprints are not on file.”
    “Impeccable conclusion, deduced by extreme logical rigor. Congratulations. And now, if you’re done turning my balls to dust . . .”
    “One last question. Was he married?”
    “You’re asking me? All I know is that there was no trace of a ring on any of his fingers. But that means nothing.”
    “Another thing. Can you tell me—”
    “Oh, no you don’t, my friend! You said your question about his marital status was the last. Keep your word for once in your life!”
    Since he was already in Montelusa, he went to central police headquarters, to see if he could talk to someone in Forensics. He knew that the chief of Forensics, Vanni Arquà, whom he couldn’t stand, was on vacation, with his deputy Cusumano taking his place.
    “What can you tell me?” Montalbano asked him.
    “Where should I start?”
    “The dinghy.”
    “A small dinghy—”
    “Actually, were there oars? I didn’t see any.”
    “No. They were either lost at sea or the boat was towed. To continue: a small dinghy made in England. There are quite a lot of them around. No fingerprints; whoever handled it used gloves at all times. And the body was put in it only a short