The Dance of the Seagull by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online Page B

two hours later and gave me precise directions as to where we could find him, so that he could explain everything. Do you want to go?”
    “Of course. Where is it?”
    “Over by Rivera. An hour-and-a-half drive away.”
    “All right, let’s get moving. Would you please tell me why you didn’t call us?”
    “Because the guy’s a fugitive, Salvo.”
    So why would a fugitive from justice worry about the fate of a cop? There was no point in asking any questions, however. Zito would never divulge the informer’s name.
    There was, however, one good thing in all this: Fazio was still alive.
    “What did you tell Augello?”
    “That I urgently needed to talk to you.”
    “Did you mention that it had to do with Fazio?”
    “No.”
    Should he phone Mimì to tell him about the new development? No, it was probably best to let him sleep. And at the sound of that word in his mind, as if by sudden contagion, he closed his eyes automatically. And fell asleep.

    He was awakened by the silence.
    He was alone. It was daylight. The car was stopped along a dirt road in the open country. But all around him was not what you could really call country, only desolate, deserted land. A few stunted trees where it was impossible to tell what, if any, fruit they had ever borne, a few clumps of wild grass as tall as a man, thickets of sorghum, and a sea of white stones.
    It was a
chiarchiaro,
as they called it in Sicilian, a hill of stone, a godforsaken place where you couldn’t grow anything and it was dangerous even to walk, since at any moment you could find yourself sinking into a hole that would widen into a great fissure plunging deep into the ground.
    Montalbano knew that
chiarchiari
were cemeteries of nameless bones, the favorite burial sites of the Mafia. When they wanted to make someone disappear, they would take him to the edge of a hole, shoot him, and let him fall inside. Or else they would spare themselves the bullets, and just shove him into the chasm still alive, and the victim would die during the fall, crashing against the rocks, or if he reached the bottom, he could cry and yell all he wanted, and nobody would ever hear him. He would die slowly, of hunger and, above all, thirst.
    To the right, about ten yards from the dirt road, was a tumbledown little one-room house, a white cube that looked merely like a rock a bit larger than the rest. Tumbledown, perhaps, but with the door closed. Maybe Nicolò was inside, talking with the fugitive.
    Montalbano decided to stay in the car. He searched his pockets. There were only three cigarettes left in the pack. He lit one and rolled down the window. He didn’t hear any birds singing.
    Then, when he’d nearly finished the cigarette, the door of the cube opened and Zito appeared, motioning to him to come out and approach.
    “He’s ready to tell you everything, but there’s one problem.”
    “What?”
    “He doesn’t want you to see his face.”
    “So what should we do?”
    “I have to blindfold you.”
    “Is this some kind of joke?”
    “No. If you’re not blindfolded, he won’t talk.”
    “I’ll make him talk.”
    “Cut the crap, Salvo. You and I are unarmed, and he’s got a gun. Come on, don’t be an asshole.”
    And Nicolò pulled an enormous handkerchief out of his pocket, red and green, like a peasant’s.
    Despite the circumstances, Montalbano started laughing.
    “Is that really your normal handkerchief?”
    “Yes. I’ve been using this kind for a while. Sinusitis.”
    The inspector let himself be blindfolded and led into the cottage.
    “Good morning, Inspector Montalbano,” said a middle-aged voice, rather deep and well mannered.
    “Good morning to you.”
    “I’m sorry I’ve made you come all this way, and I’m sorry I’ve made you wear a blindfold, but it’s better if you don’t know who I am.”
    “Let’s drop the politeness bullshit,” the inspector said. “And just tell me what you have to tell me.”
    “A few mornings ago, probably around