The Snack Thief by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online

bursting with health and
would have lived to be a hundred if somebody hadnt killed
him first. A single stab wound, dealt with a firm hand. The
incident occurred between seven and eight oclock this
morning. Dyou need anything else?
    In the fridge he found some pasta with broccoli, which he
put in the oven to warm up. As a second course, Adelina had
made him some roulades of tuna. Figuring hed had a light
lunch, he felt obliged to eat everything. Then he turned on
the television and tuned in to the Free Channel, a good local
station where his red-haired, Red-sympathizing friend
Nicolto worked. Zito was commenting on the killing of
the Tunisian aboard the Santopadre as the camera zoomed in
    on the bullet-riddled wheelhouse and on a dark stain in the
wood that was probably blood. All of a sudden Jacomuzzi appeared,
kneeling down and looking at something through a
magnifying glass.
    Buffoon! Montalbano shouted, then switched the
channel to TeleVig, the station where Galluzzos brother-
in-law Prestworked. Here, too, Jacomuzzi made an appearance,
except that he was no longer on the fishing boat; now
he was pretending to take fingerprints inside the elevator
where Lapra had been murdered. Montalbano cursed the
saints, stood up, threw a book against the wall. That was why
Galluzzo had been so reticent! He knew that the news had
spread but didnt have the courage to tell him. Without a
doubt it was Jacomuzzi whod notified the journalists, so he
could show off as usual. He couldnt live without it. The
mans exhibitionism reached heights comparable only to
what one might find in a mediocre actor or some writer with
print runs of a hundred and fifty copies.
    Now Pippo Ragonese, the stations political commentator,
appeared on the screen. He wanted to talk, he said, about
the cowardly Tunisian attack on one of our motor trawlers
that had been peacefully fishing in our own territorial waters,
which was the same as saying on the sacred soil of our
homeland. It wasnt literally soil, of course, being the sea, but
it was still our homeland. A less fainthearted government
than the current one in the hands of the extreme left would
certainly have reacted more severely to a provocation that
    Montalbano turned off the television.
    The agitation he felt at Jacomuzzis brilliant move showed
no signs of passing. Sitting on the small veranda that gave
onto the beach and staring at the sea in the moonlight, he
smoked three cigarettes in a row. Maybe Livias voice
would calm him down enough so he could go to bed and
fall asleep.
    Hi, Livia. How are you?
So-so.
Ive had a rough day.
Oh, really?
What the hell was wrong with Livia? Then he remem
    bered their phone call that morning, which had ended on a
sour note.
    I called to ask you to forgive me for my boorishness.
But thats not the only reason. If you only knew how much I
missed you...
    It occurred to him that he might be overdoing it.
Do you miss me, really?
Yes, a lot, really.
Listen, Salvo, why dont I catch a plane on Saturday
    morning? Ill be in Vig just before lunchtime.
He became terrified. Livia was the last thing he needed
    at the moment.
No, no, darling, its such a bother for you...
When Livia got something in her head, she was worse
    than a Calabrian. Shed said Saturday morning, and Saturday
    morning it would be. Montalbano realized hed have to call
the commissioner the next day. Good-bye, pasta in squid ink!
    Around eleven oclock the next morning, since nothing was
happening at headquarters, the inspector headed lazily off to
Salita Granet. The first shop on that street was a bakery; it
had been there for six years. The baker and his helper had indeed
heard that a man who owned an office at number 28
had been murdered, but they didnt know him and had never
seen him. As this was impossible, Montalbano became more
insistent in his questioning, acting more and more the cop
until he