The Snack Thief by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online Page A

realized that to get to his office from his home,
Mr. Lapra would have come up the opposite end of the
street. And in fact, at the grocers at number 26, they did
know the late lamented Mr. Lapra, and how! They also
knew the Tunisian girl, whats-her-name, Karima, good-looking
womanand here a few sly glances and grins were exchanged
between the grocer and his customers. They couldnt swear
by it, of course, but the inspector could surely understand, a
pretty girl like that, all alone indoors with a man like the late
Mr. Lapra, who carried himself awfully well for his
age...Yes, he did have a nephew, an arrogant punk who
sometimes used to park his car right up against the door to
the shop, so that one time Signora Miccichwho tipped the
scales at a good three hundred pounds, got stuck between the
car and the door to the shop ...No, the license plate, no. If
it had been one of the old kinds, with pa for Palermo or mi
for Milan, that would have been a different story.
    The third and last shop on Salita Granet sold electrical
appliances. The proprietor, a certain Angelo Zircone (as the
sign said outside), was standing behind the counter, reading
the newspaper. Of course he knew the deceased; the shop
had been there for ten years. Whenever Mr. Lapra passed
byin recent years it was only on Mondays,Wednesdays, and
Fridayshe always said hello. Such a nice man. Yes, the appliance
man also used to see the Tunisian girl, and a fine-
looking girl she was. Yes, the nephew, too, now and then. The
nephew and his friend.
    What friend? asked Montalbano, taken by surprise.
    It turned out that Mr. Zircone had seen this friend at
least three times. He would come with the nephew, and the
two of them would go to number 28. About thirty, blondish,
sort of fat. That was about all he could tell him. The license
plate? Was he kidding? With these license plates nowadays you
couldnt even tell if someone was a Turk or a Christian ...A
metallic gray BMW. If he said any more, hed be making it up.
    The inspector rang the doorbell to Lapras office. No
answer. Galluzzo, behind the door, was apparently trying to
decide how to react.
    Its Montalbano.
    The door opened at once.
    The Tunisian girl hasnt shown up yet, said Galluzzo.
    And shes not going to. You were right, Gall
    The policeman lowered his eyes, confused.
    Who leaked the news?
    Jacomuzzi.
    To pass the time during his stakeout, Galluzzo had orga
    nized himself. Having seized a pile of old issues of Il Venerd
di Repubblica, the glossy Friday magazine supplement of the
Rome daily that Mr. Lapra kept in orderly stacks on a
shelf with fewer files, he had scattered them across the desktop
in search of photos of more or less naked women. After
tiring of looking at these, he had applied himself to solving a
crossword puzzle in a yellowed old magazine.
    Do I have to stay here all frigging day? he asked dejectedly.
    Im afraid so. Youll have to make the best of it. Listen,
Im going in back, to take advantage of Mr. Lapras bathroom.
    It wasnt often that nature called so far off schedule for
him. Perhaps the rage hed felt the previous evening upon
seeing Jacomuzzi playing the fool on television had altered
his digestive rhythms.
    He sat down on the toilet seat, heaving his customary
sigh of satisfaction, and at that exact moment his mind
brought into focus something hed seen a few minutes earlier
but had paid absolutely no attention to.
    He leapt to his feet and raced into the next room, holding
his pants and underpants at half-staff in one hand.
    Stop! he ordered Galluzzo, who, in fright, turned pale
as death and instinctively put his hands up.
    There it was, right next to Galluzzos elbow: a black R in
boldface, carefully cut out of some newspaper. No, not some
newspaper, but a magazine: the paper was glossy.
    What is going on? Galluzzo managed to articulate.
    It might be everything and it might be nothing,
replied the