The Terra-Cotta Dog by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online Page B

way to Asinara.”
    â€œWe were all under guard,” Fazio cut in, indignant.
    Galluzzo continued his story:
    â€œAn hour later some guy I know entered the room, a colleague of yours who was kicked upstairs to the Anti-Mafia Commission. I think his name is Sciacchitano.”
    A perfect asshole, the inspector thought, but said nothing.
    â€œHe looked at me as if I smelled bad or something, like some beggar. Then he kept on staring at me, and finally he said: You know, you can’t very well present yourself to the Prefect looking like that.”
    Still feeling hurt by the absurd treatment, he had trouble keeping his voice down.
    â€œThe amazing thing was that he had this pissed-off look in his eye, like it was all my fault! Then he left, muttering to himself. Later a cop came in with a clean shirt and jacket.”
    â€œNow let me talk,” Fazio butted in, pulling rank. “To make a long story short, from three o’clock in the afternoon to midnight yesterday, every one of us was interrogated eight times by eight different people.”
    â€œWhat did they want to know?”
    â€œHow the arrest came about.”
    â€œActually, I was interrogated ten times,” said Germanà with a certain pride. “I guess I tell a good story, and for them it was like being at the movies.”
    â€œAround one o’clock in the morning they gathered us together,” Fazio continued, “and put us in a great big room, a kind of large office, with two sofas, eight chairs, and four tables. They unplugged the telephones and took them away. Then they sent in four stale sandwiches and four warm beers that tasted like piss. We got as comfortable as we could, and at eight the next morning some guy came in and said we could go back to Vigàta. No good morning, no good-bye, not even ‘get outta here’ like you say to get rid of the dog. Nothing.”
    â€œAll right,” said Montalbano. “What can you do? Go on home now, rest up, and come back here in the late afternoon. I promise you I’ll take this whole business up with the commissioner.”
    Â 
 
“Hello? This is Inspector Salvo Montalbano from Vigàta. I’d like to speak with Inspector Arturo Sciacchitano.”
    â€œPlease hold.”
    Montalbano grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen. He started doodling without paying attention and only later noticed he had drawn a pair of buttocks on a toilet seat.
    â€œI’m sorry, the inspector’s in a meeting.”
    â€œListen, please tell him I’m also in a meeting, that way we’re even. He can interrupt his for five minutes, I’ll do the same with mine, and we’ll both be happy as babies.”
    He appended a few turds to the shitting buttocks.
    â€œMontalbano? What is it? Sorry, but I haven’t got much time.”
    â€œMe neither. Listen, Sciacchitanov—”
    â€œEh? Sciacchitanov? What the hell are you saying?”
    â€œIsn’t that your real name?You mean you don’t belong to the KGB?”
    â€œI’m not in the mood for jokes, Montalbano.”
    â€œWho’s joking? I’m calling you from the commissioner’s office, and he’s very upset over the KGB-style treatment you gave my men. He promised me he’d write to the interior minister this very day.”
    The phenomenon cannot be explained, and yet it happened: Montalbano actually saw Sciacchitano, universally known as a pusillanimous ass-lick, turn pale over the telephone line. His lie had the same effect on the man as a billy club to the head.
    â€œWhat are you saying? You have to understand that I, as defender of public safety—”
    Montalbano interrupted him.
    â€œSafety doesn’t preclude politeness,” he said pithily, sounding like one of those road signs that say: BE POLITE, FOR SAFETY’S SAKE.
    â€œBut I was extremely polite! I even gave them beer and sandwiches!”
    â€œI’m sorry to say, but despite