Treasure Hunt by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online Page B

about half an hour.”
    Before going out, he checked to see how much whisky there was in the house. Half a bottle. While he was at it, he might as well buy another.
    He’d miscalculated the distance. To get to the Marinella Bar on foot it actually took him forty minutes.
    When he walked in, Tano was setting the telephone down.
    “If you’d got here a minute earlier, you coulda talked to ’em.”
    “To whom?”
    “To the person that left the letter for you.”
    He seriously doubted that person felt like talking to him.
    “Somebody called?”
    “Just now.”
    “What’d they want?”
    “They wanted to know if you’d come by to pick up the letter, and I told ’em you’d be here any minute.”
    “What kind of voice did he have?”
    “Why, don’t you know ’im?”
    “No.”
    “It sounded to me like a fairly old man. But he mighta been fakin’ it. He didn’t say hello, nothin’, he just wanted to know if you’d come by. Here’s the letter.”
    He took it out from under the bar and handed it to him.
    The envelope was exactly the same as the one he’d already received, with the name written in the same way as on the other, and with the same sort of heading:
Treasure Hunt
. He put it in his jacket pocket, ordered the bottle of whisky, took it, paid, and left. It took him almost an hour to get back. He walked slowly, wanting to enjoy the outing. Back at home, he settled back on the bench and opened the envelope. Inside was half a sheet of paper with a poem.
    Now that you’ve entered the game
    you have no choice but to progress.
    Following this feeble flame
    of mine, try now to guess.
    Tell me, my good Inspector,
    where does the street become tight
    and turn into a wheel, and vector
    straight from the plain to the heights?
    If you can guess, go without further ado,
    travel the whole road and you’ll see
    a place quite familiar to you
    and another that may be the key.
    Aside from the fact that from a metrical point of view, the lines really stank, he didn’t understand a thing. No, actually, there was one thing he understood. That the person writing to him was a pretentious asshole. This was clear from the phrase “my good Inspector,” which seemed to come from someone who thought of himself as God in heaven at the very least.
    Whatever the case, he would never manage to solve the riddle that same night. He needed a map. Therefore the best thing was to go to bed.
    He didn’t exactly get a good night’s sleep. He had strange dreams in which inflatable dolls were telling him riddles that he was unable to solve.

    Gallo came by to pick him up at eight-thirty.
    “Do me a favor, Gallo. After you drop me off, go to city hall and ask them for a topographical map of Vigàta. Or better yet, a street map. If they haven’t got any, ask for a copy of the latest town-planning scheme. Or whether they have one of those views of the whole town, shot from above.”
    “Ah, Chief, Chief!” Catarella exclaimed the moment the inspector set foot in the station. “’Ere’s a jinnelman a-waitin’ f’yiz an’ ’e wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
    “Who is he?”
    “’E sez ’is name izzat ’e’s called Girolammo Cacazzone.”
    “Are we sure that’s his real name?”
    “Who’s asposta be sure, Chief? Me, youse, or Cacazzone?”
    “You.”
    “As fer misself, I’s assolutely soitin! In fact, mebbe Cacazzone hisself ain’t so soitin as’ I’s soitin!”
    “All right, show him in.”
    Two minutes later a man of about eighty appeared with hair completely white, because of his age, no doubt, but mostly because he was an albino. Medium height, shabby suit, dusty shoes, and the look of someone who’s perpetually out of his element, even in the bathroom of his own home. For his age he seemed pretty well preserved, except for the fact that his hands trembled.
    “I’m Girolamo Cavazzone.”
    How could you go wrong?
    “Did you wish to speak to me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Please sit down and tell me