Treasure Hunt (11 page)

So his challenger also knew the legend.

“And what ever happened to the girl’s father?”

“He was acquitted for lack of evidence. But the people who kept on believing he was his own daughter’s killer wouldn’t give up and on certain nights they’d go and shoot at his house. Tano figured that sooner or later they were going to kill him, so he moved to another town. But why are you so interested in this lake? Did something happen at the campsite?”

“What campsite?”

“For a while some foreign kids’ve been camping in the woods behind the house. Livin’ the natural life, bare-assed and drugged out. Every so often things take a bad turn and somebody gets knifed.”

“Chief? ’At’d be your cleanin’ lady onna line. C’n I put her true?”

“Go ahead . . . Hello, Adelì. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, sir. I wannit a say I’s comin’ a beck a work tomorrow.”

“Do you feel up to it?”

“Yessir, I do. But you gotta do me a favor. I don’ wanna looka like I’s a stick a my nose inna you business . . .”

“Go on, speak.”

“You gotta get ridda those dolls. They gimme the creeps. Jesus, whatta scare they givva me!”

“Don’t worry, Adelì, they’re already gone.”

He ate very little. He didn’t like eating in restaurants alone at night. By now he was accustomed to eating at home in the evening. At least it would be the last time, and tomorrow he could open the refrigerator or oven and find another of Adelina’s wonderful surprises.

He sat at home watching the late edition of the news, national and local. In Salemi a man returning from his nearby country house was murdered and, naturally, nobody had heard or seen a thing. The motive appeared to have been a matter of inheritance that had been dragging on for years, but the case was turning out to be rather complicated just the same. Montalbano suddenly felt a pang of envy for the police detective in charge of the investigation.

What? Was he starting to suffer from homicide withdrawal? Before going to bed, he decided to try to make peace with Livia, and so he called her.

“Hi. Listen, despite the fact that you hung up on me this morning—”

“I didn’t hang up on you.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t. The line went dead. I kept saying ‘hello, hello’ and then I finally hung up.”

“Why didn’t you try calling back?”

“Because I’d already heard the essential part, that is, that you weren’t coming anymore, and I didn’t feel like phoning you from the office. And if you really want to know, I knew all along you wouldn’t come.”

“Livia, I swear—”

“Just drop it.”

There was a pause, with the estimated temperature at about 40 below. Then Livia resumed talking, though it probably would have been better if she hadn’t.

“And what’s the excuse this time?”

“Excuse me, but what excuse are you talking about?”

“The one you’ve fabricated so you won’t have to come.”

“There is no excuse! I don’t need to fabricate excuses for myself, you know! What happened is this: in spite of myself, I’ve become involved in a treasure hunt and have to—”

“You whaaaa . . . ?!”

Matre santa
, he’d made a big mistake, beginning his argument that way! How was he going to clear things up now? He would never manage, not in a million years! All the same, he had nothing left to lose, so he might as well try.

“Just listen to me for a moment, please. I can explain.”

“What on earth is there to explain? A treasure hunt? I know how they work, I’ve gone on a few myself, in my time.”

“No, no, this one’s a little different, because—”

“And who’s your partner? Ingrid, or someone I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting?”

“Come on, what has Ingr—”

“Just stop it! That’s enough! Our little man isn’t coming to see me because he has to take part in a treasure hunt with his little girlfriend! You know what I say? I’m sick and tired of this! Really and truly!”

“You think I’m not?”

Livia hung up. And a good thing too, because hearing himself called “little man,” Montalbano had lost the light of reason.

To conclude, instead of making peace, he had simply aggravated the damage already done. But when you came right down to it, it wasn’t entirely his fault. Livia never let him finish what he was saying, always interrupting him, and he always ended up getting upset.

At any rate, it was probably best not to call her back, at least not that evening.

The following morning he headed straight for Montelusa Hospital.

They examined him and said he no longer needed to wear the collar.

He felt the way a slave freed of his chains must have felt.

“Any news, any phone calls?”

“Nuttin’, Chief. Couldja gimme a hand?”

“What are you doing?”

“A rebus.”

“I’m not any good at those.”

It wasn’t true, but how could a police inspector with a brilliant past, no matter how dull his present, stoop to solving puzzles for a switchboard operator who, on top of everything, was Catarella?

Then, sometime past eleven, after he’d been signing papers for over two hours, a call from Arturo came in.

“Any new developments, Inspector?”

“Well, yes.”

“Feel like talking about it?”

“Over the phone? Not really. It would take too long.”

“Can I drop by, then?”

He didn’t feel much like thinking that morning. Apparently the fact of applying useless signatures to even more useless sheets of paper paralyzed his brain.

“Could you come around five o’clock?”

“Sure, why not? See you at five then. I’ll be right on time.”

The kid was dying to know the latest developments, you could tell from his voice.

After stuffing himself with pasta in squid ink and a good pound of jumbo shrimp, he took his customary walk out to the lighthouse, sat down on the flat rock, and spent a good half hour busting the balls of a crab.

He then returned to the office. Arturo showed up at five on the dot.

At that moment Montalbano was busy talking on the phone with the chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, Dr. Lattes, who wanted to know why nobody in the inspector’s office had replied yet to questionnaire no. 3289/PA/045, a document which Montalbano didn’t know the first thing about or where it might be.

“I’ll get on it right away, Doctor.”

He hung up and rang Fazio.

“Could you come in for a second?”

While waiting, he wrote down the number of the questionnaire on a sheet of paper. Fazio arrived.

“Listen, they want an immediate reply to the questionnaire with this reference number. Which means . . .” he said, handing him the paper, “take all the papers here on the desk into your office and see if you can’t find it.”

It took Fazio two trips to clear off Montalbano’s desk.

The whole time he’d been waiting, Arturo had fidgeted restlessly in his chair. Once Fazio finished, he couldn’t hold himself back any longer.

“So,” he said impatiently.

Without a word Montalbano pulled the letter with the poem out of his pocket and handed it to him. The kid practically snatched it out of his hand.

“It’s obviously about another path for you to follow,” he said after reading it twice.

Montalbano decided to put him to the test. He wanted to see just how intelligent the kid was.

“Fine, but do you know where? I, frankly, can’t make any sense of it this time. To the point that I haven’t even tried to find it like last time. For example, what’s this business about a sheep’s head?”

“Well, in my opinion, and I could be wrong, the main point is to find a place, or an establishment, where they regularly cook lamb’s head.”

“You think so? You mean a restaurant in Vigàta?”

“I don’t think you normally find that sort of dish in a restaurant. Maybe a tavern of some sort.”

“And then what? Once you find the place, in what direction are you supposed to ‘proceed without haste’? It doesn’t say.”

“Probably once you figure out where the place is, you’ll know what direction to go in.”

“I suppose you’re right, but the whole search seems pointless, a waste of time and effort.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t you read the last two lines? It says there will be no answers to my questions. So why waste my time?”

“I don’t think that’s really what they mean.”

“Then what do they mean, in your opinion?”

“I think your adversary is trying to say that since you won’t find any new instructions from him there, you’ll have to discover, with your intuition, something that might later prove useful to you.”

“You may very well be right, but I have no intention anymore of doing anything. I refuse to continue playing this stupid game.”

An expression of disappointment came over the young man’s face. The boy’s face, actually. Because he really did seem like a little boy at that moment.

“You’re giving up?!”

Was he going to start crying?

“I’m afraid so.”

“But you can’t back out now!”

“And why not? It certainly wasn’t my idea to play this game, and nobody even asked me if I wanted to play. So I can withdraw whenever I feel like it.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” Arturo asked.

He was folding his hands as if in prayer. Montalbano’s threat to stop playing the game had put him in a state of agitation.

“Go ahead.”

“What if I went in your place?”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“If my adversary discovers you’re helping me . . .”

“But I’ll make sure I’m not discovered! I’ll be very careful!”

“Do you really think you can?”

“Try me.”

That was what Montalbano was hoping he would say. He fell silent for a few moments, as though weighing the pros and cons of the proposal, and then said:

“All right.”

Arturo leapt to his feet, eyes aglitter with joy.

“Thank you for having faith in me. I’ll be back in touch soon.”

They shook hands. The youth left in a big hurry. He was like a dog pursuing a hare.

Five minutes later, Fazio came in.

“Found it!”

To fill out questionnaire no. 3289/PA/045, “pertaining to perspectives and aspects of the duties and functions of the office of Director of the Archives,” it took him well over an hour, between curses, expletives, and moments of dejection so dark as to push him to the brink of suicide.

Before leaving the station, he thought he should phone Ingrid. He wanted to ask her a few things about young Arturo, whom he felt rather perplexed about. Though he was unlikely to find her at home at that hour, since she would surely be out with some girlfriend or boyfriend, he decided to try just the same.

“Hullo, hullo, hoodare?” asked a basso profondo voice, rather like that of a blues singer or someone from the Bolshoi men’s choir, take your pick, except that it belonged to a woman.

Ingrid’s specialty was changing housekeepers and manservants about every two weeks, only because she was rather fickle about them, but she always picked people from places so obscure that to find them on a map you needed an enormous magnifying glass.

“Montalbano here.”

“Wich you name? Montabbano or Heer?”

What an idea, calling oneself Heer! Herr Heer here! He really thought he would like that. The inspector replied in the same language.

“Montabbano. Wan talk to Signora Ingrid.”

“Wett.”

Of course he would wait. And wait he did, for a good five minutes over the course of which he said “Hello, hello” quite a few times, in the terror that the line had gone dead and that he would have to start all over again by talking to that housekeeper from Upper Turkistan.

“Ciao, Salvo. What a lovely surprise!”

“Where’s your new housekeeper from?”

“I don’t know, but tomorrow they’re sending me another one.”

Damn, just when he was starting to learn the language.

“What are you doing this evening?”

“I see you don’t waste any time getting to the point. I’m busy. I have a date with a friend who’s got almost the same name as you, Montabbano. But I can’t join him for another hour or so.”

“I didn’t dare hope.”

She chuckled.

“These are lean times, Salvo.”

“You’re telling me! All right, then. I’ll wait for you in Marinella, then we can decide where to go.”

On his way out he was stopped by Catarella.

“Whassup, Chief, you leavin’? C’n ya gimme a li’l hand?”

“All right, go ahead.”

“Tanks, Chief.”

“Rebus or crossword?”

“Crasswoid.”

“Go ahead.”

“A mouth full of gold. Wassatt? Summon ’oo wenna the dennist winn ’ey yousta give yiz gole teet? My Uncle Giuvanni, wenn ’e got back from Amurca, ’e ’ad two gole teet.”

“No, Cat. It’s the dawn that has a mouth full of gold.”

“Jeezis, Chief, you’re good! A genus! Jess like Lionardo!”

He didn’t dare ask Catarella if he was referring to Leonardo da Vinci.

Maybe Adelina had had the bright idea to celebrate her return in grand fashion.

And indeed, when he opened the refrigerator before anything else, he saw before him some ten
involtini
of swordfish made just the way he liked them and two large bulbs of fennel cut and cleaned, just the thing for refreshing the palate. And there was even a bottle of chilled wine. On the inside part of the door was also a sheet of paper with the words:
Look in oven too
. And so he looked.

In the oven he found a casserole of
pasta ’ncasciata
.

Not even by force or seduction would Ingrid ever be able to persuade him to go and eat in some restaurant. Weighing the pros and cons, he grabbed another bottle of white and put it in the fridge. And at that exact moment he remembered he didn’t have a drop of whisky in the house.

He went out again, leaving the door ajar and the light on in the entrance hall, got in the car and went to the Marinella Bar, where they made him pay double for whisky.

Should he buy one or two bottles? Better stick with one, not to economize or anything, but because if they should drink more than one, Ingrid would be in no condition to drive home to Montelusa. Which meant a rough night for him.

Pulling back in at home, it looked as if Ingrid had already arrived, to judge from the missile in front of the house.

He went in. Ingrid had opened the French door and was setting the table on the veranda. On the table were already two bottles of whisky she had brought with her.

“Since we drank it all the other night . . .” she said.

He’d tried to prevent it but hadn’t succeeded. Tonight would surely be a replay of last time.

“Maybe you would have rather gone to a restaurant?” he said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, not after I saw what Adelina made for you.”

Smart woman and a true friend, no doubt about it.

“I peeked under the bed and noticed that the dolls were gone,” Ingrid continued with a smirk. “Where are they going to pop up tonight?”

“Nowhere. I took them to the police station.”

“For your men to enjoy like the spoils of war?”

“I really don’t think they need any surrogates.”

“Have you ever found out why there was that . . . that duplication?”

“No. But I have a strange feeling that it didn’t end there. I’m going into the kitchen to light the oven.”

She followed him.

“Oh, listen . . . ,” she said moments later. “I don’t know whether . . .”

She stopped, clearly hesitating.

“What is it?”

“I think I did something stupid a few minutes ago.”

“Tell me.”

“Just as I was coming in, I heard the phone ringing and so I picked up. I did it automatically, without thinking, I’m so sorry.”

“Come on! Who was it?”

“Livia.”

Shit!

Seeing Montalbano’s face, she tried to control the damage.

“Or at least I thought it was her.”

Why had she called at an off-hour? Maybe she needed to tell him something important?

“What did she say?”

“After I said hello, she asked me something like, ‘How’s the treasure hunt going?’ And then she immediately hung up. But I’m not sure I understood correctly.”

“You understood perfectly.”

Alas. What to do now? Call her back? But Livia, knowing Ingrid was there with him, was liable not to answer or, if she did answer, to kick up such a row that she would turn his stomach to mush. Better not do anything for the moment, take no initiatives. If he talked to Livia now, he would likely have trouble digesting the
pasta ’ncasciata
and
involtini
.

When they were done they cleared the table, then went and sat back down on the veranda with a bottle and two glasses.

The night seemed under its own spell: there wasn’t a breath of wind, the stars sparkled crisply in the sky, and the sea was completely still.

“We women are a curious lot,” Ingrid began. “And for the duration of this wonderful dinner I’ve been unable to get Livia’s words out of my head.”

“Better not . . .”

But Ingrid insisted.

“Don’t you want to tell me what she meant by ‘treasure hunt’? I really didn’t know you liked those kinds of games. Not to mention that when I repeated what she said, you made such a face!”

“Well, you see, it’s not a real treasure hunt . . . In reality I’m involved in a sort of challenge which some unknown person calls a treasure hunt.”

“Why do you call it a challenge?”

“Because he’s the one organizing the game, and I’m his only competition. Maybe it’d be better to call it a duel. At least until the other day.”

“Why, what happened the other day?”

“I met your friend Arturo.”

“Ah, I’d forgotten about that! What did you make of him?”

“He seems like a very smart kid. And a little complicated, I’d say. He wants to find out how my brain works during an investigation. Imagine that! It seemed to me like a ridiculous proposition from the very start.”

“So did you tell him no?”