The Terra-Cotta Dog Read Free

Tano the Greek had been explicit, according to Gegè: Montalbano must not say anything to anyone and must come to the appointment alone. This was not, however, a game of cops and robbers: his duty was his duty. That is, he must inform his superiors and plan, down to the smallest details, how to surround and capture the criminal, perhaps with the help of considerable reinforcements. Tano had been a fugitive for nearly ten years, and he, Montalbano, was supposed to go visit him as if he were some pal just back from America? There was no getting around it, the commissioner must by all means be informed of the matter. He dialed the number of his superior’s home in Montelusa, the provincial capital.
    â€œIs that you, love?” murmured the voice of Livia from Boccadasse, Genoa.
    Montalbano remained speechless for a moment. Apparently his instinct was leading him away from speaking with the commissioner, making him dial the wrong number.
    â€œSorry about before. I had just received an unexpected phone call and had to go out.”
    â€œNever mind, Salvo, I know what your work is like. Actually, I’m sorry I got upset. I was just feeling disappointed.”
    Montalbano looked at his watch: he had at least three hours before he was supposed to meet Tano.
    â€œIf you want, we could talk now.”
    â€œNow? Look, Salvo, it’s not to get back at you, but I’d rather not. I took a sleeping pill and can barely keep my eyes open.”
    â€œAll right, all right. Till tomorrow, then. I love you, Livia.”
    Livia’s tone of voice suddenly changed, becoming more awake and agitated.
    â€œHuh? What’s wrong? Eh, what’s wrong, Salvo?”
    â€œNothing’s wrong. What could be wrong?”
    â€œOh, no you don’t, you’re hiding something. Are you about to do something dangerous? Don’t make me worry, Salvo.”
    â€œWhere do you get such ideas?”
    â€œTell me the truth, Salvo.”
    â€œI’m not doing anything dangerous.”
    â€œI don’t believe you.”
    â€œWhy not, for Christ’s sake?”
    â€œBecause you said ‘I love you,’ and since I’ve known you, you’ve said it only three times. I’ve counted them, and every time it was for something out of the ordinary.”
    The only hope was to cut the conversation short; with Livia, one could easily end up talking till morning.
    â€œCiao, my love. Sleep well. Don’t be silly. I have to go out again.”
    Â 
 
So how was he going to pass the time now? He took a shower, read a few pages of the book by Montalbán, understood little, shuffled from one room to the other, straightening a picture, rereading a letter, a bill, a note, touching everything that came within his reach. He took another shower and shaved, managing to cut himself right on the chin. He turned on the television and immediately shut it off. It made him feel nauseated. Finally, it was time. As he was on his way out, he decided he needed a mostacciolo . With sincere astonishment, he saw that the box on the table had been opened and not a single pastry was left in the cardboard tray. He had eaten them all, too nervous to notice. And what was worse, he hadn’t even enjoyed them.

2
    Montalbano turned around slowly, as if to offset the dull, sudden anger he felt at having let himself be caught unawares from behind like a beginner. For all that he’d been on his guard, he hadn’t heard the slightest sound.
    One to nothing in your favor, bastard! he thought.
    Though he’d never seen him in person, he recognized him at once: as compared with the mug shots from a few years back, Tano had grown his mustache and beard, but the eyes remained the same, expressionless, “like a statue’s,” as Gegè had accurately described them.
    Tano the Greek gave a short bow, and there wasn’t the slightest hint of provocation or mockery in the gesture. Montalbano automatically