Treasure Hunt Read Free Page B

ambulance,” Mimì suggested. “And have them both sent to the insane asylum or whatever it’s called these days.”
    “We certainly can’t keep them in a holding cell,” Fazio added.
    “All right, call an ambulance and take them outside. Thank the firemen and send them home. Did they break the door down?”
    “No, there was no need. I opened it from the inside,” said Fazio.
    “And what are you gonna do?” Augello asked.
    “Did she have both of the rifles with her?” he asked Fazio instead of answering.
    “Yessir.”
    “Then there must be another gun around the house, the father’s pistol. I’m going to have a look around. You two go now, but leave me one of those flashlights.”
    Left alone, Montalbano stuck his gun in his pocket and took a step.
    But then he thought better of it and took the gun back out. True, there wasn’t anyone around anymore, but it was the place itself that made him uneasy. The flashlight cast gigantic shadows of the crucifixes on the walls. Montalbano raced through the passageway created by his men and found himself in the room that gave onto the terrace.
    Feeling the need for a little fresh air, he went outside. And although the downtown air stank of the smoke of the cement factory and automobile exhausts, it smelled to him like fine mountain air compared to what he’d been breathing inside the Palmisanos’ apartment.
    He went back inside and headed for the door that led to the hallway. Immediately on the left were three rooms in a row, while the wall on the right was solid.
    The first room was Caterina’s bedroom. Atop the chest of drawers, the bedside table, and the bookcase, hundreds of little statuettes of the Madonna had been amassed, each with a little light on it in front. On the walls were another hundred or so holy pictures, all of the Blessed Virgin. Each picture had a little wooden shelf under it, on which shone a little light. It looked like a cemetery at night.
    The door to the second room was locked, but the key was in the keyhole. The inspector turned it, opened the door, and went inside. By the beam of the flashlight he saw that it was an enormous room crammed full of pianos, three of them grand pianos, one with the fallboard open. Enormous spiderwebs twinkled between the different pianos. Then all at once the grand piano began to play. As Montalbano shouted in fear and withdrew, he heard the entire musical scale resonate,
do re mi fa sol la ti
. Were there living dead in that accursed apartment? Ghosts? He was bathed in sweat, the gun in his hand trembling slightly, but nevertheless found the strength to raise his arm and illuminate the great room with his flashlight. And he finally saw the ghostly musician. It was a large rat running wildly from one piano to another. Apparently it had run across the open keyboard.
    The third room off the hallway was the kitchen. But it smelled so bad that the inspector didn’t have the courage to go in. He would have one of his men come and look for the pistol tomorrow.
    When he went back down into the street, everybody was gone. He headed for his car, which was parked near the town hall, started it up, and headed home to Marinella.
    At home he took a long shower, but did not go to bed afterwards. Instead he went and sat down on the veranda.
    And so, instead of being awakened by the first light of day as was usually the case, it was he who watched the day awaken.

2
    He decided not to go and lie down in bed. Two or three hours of sleep wouldn’t have done him any good. On the contrary, it would simply have left him feeling woozier than ever.
    Actually—he thought as he went into the kitchen to prepare another four-cup espresso pot—what had happened to him the previous night was just like a nightmare that resurfaces in the mind all at once the moment you wake up and remains in the memory, though gradually fading, for only a day, so that, after another night’s sleep, the nightmare vanishes, and you have trouble remembering