Free Game of Mirrors by Andrea Camilleri Page B

take the bullet to my friend in Forensics, like you said.”
    “Ah yes, thanks. And listen, you needn’t bother with Arturo Tallarita anymore.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I found out why he was so nervous when I met him. He was the guy who busted up Signora Lombardo’s car.”
    “And how did you find that out?”
    “Signora Lombardo told me herself, last night.”
    “Ah,” said Fazio.
    And he didn’t budge.
    “What is it?”
    “When you first spoke to me about Arturo, I thought he might be nervous for another reason.”
    “Namely?”
    “That he knew about the rumor about his father wanting to collaborate with the authorities, and he was scared.”
    “By the bomb?”
    “No, not by the bomb, but by Carlo Nicotra, who lives in the same building.”
    “What’s Nicotra got to do with it?”
    “Tallarita senior was dealing for Nicotra.”
    Montalbano thought about this for a minute.
    “Then keep working on Arturo and the other tenants.”

7
    Midmorning Catarella rang him. It took some effort to pick up the receiver, as his arm had gone stiff, worn out from signing too many papers.
    “Chief, ’at’d be summon ’ass not onna line in so much as ’e’s onna premisses, a Signor McKennick, an’ ’e wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
    “Wha’d you say his name was, McKennick?”
    Catarella didn’t answer.
    “Have you lost your voice, Cat?”
    “Nossir, I c’n talk, but ya gotta unnastan’, Chief, I dunno what ’is name is, bu’ if ya want, I c’n ask ’im.”
    “So why’d you say McKennick?”
    “’Cuz ’ass what ’e is, a mckennic.”
    Now the inspector understood. It must be Todaro, the body shop mechanic working on his car.
    “Show him in.”
    Todaro was a tall, big man with red hair, and Montalbano liked him. Despite his bulk, he was rather shy.
    The inspector shook his hand and sat him down.
    “Tell me everything, Todà.”
    “I’m sorry, Inspector, but isn’t Fazio around?”
    “No, he just went out.”
    Todaro twisted up his mouth.
    “Too bad; it woulda been better if he was here.”
    “Why?”
    “So he could confirm what I think he said when he brought me the car.”
    “And what did he say?”
    “That the hole was made onna afternoon of the same day when you got stuck inna middle of a shoot-out wit’ the carabinieri and a getaway car.”
    He decided not to tell him that he hadn’t the slightest idea what had really gone down.
    “That’s correct.”
    Todaro looked like he didn’t know what to do next.
    “Well, then, if you confirm it yisself . . . ,” he said after a pause, by way of conclusion, and started to get up.
    “Wait,” said Montalbano. “What did you want to tell me?”
    “But now I dunno if iss really true or not.”
    “Don’t worry. Is there something that doesn’t add up for you?”
    “Well, I wouldn’t wanna stick my nose where it don’tbelong . . . When you or Fazio says somethin’, for me iss the Gospel truth.”
    The inspector fell prey again to the same doubts that had assailed him after Vannutelli had ruled out the possibility that the rifle shots could have been fired from one of the cars stuck in traffic. Maybe the mechanic had discovered something that might help to explain the mystery.
    “Forget about the Gospel and tell me straight.”
    “Sorry if I ask a quession first . . . Can I?”
    Shit, what a pain!
    “Go ahead.”
    “After the shoot-out, did you drive the car a long ways on some country road or unpaved track?”
    “Not a chance! I went to Montelusa, parked in a paved lot, and then came back here.”
    “Ah,” said Todaro.
    “But what is it you’re not convinced about?”
    “In my opinion the hole was made earlier.”
    Montalbano pricked up his ears.
    “Are you sure?”
    Todaro squirmed in his chair.
    “Well, it don’t really matter to me one way or another, and iss not like I’m just curious or somethin’, but I figgered it was my duty . . .”
    “Okay, okay, but tell me please how you