Free Treasure Hunt by Andrea Camilleri

knees!”
    For a split second Montalbano had a horrendous vision of himself clad in a light-blue cloak like Our Lady of Fatima.
    “I need you to explain something for me.”
    Catarella staggered for a second, as if he’d just been clubbed in the head. Too many emotions in too few seconds.
    “Me . . . asplain t’yiz? Asplain? You kiddin’ me?”
    The inspector pulled out of his pocket the photograph from the hut and shoved it under Catarella’s nose. It showed him putting his foot down on the firemen’s ladder with what wasn’t exactly an air of nonchalance.
    “What is this?” he asked.
    Catarella gave him a confused look.
    “’Ass you, Chief! Dontcha rec’nize yisself?”
    “I didn’t ask you
who
that is, but
what
!” said Montalbano, pinching the sheet of paper between his thumb and index finger.
    “Iss paper,” Catarella replied.
    Montalbano cursed, but only in his mind. He didn’t want to make Catarella upset, but just get him to explain a few things about“pewters.”
    “Is that a photograph or not?”
    Catarella took it out of his hands.
    “If I mays,” he said.
    He studied it for a few moments, then gave his sentence.
    “’Iss is a photaraff ’ass not rilly a photaraff.”
    “Good, good! Go on.”
    “’Iss pitcher wadn’t took wit’ a camera, but transferrated from a VHS to a pewter ann’ ’enn prinnit.”
    “Splendid! And how did it get onto the VHS?”
    “’Ey musta riccorded the pogram on TeleVigàta.”
    “And how did they make the photographs?”
    “By ’ookin’ up a viddeo riccorder to a priph’ral of a pewter, a priph’ral ’ass called a viddeo ’quisition.”
    The inspector didn’t understand a goddamn thing about the last part, but he’d found out what he’d wanted to know.
    “Cat, you’re a god!”
    Catarella suddenly turned bright red, opened his arms, spreading his fingers, and did a half-pirouette. Whenever Montalbano praised him, he got so puffed up he became like a peacock spreading its tail.

    As soon as he got back home, he remembered that there was nothing to eat, and he felt a little hungry. It would have been a mistake to skip supper because, later in the night, that little bit of hunger would turn into out-and-out ravenousness. He pulled the letter out of his pocket, still unopened, along with the photograph, set them both down on the table, went to splash a little water on his face, and then remained undecided about what to do about dinner, since he didn’t feel like going back to Enzo’s after having been there for lunch.
    The telephone rang.
    “Hello?”
    “How long has it been since we last saw each other?” said a beautiful female voice that he recognized immediately.
    “Since the days of Rachele,” he replied. “Have any news of her?”
    “Yes, she’s doing well. I was just admiring your brave deeds on TV the other day and I felt like seeing you again.”
    “That can be arranged.”
    “Are you free this evening?”
    “Yes.”
    “All right, then, I’ll come by in half an hour. In the meantime try to think of a nice place to take me out to dinner.”
    He was pleased to hear from Ingrid, his Swedish friend, confidante, and sometimes accomplice.

    To make that half hour go by, he thought he would read the new instructions for the treasure hunt. He picked up the envelope but then put it back down almost immediately. There might be something in it that would upset him. Reading it before going out to eat was therefore out of the question, since there was the risk it might make him lose his appetite.
    All at once he remembered what had happened with Adelina, and he went and opened the closet to check on the dolls. They were gone.
    Apparently Pasquale had put them somewhere else. But where? They weren’t in the kitchen. He opened the armoire, but they weren’t there either. Want to bet he took them home with him? Perhaps the best thing was to give him a ring, so he could also get an update on Adelina.

6
    Pasquale’s wife answered the