Free The Shape of Water by Andrea Camilleri

from his pocket.
    “No, thanks. Just dry yourself off and change your clothes.”
    That same evening he had gone to speak with De Francesco, the ex-mailman, a tiny, unpleasant old man who reacted quite harshly to the inspector’s advice, screaming in his face.
    “I’ll take my coffee wherever and whenever I like! What, is it illegal to go sit at the café under that arteriosclerotic Contino’s balcony? You surprise me, sir. You’re supposed to represent the law, and instead you come and tell me these things!”
     
 
“It’s all over,” said the municipal policeman keeping curious bystanders away from the front door on Piazza Dante. At the entrance to the apartment stood Sergeant Fazio, who threw his arms up in distress. The rooms were in perfect order, sparkling clean. Master Contino was lying in an armchair, a small bloodstain over his heart. The revolver was on the floor, next to the armchair, an ancient Smith & Wesson five-shooter that must have dated back at least to the time of Buffalo Bill but unfortunately still worked. His wife was lying on the bed, she, too, with a bloodstain over her heart, her hands clasped around a rosary. She must have been praying before agreeing to let her husband kill her. Montalbano thought again of the commissioner, who this time was right: here death had indeed found its dignity.
     
 
Nervous and surly, Montalbano gave the sergeant his instructions and left him there to wait for the judge. He felt, aside from a sudden melancholy, a subtle remorse: if only he had intervened more wisely with the schoolmaster, if only he had alerted Contino’s friends and doctor in time . . .
     
 
He took a long walk along the wharf and along the eastern jetty, his favorite. His spirits slightly revived, he returned to the office. There he found Fazio beside himself.
    “What is it? What’s happened? Hasn’t the judge come yet?”
    “No, he came, and they’ve already taken the bodies away.”
    “So what’s wrong?”
    “What’s wrong is that while half the town was watching Contino shoot his gun, some bastards went into action and cleaned out two apartments top to bottom. I’ve already sent four of our men. I was waiting for you to show up so I could go join them.”
    “All right, go. I’ll be here.”
    He decided it was time to play his ace: the trap he had in mind couldn’t fail. He reached for the phone.
    “Jacomuzzi?”
    “What, goddammit! What’s the rush? I still don’t have any report on your necklace. It’s too early.”
    “I’m well aware you couldn’t possibly tell me anything yet, I realize that.”
    “So what do you want?”
    “To advise you to maintain total secrecy. The story behind that necklace is not as simple as it may appear. It could lead to unexpected developments.”
    “You insult me! If you tell me not to talk about something, I won’t talk about it, even if the heavens fall!”
     
 
“Mr. Luparello? I’m so sorry I couldn’t come today. It simply wasn’t possible, you must believe me. Please extend my apologies to your mother.”
    “Just a minute, Inspector.”
    Montalbano waited patiently.
    “Inspector? Mama says tomorrow at the same hour, if that’s all right with you.”
    It was all right with him, and he confirmed the appointment.

8
    He returned home tired, intending to go straight to bed, but almost mechanically—it was sort of a tic—he turned on the television. The Tele Vigàta anchorman, after talking about the event of the day, a shoot-out between petty mafiosi on the outskirts of Miletta a few hours earlier, announced that the provincial secretariat of the party to which Luparello belonged (actually, used to belong) had convened in Montelusa. It was a highly unusual meeting, one that in less turbulent times than these would have been held, out of due respect for the deceased, at least thirty days after his passing; but things being what they were, the troubling situation called for quick, lucid decisions. And so a new