Free The Dance of the Seagull by Andrea Camilleri

Ring Augello’s cell phone and find out where things stand.”
    After talking, Gallo gave him a report.
    “Forensics are still at the scene, but they’re almost finished. Tommaseo and Pasquano have already left.”
    “All right. Tell Augello to wait for us at the drinking trough.”

    “Forensics found two empty shells” was the first thing Mimì said to him.
    “Where?”
    “Right beside the well. Nobody saw them earlier because they were hidden by all the pump equipment.”
    “So Forensics has them?”
    “Yes. But I was able to have a look at them and compare them with the one in my pocket that I found at the slips. At a glance, they look the same to me.”
    “Who was the dead guy?”
    “He didn’t have any papers on him. No name, about thirty.”
    “How’d he die?”
    “He fell.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Just what I said. He died falling into the well. The damn thing’s a hundred feet deep, for crying out loud.”
    “How long ago did he die?”
    “About ten hours ago, max, according to Pasquano.”
    “Are we sure there were no bullet wounds on the body?”
    “Absolutely certain.”
    “Then let’s not waste any more time.”
    “Tell us what you want us to do.”
    “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s wait a little longer before informing the commissioner. First let’s have a look around ourselves.”
    “Fine, I agree. But do you have any sense of what might have happened?”
    “Look, guys, what I think happened is this: At some point Fazio, realizing they were going to throw him into the well, must have reacted wildly, so that one of the thugs holding him prisoner ended up falling into the well instead of him. And then he ran away, but the other guy started shooting, forcing him to stop.”
    “But if that’s how it went, then why, once the guy caught him again, didn’t he just shoot him and throw him into the well as they’d planned to do from the start?”
    “That’s a good point, but the fact is that he’s not in the well. So we have to look for him elsewhere, but still in the general vicinity.”
    “Where should we start?”
    “Over by Monte Scibetta. See that little house down there, near the high-tension pylon? Go there in the car, search the house, and if you don’t find anything in it, take the little dirt road that’s behind it—it’s the only one there—and take it up to the top. The mountain is full of caves and crags. Call out his name from time to time. Maybe he can’t move. We’ll stay in touch with each other via cell phone.”
    “All right. And what about you?”
    “I’ve got a little idea of my own. We’ll talk again in an hour.”

    “Where do you wanna go?” asked Gallo.
    “Into the tunnel that runs through the mountain.”
    “I think I heard that you can’t go in. It’s closed.”
    “Let’s go and have a look anyway.”
    The tunnel entrance was sealed by a palisade of dank, rotten boards. Cars, of course, could not pass through, but people certainly could.
    In fact, to the right, two of the planks had been smashed, making it possible to walk straight in. Apparently the tunnel served as a nocturnal shelter for vagabonds, or as a safe place for taking drugs.
    “We have to go in with the car,” said Montalbano.
    “Why?”
    “It’s pitch black in there. We need the headlights.”
    “I’ll go and have a look,” said Gallo, getting out of the car.
    The inspector watched him go up to the makeshift fencing. Gallo then took a step back, raised his right leg, and dealt a forceful kick to one of the planks. Which gave way like tissue paper.
    “Get out of the car,” Gallo said to the inspector, getting back into the driver’s seat.
    Montalbano obeyed. Gallo started it back up and approached the barrier ever so slowly, and when the car’s front bumper touched the wood, he continued going forward, applying more and more pressure. In a second, half the palisade fell apart, creating an opening a truck could have passed through.
    Montalbano returned to