IM10 August Heat (2008) by Andrea Camilleri Page B

freshened up a bit, and went out of the house.
     
     
     
    He arrived at the station at a quarter to midnight. Fazio was already there. Each was wearing a light jacket over a short-sleeved shirt.They smiled at one another for having had the same idea. Anyone wearing a jacket in that extreme heat couldn’t help but cause alarm, since ninety-nine times out of a hundred the jacket served to hide a revolver tucked into the waistband or pocket.
    And, in fact, they were both armed.
    “Shall we go in mine or yours?”
    “Yours.”
    It took them scarcely half an hour to drive to the worksite, which was in the neighborhood of the old Montelusa train station.
    They parked and got out. The worksite was surrounded by wooden fencing almost six and a half feet high and had a big, locked entrance gate.
    “Do you remember,” said Fazio,“what used to be here?”
    “No.”
    “Palazzina Linares.”
    Montalbano remembered it. A little jewel from the second half of the nineteenth century which the Linares, rich sulfur merchants, had hired Giovan Battista Basile, the famous architect of the Teatro Massimo in Palermo, to build. Later the Linares had fallen into ruin, and so had their palazzina . Instead of restoring it, the authorities had decided to demolish it and build, in its place, an eight-story block of flats. So strict, that cultural ministry!
    They walked up to the wooden gate, peered between the fenceposts, but saw no lights on.
    Fazio pushed the gate softly three times.
    “It’s locked from the inside with a bolt.”
    “Think you could manage to climb over and open it?”
    “Yeah, but not here. A car might drive by. I’ll climb over the fencing in back and get in from there.You wait for me here.”
    “Be careful.There may be a dog.”
    “I don’t think so. It would have already started barking.”
    The inspector had the time to smoke a cigarette before the gate opened just enough to let him in.

9
    It was pitch-dark inside. To the right, however, one could make out a shed.
    “I’ll go get the flashlight,” said Fazio.
    When he returned, he relocked the gate with its bolt and turned on the flashlight. As they cautiously approached the door to the shed, they noticed that it was half open. Apparently, in this heat, Filiberto couldn’t stand being inside with the door closed.Then they heard him snoring lustily.
    “We mustn’t give him any time to think,” Montalbano whispered into Fazio’s ear. “Don’t turn on the lights. We’ll work him over by the beam of the flashlight. We need to scare him to death.”
    “No problem,” said Fazio.
    They entered on tiptoe. Inside, the shed stank of sweat, and the smell of wine was so strong that one felt drunk just breathing it. Filiberto, in his underpants, was lying on a camping cot. He was the same man as in the dossier’s photo.
    Fazio shone the flashlight around the room.The watchman’s clothes hung from a nail. There was a little table, two chairs, a small enamel washbasin on an iron tripod, and a jerry can. Montalbano grabbed it and smelled it: water.Without making any noise, he filled the basin, then picked it up in both hands, approached the cot and flung the water violently into Filiberto’s face. The man opened his eyes and, blinded by Fazio’s flashlight, shut them at once, then opened them again, raising a hand to shield himself.
    “Who . . . who . . .”
    “Whoopdeedoo!” said Montalbano. “Don’t move.”
    And he brought his pistol into the beam of light. Filiberto instinctively put his hands up.
    “You got a cell phone?” the inspector asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Where is it?”
    “In my jacket.”
    The one hanging from the nail. The inspector grabbed the cell phone, dropped it on the floor, and smashed it with his feet. Filiberto mustered the courage to ask:
    “Who are you?”
    “Friends, Filibè. Get up.”
    Filiberto stood up.
    “Turn around.”
    His hands shaking slightly, Filiberto turned his back to them.
    “But what do you want?