poisson.”
“Says who?”
“Sez right ’ere onna packitch.”
Montalbano bent down to read.
For Inspector Salvo Montalbano: Personal
“Who delivered it?”
“A li’l boy.”
“Does it say what’s in it?”
“Yessir, books.”
He hadn’t ordered any books either from the Vigàta bookstore or from any publishing house. Anyway, even if he had, they would’ve arrived through the mail, not been hand-delivered.
“Lemme see that,” he said, getting up and going over to Catarella.
He grabbed the box and felt its weight. As big as it was, it should have held a good thirty books, if not more. And thirty books would have weighed much more than that parcel did.
The whole thing didn’t add up.
“Put it on the coffee table.”
The coffee table formed part of the sitting area in one corner of the office.
“C’n I open it?”
“Not now.”
Catarella left and Montalbano went back to studying the fly, which was now exploring a sheet of paper with the letterhead of the Office of the Commissioner. But every so often his gaze fell on the parcel. He was dying of curiosity.
At a certain point he couldn’t stand it any longer, so he got up and went and sat in one of the armchairs to get a better look at it.
It was slightly rectangular, about a foot and a half high, wrapped in normal packing paper, and cross-tied with heavy string.
Why should this most common of parcels disturb him so?
Well, there was no return address, it had been hand-delivered by an unidentifiable little boy, it claimed to contain books he’d never ordered, and, finally, that specification,
Personal
, was something you normally found on letters, not on packages. All these things were rather unusual.
And there was another thing, too. . . . Ah, yes, as if it had been scripted, the previous evening he’d heard on TV that an anarchist group had sent a package of explosives to a carabinieri station.
There weren’t any anarchists in Vigàta, but there were plenty of assholes.
He’d better go about this with caution, but without asking anyone’s help.
He took the parcel in both hands and squeezed it hard. He heard a strange, muffled sound a little like a click, which made him bolt to his feet and take cover behind the desk, waiting for an explosion that never came.
What came instead was Mimì Augello. How was it possible the guy always showed up when he wasn’t supposed to?
“Which movie is it this time?” he inquired. “
The Haunted House
?
Nightmare on Elm Street
?
Montalbano Versus the Ghosts
?”
“Mimì, get out of here and stop bugging me,” said the inspector, standing up and giving him the sort of look that made him understand that it was better to do as he said without any arguments.
“All right, but it might not be a bad idea to have yourself looked at by a doctor sometime,” he said, leaving.
Montalbano went and locked the door, then got back down to work.
He sat down again in the armchair, leaned all the way forward until his head was a few millimeters from the parcel, brought his hands to either side, squeezed hard, and heard the same click.
This time, however, he didn’t run for cover. He didn’t even move, because he finally understood what it was.
There had to be a tin box wrapped up inside the package. He removed the packing paper carefully, trying to move the parcel as little as possible.
He’d guessed right.
It was an old box of Fratelli Lazzaroni biscotti.
He remembered that when he was a boy his auntie had one exactly like it, in which she kept letters and photographs. This one was even older and must have dated from before the War. In fact, on the lid, which displayed the medals and prizes won in biscotti competitions, there was also the proud inscription:
By Appointment to H.M. the King
.
The lid was held in place by several rounds of adhesive tape. The inspector grabbed the box, lifted it with both hands, brought it to his ear, and shook it lightly. He couldn’t hear anything moving around
“Says who?”
“Sez right ’ere onna packitch.”
Montalbano bent down to read.
For Inspector Salvo Montalbano: Personal
“Who delivered it?”
“A li’l boy.”
“Does it say what’s in it?”
“Yessir, books.”
He hadn’t ordered any books either from the Vigàta bookstore or from any publishing house. Anyway, even if he had, they would’ve arrived through the mail, not been hand-delivered.
“Lemme see that,” he said, getting up and going over to Catarella.
He grabbed the box and felt its weight. As big as it was, it should have held a good thirty books, if not more. And thirty books would have weighed much more than that parcel did.
The whole thing didn’t add up.
“Put it on the coffee table.”
The coffee table formed part of the sitting area in one corner of the office.
“C’n I open it?”
“Not now.”
Catarella left and Montalbano went back to studying the fly, which was now exploring a sheet of paper with the letterhead of the Office of the Commissioner. But every so often his gaze fell on the parcel. He was dying of curiosity.
At a certain point he couldn’t stand it any longer, so he got up and went and sat in one of the armchairs to get a better look at it.
It was slightly rectangular, about a foot and a half high, wrapped in normal packing paper, and cross-tied with heavy string.
Why should this most common of parcels disturb him so?
Well, there was no return address, it had been hand-delivered by an unidentifiable little boy, it claimed to contain books he’d never ordered, and, finally, that specification,
Personal
, was something you normally found on letters, not on packages. All these things were rather unusual.
And there was another thing, too. . . . Ah, yes, as if it had been scripted, the previous evening he’d heard on TV that an anarchist group had sent a package of explosives to a carabinieri station.
There weren’t any anarchists in Vigàta, but there were plenty of assholes.
He’d better go about this with caution, but without asking anyone’s help.
He took the parcel in both hands and squeezed it hard. He heard a strange, muffled sound a little like a click, which made him bolt to his feet and take cover behind the desk, waiting for an explosion that never came.
What came instead was Mimì Augello. How was it possible the guy always showed up when he wasn’t supposed to?
“Which movie is it this time?” he inquired. “
The Haunted House
?
Nightmare on Elm Street
?
Montalbano Versus the Ghosts
?”
“Mimì, get out of here and stop bugging me,” said the inspector, standing up and giving him the sort of look that made him understand that it was better to do as he said without any arguments.
“All right, but it might not be a bad idea to have yourself looked at by a doctor sometime,” he said, leaving.
Montalbano went and locked the door, then got back down to work.
He sat down again in the armchair, leaned all the way forward until his head was a few millimeters from the parcel, brought his hands to either side, squeezed hard, and heard the same click.
This time, however, he didn’t run for cover. He didn’t even move, because he finally understood what it was.
There had to be a tin box wrapped up inside the package. He removed the packing paper carefully, trying to move the parcel as little as possible.
He’d guessed right.
It was an old box of Fratelli Lazzaroni biscotti.
He remembered that when he was a boy his auntie had one exactly like it, in which she kept letters and photographs. This one was even older and must have dated from before the War. In fact, on the lid, which displayed the medals and prizes won in biscotti competitions, there was also the proud inscription:
By Appointment to H.M. the King
.
The lid was held in place by several rounds of adhesive tape. The inspector grabbed the box, lifted it with both hands, brought it to his ear, and shook it lightly. He couldn’t hear anything moving around
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