Praise for Andrea Camilleri and the Montalbano Series
“Camilleri’s Inspector Montalbano mysteries might sell like hotcakes in Europe, but these world-weary crime stories were unknown here until the oversight was corrected (in Stephen Sartarelli’s salty translation) by the welcome publication of The Shape of Water . . . This savagely funny police procedural . . . prove[s] that sardonic laughter is a sound that translates ever so smoothly into English.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Hailing from the land of Umberto Eco and La Cosa Nostra, Montalbano can discuss a pointy-headed book like Western Attitudes Toward Death as unflinchingly as he can pore over crime-scene snuff photos. He throws together an extemporaneous lunch of shrimp with lemon wedges and oil as gracefully as he dodges advances from attractive women.”
—Los Angeles Times
“[Camilleri’s mysteries] offer quirky characters, crisp dialogue, bright storytelling—and Salvo Montalbano, one of the most engaging protagonists in detective fiction.”
—USA Today
“Like Mike Hammer or Sam Spade, Montalbano is the kind of guy who can’t stay out of trouble . . . Still, deftly and lovingly translated by Stephen Sartarelli, Camilleri makes it abundantly clear that under the gruff, sardonic exterior our inspector has a heart of gold, and that any outburst, fumbles, or threats are made only in the name of pursuing truth.”
—The Nation
“Camilleri can do a character’s whole backstory in half a paragraph.”
—The New Yorker
“Subtle, sardonic, and molto simpatico: Montalbano is the Latin re-creation of Philip Marlowe, working in a place that manages to be both more and less civilized than Chandler’s Los Angeles.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred)
“Sublime and darkly humorous . . . Camilleri balances his hero’s personal and professional challenges perfectly and leaves the reader eager for more.
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“The books are full of sharp, precise characterizations and with subplots that make Montalbano endearingly human . . . Like the antipasti that Montalbano contentedly consumes, the stories are light and easily consumed, leaving one eager for the next course.”
—New York Journal of Books
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A PENGUIN MYSTERY
© Elvira Giorgianni
THE OVERNIGHT KIDNAPPER
Andrea Camilleri, a bestseller in Italy and Germany, is the author of the popular Inspector Montalbano mystery series as well as historical novels that take place in nineteenth-century Sicily. His books have been made into Italian TV shows and translated into thirty-two languages. His thirteenth Montalbano novel, The Potter’s Field, won the Crime Writers’ Association International Dagger Award and was longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award.
Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.
Also by Andrea Camilleri
Hunting Season
The Brewer of Preston
THE INSPECTOR MONTALBANO SERIES
The Shape of Water
The Terra-Cotta Dog
The Snack Thief
Voice of the Violin
Excursion to Tindari
The Smell of the Night
Rounding the Mark
The Patience of the Spider
The Paper Moon
August Heat
The Wings of the Sphinx
The Track of Sand
The Potter’s Field
The Age of Doubt
The Dance of the Seagull
Treasure Hunt
Angelica’s Smile
Game of Mirrors
A Beam of Light
A Voice in the Night
A Nest of Vipers
The Pyramid of Mud
Montalbano’s First Case and Other Stories
Death at Sea: Montalbano’s Early Cases
PENGUIN BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2015 by Sellerio Editore
Translation copyright © 2019 by Stephen Sartarelli
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Originally published in Italian as La giostra degli scambi by Sellerio Editore
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Camilleri, Andrea, author. | Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954– translator.
Title: The overnight kidnapper / Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli.
Other titles: Giostra degli scambi. English
Description: New York : Penguin books, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018046802 (print) | LCCN 2018048081 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524704933 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143131137
Classification: LCC PQ4863.A3894 (ebook) | LCC PQ4863.A3894 G36513 2019 (print) | DDC 853/.914—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018046802
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Paul Buckley
Cover art by Andy Bridge
Version_1
Contents
Praise for Andrea Camilleri and the Montalbano Series
About the Author
Also by Andrea Camilleri
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Author’s Note
Notes
1
At half past five that morning—give or take a few minutes—a fly that had long been stuck to the windowpane as though dead suddenly opened its wings, rubbed them together to clean them, then took flight and, a moment later, changed direction and landed on the bedside table.
There it kept still for a few seconds, taking stock of the situation, then shot away like a rocket, straight into the left nostril of the placidly sleeping Inspector Montalbano.
Without waking up, the inspector felt a bothersome itch in his nose and slapped himself hard in the face to make it go away. Since, in his groggy state of sleep, he hadn’t gauged the force of the blow, it had two immediate results: One, it woke him up; and two, it smashed his nose so hard that it started to bleed.
He bolted out of bed, cursing the saints in rapid fire as the blo
od gushed out, dashed into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, grabbed two ice cubes, applied these to the bridge of his nose, and sat down, keeping his head bent back.
Five minutes later, the bleeding stopped.
He went into the bathroom, splashed some water on his face, neck, and chest, and then got back into bed.
He had barely closed his eyes when he felt the very same itch as before, except that this time it was in his right nostril. Apparently the fly had decided to change its area of exploration.
How was he ever going to get rid of this tremendous pain in the ass?
Using his hand really wasn’t the best idea, given the prior result.
He shook his head gently. Not only did the fly not move, it went farther inside.
Maybe if he scared it . . .
“Ahhhhh!”
The yell left his ears ringing, but it achieved the desired result. The itch was gone.
He was finally starting to fall back asleep when he felt the fly again, this time walking on his forehead. Cursing the saints anew, he decided to try a new strategy.
Grabbing the sheet with both hands, he tugged it sharply, pulling it completely over his head. That way the fly wouldn’t find so much as a millimeter of exposed flesh to walk on. The problem was that by shutting himself in like that, he cut off most of his air supply.
It was a very short-lived victory.
Less than a minute later, he distinctly felt the fly land on his lower lip.
It was clear the disgusting insect hadn’t flown away but had remained under the sheet. He felt suddenly disheartened. He would never win his battle with the goddamn fly.
“A strong man knows when to admit defeat,” he said to himself, getting out of bed in resignation and going into the bathroom.
After returning to his bedroom to get dressed, as he was about to take his trousers from the chair where he’d left them, out of the corner of his eye he saw the fly on the bedside table.
It was within reach, and he took advantage.
In a flash he raised his right hand and brought it down on the fly, crushing it so thoroughly that it remained stuck to the palm of his hand.
He went back into the bathroom and took a long time washing his hands, humming all the while and feeling satisfied with his revenge.
But when he strode triumphantly back into the bedroom, he froze.
A fly was walking over his pillow.
So there must have been two flies! But then, which one had he killed?
The innocent one or the guilty one? And if he’d killed the innocent one by accident, would this mistake come back to haunt him one day?
Would you please cut the shit? he said to himself.
And he started to get dressed.
Drinking down a hefty mug of espresso, he put on his last articles of clothing, looking sharp as a knife, opened the French door, and went out onto the veranda.
The day looked just like a picture postcard: a beach of golden sand, a turquoise sea, and a deep blue sky without so much as a hint of cloud. He could even see a sail far out on the water.
Taking a deep breath, Montalbano filled his lungs with the briny air and felt reborn.
To his right, at the water’s edge, he noticed two men standing and quarreling. Although he was too far away to hear what they were saying, he could tell, from the agitated way they moved their hands and arms, that they were having a heated argument.
Then, all at once, one of the men made a move that Montalbano didn’t get a good glimpse of at first. He seemed to bring his right hand suddenly forward, causing it to flash in the sun.
It was clearly a knife in the man’s hand, but the other blocked it with both arms crossed and in the same motion kneed his adversary in the cojones. The two men then grabbed each other bodily, lost their balance, and fell, all the while struggling fiercely and rolling around in the sand in each other’s clutches.
Without thinking twice, the inspector hopped down from the veranda and started running towards the men. As he drew near he began to hear their voices.
“I’ll kill you, you fucking bastard!”
“And I’ll cut your heart out and eat it!”
The inspector was out of breath when he caught up to them.
By this point one man already had the upper hand and was straddling his opponent, pinning the other’s open arms with his knees, practically sitting on his belly and battering his face with punches.
Just to stay on the safe side, Montalbano dealt the top man a powerful kick in the side, unsaddling him. Caught by surprise, the man fell sideways onto the sand, yelling:
“Look out, he’s got a knife!”
The inspector turned around quickly.
The man who’d been on the ground was now getting to his feet, and indeed he had a jackknife in his right hand.
Montalbano had made a big mistake. The more dangerous of the two men was the one who’d been on the ground. But he didn’t give him time even to open his mouth. With a kick to the face he sent him down to the ground again on his back, in the same position as before, as the knife flew a good distance away.
The other man, who had stood up again in the meantime, immediately took advantage of the situation to jump back on top of his opponent and resume punching him.
Everything was back to square one.
So Montalbano bent down, seized the puncher by the shoulders, and tried to pull him off the other. But since the man put up no resistance, the inspector himself lost his balance and fell back, belly up, as the puncher crashed down on top of him.
Then, fast as lightning, the man with the knife jumped on both of them at once. The puncher was kicking wildly, trying to hit the inspector in the balls, as Montalbano pummeled him with his left fist while with his right he hammered the man on top of them both, who was trying in turn to blind the inspector with one hand and do the same to his adversary with the other.
They looked, in short, like a giant ball with six arms and six legs flying out as it rolled along the sand, a ball yelling curses, smacking punches, shouting threats, and dealing kicks. Until . . .
A voice, very close and imperious, commanded:
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
The three men froze and looked.
The person who’d shouted was a lance corporal of the carabinieri, pointing a machine gun at them. Behind the corporal was another uniformed carabiniere, holding the jackknife. Apparently they’d been passing along the coastal road parallel to the beach, had seen three men brawling, and intervened.
“Get on your feet!”
The three men stood up.
“Move!” the corporal continued, gesturing with his head that they should walk towards a large paddy wagon parked along the road with a carabiniere at the wheel.
To tell or not to tell? Montalbano asked himself Hamletically as he walked along towards the van, wondering whether he should reveal the fact that he was a police inspector.
He came to the conclusion that it was best to tell the truth and clear up the mistake at once.
“Just a minute. I am . . .” he said, coming to a stop.
The whole group also halted and looked at him.
But the inspector was unable to continue, because at that very moment he remembered leaving his wallet with his police ID in the drawer of his nightstand.
“So, you gonna tell us who you are?” the corporal asked sarcastically.
“I’ll wait and tell your lieutenant,” Montalbano replied, and he resumed walking.
Luckily the rear of the paddy wagon was covered by a tarp; otherwise, the whole town would have seen Inspector Montalbano ride past in the custody of the carabinieri, and the laughter would have been so loud they would have heard it all the way to the Italian mainland.
Once inside the carabinieri station, they were escorted in less than gentle
fashion into a large room, where the corporal went and sat behind one of the two desks that were there.
He took his time, adjusted his jacket, stared long and hard at a ballpoint pen, opened a drawer, looked inside, closed it, cleared his throat, and finally began.
“Let’s start with you,” he said, addressing Montalbano. “Show me some kind of ID.”
The inspector became anxious, realizing the situation was getting rather sticky. Better change the subject.
“I had nothing to do with the dispute between these two men,” he declared in a steady voice. “I intervened to break it up. And these two, whom I don’t even know, can confirm that.”
He turned and looked at the others, who were standing three paces behind him, guarded by a carabiniere.
Then something strange happened.
“All I know is that you kicked me in the side and it still hurts like hell,” said the puncher.
“And you kicked me in the face,” said the man with the knife, pouring it on.
Suddenly Montalbano understood everything. Those two bastards knew perfectly well who he was and were now trying to make trouble for him.
“I’ll make you stop wanting to play the wise guy in a hurry,” the corporal said menacingly. “Give me that ID.”
There were no two ways about it. Montalbano had to tell the truth.
“I haven’t got it with me.”
“Why not?”
“I forgot it at home.”
The corporal rose to his feet.
“You see, I live in a small house right . . .”
The corporal came and stood directly in front of him.
“. . . right by the sea. And this morning I . . .”
The corporal grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket.
“I’m a police inspector!” Montalbano shouted.
“And I’m a cardinal!” the corporal retorted, as he started shaking the inspector back and forth, making his head bob like a ripe pear about to fall.
“What’s going on here?” asked the carabinieri lieutenant and station commander upon entering the room.
The Overnight Kidnapper Page 1
