The Sicilian Method
Page 1
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
To access Penguin Readers Guides online, visit our website at www.penguinrandomhouse.com.
A PENGUIN MYSTERY
© Elvira Giorgianni
THE SICILIAN METHOD
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. He died in 2019.
Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.
Also by Andrea Camilleri
Hunting Season
The Brewer of Brewston
Montalbano’s First Case and Other Stories
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 Spire
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
Death at Sea
The Overnight Kidnapper
The Safety Net
The Other End of the Line
PENGUIN BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2017 by Sellerio Editore
Translation copyright © 2020 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 Il metodo Catalanotti by Sellerio Editore, Palermo.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Camilleri, Andrea, author. | Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954– translator.
Title: The Sicilian method / Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli. Other titles: Metodo Catalanotti. English
Description: New York : Penguin Books, [2020] | Series: Inspector Montalbano mystery series | “Originally published in Italian as Il metodo Catalanotti by Sellerio Editore, Palermo”—Title page verso.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020013715 (print) | LCCN 2020013716 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143134978 (paperback) | ISBN 9780525506638 (ebook) Classification: LCC PQ4863.A3894 M4813 2020 (print) | LCC PQ4863.A3894 (ebook) | DDC 853/.914—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020013715
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020013716
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
pid_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
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
He found himself in a clearing beside a thicket of chestnut trees. The ground was covered by a special kind of red and yellow daisy he’d never seen before, but which filled the air with a wondrous scent. He felt like walking on them barefoot and was bending down to untie his shoes when he heard a loud jingling of bells. Stopping to listen, he saw a flock of small brown and white goats come out of the woods, each of them wearing a collar of bells around its neck. As the animals drew near, the jingling became a single, insistent sound, sharp and unending, growing in volume until it began to hurt his ears.
Awakened by the pain, he became aware that the sound, which persisted even into his waking consciousness, was nothing more than the monumental pain-in-the-ass telephone. He realized he would have to get up and answer but was unable; he was still too numb with sleep and all cotton-mouthed. Reaching out with one arm, he turned on the light and looked at the clock: three a.m.
Who could it be at such an hour?
The ringing persisted, giving him no respite.
He got up, went into the dining room, and picked up the receiver.
“’llo, ’oo ziss?”
Those were the words that came out of his mouth.
There was a moment of silence, then a voice: “But is this the Montalbano home?”
“Yes.”
“This is Mimì!”
“What the fuck . . .
?”
“Please, Salvo, please. Open up, I’ll be there momentarily.”
“Open what up?”
“Your front door.”
“Wait a second.”
He started walking very slowly, like an automaton, in fits and starts. When he reached the door, he opened it.
He looked outside.
There was nobody.
“Mimì! Where the hell are you?” he called into the night.
Silence.
He closed the door.
Wanna bet it was all a dream?
He went back to bed and rolled himself up in the covers.
Just as he was drifting off to sleep again, the doorbell rang.
No, it hadn’t been a dream.
Montalbano went to the door and opened it.
Mimì then pushed it forcefully from the outside. The inspector, having no time to step aside, took the full thrust of the door bodily and crashed against the wall.
As Montalbano had no breath left with which to curse, Mimì couldn’t figure out where he was and so called out: “Salvo, where are you?”
The inspector then kicked the door shut, leaving Mimì once again outside.
He started shouting: “Are you going to let me in or not?”
Montalbano opened the door again and stepped aside in a flash, standing stock-still as he watched Mimì come in, eyes shooting daggers. Mimì, who knew his way around the house, quickly raced past him and into the dining room, where he opened the sideboard and took out a bottle of whisky and a glass. Then he collapsed into a chair and started drinking.
Up to that point Montalbano hadn’t breathed a word and, still without opening his mouth, he went into the kitchen to make himself his usual mug of espresso. He’d realized, upon seeing Mimì’s face, that the guy had something very serious to tell him.
Mimì joined him in the kitchen and sat down in another chair.
“I wanted to tell you . . .” he began, but stopped, only then noticing that the inspector was naked.
And Montalbano, too, realized only then, and so he dashed into his bedroom and grabbed a pair of jeans.
As he was putting them on, he wondered whether it might be best to put on an undershirt as well, but decided that Mimì wasn’t worth it.
He went back into the kitchen.
“I wanted to tell you . . .” Mimì began again.
“Wait. Let me drink my coffee first, then we can talk.”
The mugful’s effect was just barely sufficient.
The inspector sat down opposite Mimì, fired up a cigarette, and said: “Okay, you can talk now.”
As soon as Mimì started telling his story, Montalbano—perhaps because he was still sort of half-asleep—felt as if he was watching it on a movie screen, as if Mimì’s words immediately turned into moving images.
* * *
—
It was late at night. The street was rather broad, and the car advanced silently and ever so slowly, drifting past the other cars parked along the sidewalk. It seemed not to be rolling on wheels but sliding on butter.
All at once the car took off, lurched over to the left side, swerved, and parked in an instant.
The driver’s-side door opened and a man got out, carefully closing the door behind him.
It was Mimì Augello.
He pulled the collar of his jacket up to his nose, tucked his head down between his shoulders, took a quick look around, and then, in three short hops, crossed the road and found himself on the opposite sidewalk.
Keeping his head bowed, he took a few steps straight ahead, stopped in front of a door, reached out with one hand, and, without even looking at the names listed, rang one of the buzzers.
The answer came at once: “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
The latch-lock clicked. Mimì pushed the door open, went inside, and closed the door behind him in the twinkling of an eye, then started climbing the stairs on tiptoe. He’d decided he would make less noise on foot than by taking the elevator.
Reaching the fourth floor, he saw a shaft of light filtering out from a door ajar. Approaching it, he pushed it open and went in. The woman, who’d apparently been waiting for him in the entrance hall, grabbed him with her left hand while, with her right, she closed and locked the door with four turns of the key in the top lock and two more in the bottom lock, before tossing the keys onto a small table. Mimì made as if to embrace the woman, but she stepped back, took him by the hand, and said in a soft voice: “Let’s go in the other room.”
Mimì obeyed.
* * *
—
Now they were in the bedroom, and the woman embraced Mimì and pressed her lips against his. Mimì held her tight, returning her passionate kiss.
At that exact moment, the two lovers froze and looked at each other with eyes open wide in terror.
Had they really heard the key turning in the front-door lock?
A fraction of a second later, they had no more doubts.
Someone was opening the door.
In a flash, Mimì dashed over to the balcony, opened the French door, and went outside, as his lady friend quickly reclosed the door behind him.
He heard her ask: “Martino, is that you?”
A man’s voice from inside the apartment replied: “Yes, it’s me.”
And she: “Why are you back?”
“I called in a replacement; I’m not feeling very well.”
Mimì didn’t wait to hear any more. He had no time to lose, and felt utterly trapped. He could hardly spend the night cringing outside the window and had to think of a way to get himself out of that uncomfortable, dangerous situation.
He leaned out to look below.
There was a balcony exactly like the one he was on: old-style, with a cast-iron railing.
If he climbed over the railing he could reach the one below, keeping his hands fastened on the bars of his railing and lowering his body down, little by little.
At any rate, there was no other escape route.
And so, wasting no more time, he stood up on tiptoe, looked to the left and right to make sure no cars were coming, and, seeing that all was quiet, climbed over the balustrade, rested his feet on the outer ridge of the balcony, and crouched down. Then, lowering his legs while hanging on with all the strength in his arms, he managed to touch the railing of the balcony below with the tips of his toes.
Arching his back and swinging his legs forward, he then executed an athletic leap and managed to land on his feet on the third-floor balcony.
He’d done it!
He leaned his back against the wall, panting heavily and feeling his clothes sticking to his sweaty body.
As soon as he felt ready for more acrobatics, he leaned out again to survey the situation.
Below him was another balcony exactly like the other two.
He calculated that, once he got to the second floor, he would be able to grab onto a large metal pipe that ran parallel to the main door of the building and from there drop himself onto the street.
He decided to rest a little longer before attempting his descent. When he took a step back, his shoulders touched the balcony’s half-open shutters. In terror he feared that his movements might be seen or heard by someone inside the room. Turning ever so slowly on his heels, he then noticed that not only were the shutters open, but so was the window. He stood stock-still for a moment, trying to think. Might it not be better, rather than risking a broken neck for the second time that night, to try to go through the apartment without making any noise? On the other hand, he thought, he was a cop, after all, and if he were somehow caught, he could always come up with some kind of excuse. Carefully pushing the shutters and window aside, he stuck his head into the room, which was in total darkness. No matter how hard he listened, holding his breath, all he could
hear was absolute silence. Summoning his courage, he opened the window even more and stuck his head and upper body inside. He held completely still, ears peeled for any sound, a rustle, a breath . . . Nothing. The wan light from the street was enough to let him know that he was in a bedroom—which, he realized, was unoccupied.
He advanced two more steps and then an accident happened: He crashed into a chair and tried to grab it before it fell to the floor, but didn’t manage in time.
The noise it made was like a cannon blast.
He froze, turned into a statue of salt. Someone would now turn on the light, start screaming, even . . . But why was nothing happening?
The silence was even deeper than before.
Was it possible he’d been lucky as hell and there was nobody home at that moment?
He stopped and stood still, looking around to confirm this impression.
His eyes were growing more accustomed to the darkness, and because of this he thought he could make out a large dark shape on the bed.
He brought his vision into better focus: It was a human body!
How could the person possibly be sleeping so deeply as not to have heard the racket he’d made?
Mimì drew near. Touching the bed ever so lightly with his hand, he realized that it wasn’t made. There was merely a sheet over a mattress. He kept feeling around, drawing closer to the dark shape, and finally came up against a pair of man’s shoes, then the cuffs of trousers.
Why had the man gone to bed fully dressed?
He took a step alongside the bed, reached out, and started touching the man’s body, running his hand over the perfectly buttoned-up jacket. Then he bent down to hear the man’s breath.
Nothing.
And so, plucking up his courage, he laid his palm decisively on the man’s forehead.
And withdrew it at once.
He’d felt the chill of death.
* * *
—
The images vanished.
Mimì’s words suddenly became the sound of a film reel spinning empty.
“So what did you do next?”