Treasure Hunt

by Andrea Camilleri

  “I would rule that out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it looks in every way like a duel between two people, you and the other guy.”

  The kid reasoned well.

  “And what kind of person do you think he is?”

  “Well, so far we haven’t got enough material to paint a complete portrait. All we can say is that he’s a person who hides behind appearances—the rather harmless appearance of someone interested only in playing innocuous games.”

  “But in your opinion, that’s not really the case.”

  “I really don’t think so. There’s something about all this that seems weird to me.”

  “So we’re dealing, in short, with a cunning individual.”

  “More than just cunning: quite intelligent.”

  “Then all we can do is wait for the next letter,” Montalbano concluded, standing up and holding out his hand.

  “Will you keep me informed?”

  “Of course. But tell me something. How did you manage to find Via dei Mille?”

  “I got a map from city hall.”

  8

  That evening, after waging a harsh battle with the four servings of cuddriruni he’d bought (he’d planned to eat only two, but lost the fight and ate them all), he phoned Livia. He decided not to tell her anything about the plastic collar.

  “I’ve gained weight,” he said dejectedly.

  “That was all you needed.”

  Jesus, was Livia ever cranky sometimes! What did she mean by that? That he already had all the worst physical defects a man can have? Better pretend he didn’t hear.

  “I’m unable to control myself while eating—it must be because I’ve had nothing to do for the past month. I’m sure a clerk at the land registry office leads a more exciting life than I do.”

  “Are you telling me you’ve been twiddling your thumbs for the last month?”

  Twiddling your thumbs! What an obnoxious expression! And when did anyone ever really twiddle their thumbs?

  “Well, sort of.”

  “And you couldn’t even find two days to come and see me?”

  “No, you see, I thought about it, but then, maybe because I was hoping something would happen—”

  “You were hoping? Hoping that something would go wrong to prevent you from coming? Nobody’s forcing you, you know. You can sit there and do nothing for as long as you want for all I care! But don’t start hoping I’m going to come down there!”

  “Jesus, why don’t you make a big deal out of it for a change! I used the wrong verb, okay? I meant to say I was afraid something would happen.”

  “I guess we are a bit verbally challenged, hm?”

  “Well, you certainly aren’t! Your command of the language is utterly flawless! You even use such elegant expressions as ‘twiddling your thumbs’! Ha ha ha!”

  The flare-up didn’t last more than five minutes, after which the pitch began to descend, and soon they were both apologizing, and in the end Montalbano promised that the following day he would be on the six P.M. flight for Genoa.

  The next morning, after he’d been in the office for about half an hour, the door opened with such a crash that Montalbano, who’d been following the progress of a fly along the edge of his desk with extreme concentration, jumped straight into the air.

  “Beckin’ yer partin’, Chief, my foot slipped,” said a mortified Catarella.

  He’d had to knock with his foot because his hands were busy carrying a rather large parcel.

  “’Iss ’ere packitch was d’livvered juss now an’ iss asposta be brung t’yiz poissonally in 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 inside.

  So he got up, grabbed a pair of scissors, and removed all the tape.

  Now came the hard part: lifting the lid. If it was a bomb, that would certainly be the act that triggered the explosion.

  But how strong would t
he eventual explosion be? It was possible that, aside from him, it would kill a few others and bring half the building down.

  Wouldn’t it be better to call the bomb squad? But then if it turned out there really were only biscotti or some other kind of cookie inside, wouldn’t he end up looking ridiculous?

  The only solution was to go it alone and take the chance.

  He was sweating. Removing his jacket, he knelt down in front of the low table, took the box in his hands, and with his thumbs pressed the lid up by half a millimeter, to see if he could look inside.

  Despite the tension, he started laughing and forgot everything for a moment.

  He’d remembered a game show he’d happened to watch a few times on TV, where the host would open packages using the same technique.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow with his arm, he started again from the beginning. It took him a good five minutes to raise the lid, which he then set down on the floor. Inside was a bundle of oilcloth, inserted in a little bag of transparent nylon.

  Taking the scissors, he cut off the whole top of the nylon bag without ever taking the bundle out of the box. At this point he could have picked up the oilcloth and unwrapped it, but he decided he would rather cut off the top with the scissors. It wasn’t an easy task, but some ten minutes later the bundle was practically open, thanks to a few cuts. All he would have to do was reach in, grip the oilcloth, and lift it. Setting the scissors down, he pinched the two ends of the cloth with his fingers and pulled it outwards.

  He saw two dead eyes staring up at him. When the sickly sweet smell of blood rose to his nostrils, he leapt to his feet, gave a loud cry, went and crashed into the door, unlocked it, and found Mimì Augello standing in front of him.

  “What happened?”

  “There’s . . . it looks like a head inside the package.”

  Meanwhile Fazio had arrived.

  “I heard a yell. . . . What happened?”

  “Come with me,” Augello said to him.

  They went into the office. Montalbano heaved a long sigh and followed them. Augello had already entirely unwrapped the cloth.

  “It’s a lamb’s head,” he said.

  Sticking a hand into the parcel, he pulled out, by one corner, an envelope wrapped in bloodstained nylon, then bent his head forward to read through the transparent fabric.

  “It’s addressed to you, Salvo,” he said. “It says: Treasure Hunt.”

  As Mimì set the letter down on the desk, Montalbano, looking a little pale, went and locked the door again.

  “Nobody, aside from you two, is to know anything about this, is that clear?” he said to Mimì and Fazio.

  “This is a typical Mafia-style intimidation tactic that definitely should not be hushed up,” Augello retorted. “And I don’t intend—”

  “Mimì, save the highfalutin speech, ’cause the Mafia doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with this.”

  “So what’s it about, then?”

  “It’s about a treasure hunt. Isn’t that what the envelope says?”

  “Listen,” Mimì said coldly, “either you tell me straightaway what this is really about, or I’m going to walk out of this room and after that I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

  “Mimì, I can’t tell you what it’s about because it’s so absurd that—”

  “As you wish,” Mimì said resentfully.

  He turned the key, opened the door, and left.

  “Go and get two pairs of latex gloves, some plastic bags, and then come back,” Montalbano said to Fazio.

  He sat down at his desk and looked at the envelope. As far as one could tell through the stained nylon, neither the envelope nor the handwriting was any different from the prior specimens.

  Fazio returned.

  “Lock the door.”

  Fazio handed him a pair of gloves and then put on his own.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Take the head out. But put everything else in the plastic bags: the oilcloth, the box itself, and so on. We’ll try to get some fingerprints from them.”

  “Can I ask a question, Chief?”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “What do you want fingerprints for? Cutting off a lamb’s head isn’t the kind of thing you find listed in the penal code.”

  He’d said it in Italian, as if to distance the question, make it less personal. Fazio was being as cautious as Mimì had just been rash.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I have a sort of premonition that we may need them in the future.”

  The inspector put his gloves on and picked up the envelope. The sheet of nylon wrapped around it was held in place by two pieces of tape. Removing these, he unwound the sheet and freed the envelope. Then he put the sheet of nylon and two pieces of tape in one of the plastic bags Fazio had brought.

  He then opened the envelope with a letter opener, pulled out the usual half-sheet of paper, and put this into his jacket pocket. Since the page was folded in two, he couldn’t see what was written on it.

  “All done,” said Fazio.

  Montalbano stood up and went over to him.

  Fazio had set the lamb’s head down on the floor on a sheet of newspaper. The oilcloth and tin box were already in two separate plastic bags.

  “What should I do with the head?”

  “Go and throw it away in a garbage bin, but don’t let anyone see you.”

  “All right.”

  “Did you have a look at it? What do you think?”

  “Well, first the lamb was killed—maybe strangled with a rope—and then whoever killed it tried to cut its head off. But since he wasn’t a butcher and had no experience at that sort of thing, it looks like he tried first with a knife and then used a power saw. You can tell by the clean cut of the bone.”

  “And when was it done, would you say?”

  “Last night. The meat is still fresh. Before putting the head in the oilcloth, they let it drain for a while so that there wouldn’t be too much blood in the box.”

  “Is there still room in that closet in your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you got a key for it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go and put the head in your closet, then come back, take the evidence, including the bag on my desk, put it all in the closet, then lock it. And keep the key with you.”

  He opened the half-sheet only once, read it—another poem—grabbed a piece of paper, copied the poem, put the half-sheet in the plastic bag and sealed it. Then he folded the sheet of paper with the copied poem on it and put this in his pocket.

  The treasure hunt had taken a curious turn.

  According to what Fazio had told him—and he had no reason to doubt him—the prankster had not gone to a butcher’s to buy a lamb’s head, but had done everything himself, with his own two hands.

  Which suggested a few interesting things.

  The first was that the person in question had been cold-blooded and determined enough to get a living lamb, strangle it with a rope, and then saw off its head, all for the sole purpose of continuing a sort of game.

  Who among them, on the police force, starting with him, Montalbano, would have been able to do such a thing? Nobody, he could bet the house on it. And someone like that, who thought that way, who acted that way—could he be a potential murderer?

  The second thing was that the person must necessarily have a country property with a few animals on it, even if he normally lived in town. He surely hadn’t gone and stolen the lamb. Too risky. A property in the countryside nearby, where he also kept a power saw to cut tree branches.

  Whatever the case, it was clear that the game was getting out of hand.

  Which led him to the conclusion that it was no longer advisable to leave Vigàta to spend a few days in Boccadasse with Livia.

  O matre santa! He and Livia had arranged for her to come and get him at the airport!

  It was better to let her know at once, while she was still at the office,
especially as this would prevent her from making a scene, since she’d be surrounded by her colleagues. He dialed the direct number and Livia herself picked up. He spoke in a single stream of words, a single breath, not giving Livia the time to cut in.

  “Listen, Livia, the hitch that I was ho— er, fearing would come up has suddenly just now materialized and I really don’t think I can leave. You’ve got to believe me, I feel terribly mortified, especially because I really wanted to come, really . . . Hello? Hello?”

  But Livia had already hung up. Well, never mind. When they talked that evening he would have to put up with everything she had to say, and he really couldn’t blame her.

  This time at Enzo’s he didn’t pig out. He ate a normal meal, but took a walk out to the lighthouse just the same.

  Sitting down on the flat rock, he fired up a cigarette, and not until he’d finished it did he take the piece of paper with the poem out of his pocket.

  The head of the sheep

  is the tastiest treat.

  It’s a part you must keep

  and will most want to eat.

  Stewing is one way to make it,

  though roasting is also good,

  and some say you should bake it:

  either way it’s great food!

  Once you’ve had a thorough taste,

  drink two glasses of wine

  and proceed without haste

  to a place where you’ll find

  a small piece of the sky.

  Here you should linger awhile.

  No scales will fall from your eye,

  no answer will make you smile.

  At first glance, he didn’t understand where his challenger was trying to go with this. So he reread the poem from the beginning. And he became convinced that it was again directing him to a place, but also kindly warning him that, once he got there, he wouldn’t find anything. But if, upon reaching the end, he wasn’t going to receive any new instructions for getting to the next stage, what point was there in having him find the way? None. Maybe the present stage of the treasure hunt was a moment of rest? No, it didn’t make sense. He decided to ignore it, or at least take his time. He wouldn’t go out searching right away. But then he reconsidered. It was possible that even if his challenger wasn’t giving any direct instructions, he himself, once there, might nevertheless find something of use to him. He had an idea. He raced back to his car, and drove off with the second stanza in his head, the one that began, Stewing is one way to make it . . .