Game of Mirrors by Andrea Camilleri

to play the same game with us, to lead us into a hall of mirrors.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “They’re trying to disorient us. They’re doing everything in their power to keep us from understanding who the bomb was really intended for. To be as clear as possible,I no longer think the bomb was pushed aside towards Arnone’s warehouse by chance; I’m convinced the bomb was purposely placed where we found it.”
    “I’m beginning to understand.”
    “So they send an anonymous letter to Arnone and at the same time spread the rumor about Tallarita cooperating with Narcotics, with the result that we’re always back to square one. We’re being led around by their moves, like dogs on a leash. We have to take the initiative ourselves, starting now.”
    “And how are we going to do that?”
    “I’ll explain. When I told you to go and have a look at who lives at number twenty-six, Via Pisacane, all you told me was that Carlo Nicotra and two ex-cons live there. And that was because, to your eyes, as a policeman, they were the only three persons of interest. Am I right?”
    “Yes.”
    “And there we probably made a big mistake.”
    “How?”
    “In stopping at those three. What if the bomb was intended for a different tenant, one with no record? Someone above suspicion? Someone we know nothing about yet? And what if they’re doing everything humanly possible to prevent us from getting at him?”
    Fazio absorbed the blow.
    “You’re right,” he admitted.
    “How many families live at number twenty-six?”
    “Nine. Three per floor.”
    “And we stopped at a third of the tenants. So . . .”
    “I’ll get on it right away.”
         
    As soon as Fazio left, the inspector started opening the mail. The first letter was addressed directly to him and had the word PERSONAL written on the envelope.
    He opened it and immediately realized that it was an anonymous letter, even though it wasn’t handwritten in block letters but typed at a computer.
    Cecè Giannino is an unlucky thief. He stole what he shouldn’t have and doesn’t want to give it back to its rightful owner.
    He started laughing. It was the casting out nines of what he’d just finished saying to Fazio. He rang him and told him to come to his office. And when Fazio got there, he handed him the letter.
    “Here, read this. They’ve added another mirror to the mix.”
    Fazio smiled, too.
         
    When he got to the trattoria, he was the only customer. It was still too early. Enzo was watching television, tunedin to TeleVigàta. Talking on-screen was the station’s top newsman, Pippo Ragonese, who didn’t like the inspector, and whose feelings were amply returned in kind.
    . . . to return to the bomb that exploded in Via Pisacane,
it has come to our attention, through confidential channels,
that some willing citizens have indicated a number of possible
leads to Inspector Montalbano of Vigàta police, all of
which have been shunted aside by the inscrutable public
servant. And so, several days after the incident, the brilliant
result is that we still don’t know who was behind the
explosion. Will we have to wait for another bomb to go off
before the good inspector wakes up from his long sleep?
    “I’ll turn it off before that asshole ruins your appetite,” said Enzo.
    “That’s unlikely,” said Montalbano. “What’ve you got?”
    He ended up eating a double serving of seafood antipasto in Ragonese’s face.
    Afterwards he took his stroll along the jetty, but didn’t remain seated on the flat rock for very long.
    He’d had another idea.
    Back in his office, he rang Nicolò Zito, his friend and editor in chief of the Free Channel news department.
    “Hey, Nicolò, all well with the family?”
    “All’s well. What is it?”
    “I happened to hear Ragonese’s editorial on TeleVigàta’s midday report.”
    “Me, too. You must be used to it by now, no? Do you want to respond to him?”
    “Indirectly.”
    “How soon can you get