Game of Mirrors by Andrea Camilleri Page A

here?”
    “As soon as it takes me to drive there.”
         
    Just outside Vigàta, he came up against a long queue of stationary cars. He stuck his head out the window. There was a checkpoint of carabinieri up ahead. He cursed a great many of the saints in heaven. It was anybody’s guess how much of his time would be wasted. After a few minutes he decided not to wait any longer. He pulled out of the queue to present himself to the carabinieri. He was nearly at the front of the line when an officer came running towards his car.
    “Where do you think you’re going?”
    “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”
    “Pull over to the left.”
    “But . . .”
    “Pull over to the left and get out of the car!”
    The guy wouldn’t listen to reason, was pissed off, and was holding a machine gun to boot. Better not make him even angrier.
    Montalbano pulled over, got out of the car, and at that moment all hell broke loose.
    A big car drove up at a thousand miles an hour, determined to crash through the roadblock. Before throwinghimself nimbly on the ground, Montalbano was able to see someone with his arm out the speeding car’s window, shooting a revolver or small machine gun at the carabinieri.
    He heard the car race past, followed by some bursts of machine-gun fire. The military cops were responding .
    Then, after a pandemonium of cars starting and tires screeching and sirens blaring, there was total silence.
    He got up. The roadblock was gone. The carabinieri had dashed off in pursuit.
    He had the presence of mind to get quickly in his car, start it up, and leave. The other cars were still not moving. The drivers were frozen in fear from what had just happened.
    And so he wasn’t late for his appointment with Nicolò, whom he found in a rather agitated state.
    “I just got a call saying there was an exchange of fire at a carabinieri checkpoint right outside of Vigàta. Do you know anything about this?”
    The inspector donned an expression of surprise.
    “Really? I didn’t see any checkpoint.”
    If he told the truth, Nicolò was liable to interview him immediately as a witness.
    “Let’s do this interview right away,” the newsman said. “That way I can broadcast it on the seven o’clock edition, then replay it at eight and at midnight. Is that all right with you?”
    “That’s perfectly fine with me.”
         
    “Inspector, first of all let me thank you for having so kindly agreed to grant us this interview. The bomb that exploded yesterday in Vigàta destroyed the metal shutter of an empty warehouse, and therefore did little damage. The danger, however, is that it will do more damage to the reputation of the police.”
    “How?”
    “Apparently on this occasion—contrary to usual practice—a number of witnesses have sent you testimonies that haven’t been followed up on. Therefore—”
    “Excuse me for interrupting, but I need to set something straight. I haven’t received a single testimony—not one—because there weren’t any witnesses.”
    “And what about the letters that were sent to you?”
    “I would like to point out that these are anonymous letters. So, you can talk about dutiful citizens if you like, but only up to a point. And they have no proof toback up their assertions. Just as there’s been no confirmation of the rumors that have been cleverly put into circulation.”
    “Could you tell us what the letters say?”
    “They contain assumptions or, perhaps more precisely, conjectures as to whom the bomb might have been intended for.”
    “I don’t understand for what purpose they were written.”
    “Easy: to throw us off the trail. They present a number of possible leads in order to confuse us. And this flurry of activity just confirms my opinion.”
    “Can you tell us what that is?”
    “I’ve no problem telling you. I think there’s something really big behind this bomb. It’s not the usual failure-to-pay-the-protection racket, even though they wanted us to think this in