Game of Mirrors by Andrea Camilleri Page B

the early going. Nor is it an attempt to silence anyone who might be thinking of talking. And the theory that the bomb was to persuade a thief to return what he’d stolen is just laughable.”
    “In conclusion?”
    “The investigation is continuing. But I felt it was my duty to reassure our citizens as to the supposed inaction of local law enforcement.”
         
    “Cat, is Fazio in?”
    “Nah, Chief, but ’e called poissonally in poisson likeabouts fitteen minutes ago to say ’e’s on ’is way.”
    “What about Inspector Augello?”
    “Nah, ’e ain’t ’ere neither. I put a call true to him and a li’l while later ’e went onna scene.”
    “And where’s that?”
    “’E din’t say. Sorry, Chief, but d’jou know there was an aschange of fires wit’ the carabinieri atta roadblock?”
    “Yes, I know.”
    He went into his office and had just grabbed some papers from the pile in order to sign them when Fazio came in.
    “
Nuttata persa e figlia fìmmina .
”
    “Meaning?”
    “I went to Montelusa to talk to some people at the clothing store, but it was closed.”
    “You can go back tomorrow.”
    “Did you know you have a hole?” Fazio asked out of the blue.
    Montalbano instinctively checked his jacket and shirt. Fazio smiled.
    “On your car, I mean. I noticed just now when I parked alongside it.”
    “On my car?!”
    They went outside to the parking lot, Fazio leading the way.
    The hole was in the right-hand door, at more or less the height of the passenger’s seat. A close look revealed that it was clearly from a firearm.
    Montalbano opened the door. The bullet had gone straight through the car’s body, penetrated the seat back, and come to rest in the stuffing.
    Fazio was silent, pale, and worried.
    “Don’t be alarmed,” Montalbano said, smiling. “It was a stray shot; it wasn’t aimed at me.”
    “But how’d it happen?”
    He told him about the shoot-out. Fazio heaved a sigh of relief.
    “But you can’t be driving around with this!”
    “What do you suggest?”
    “I’ll have the car sent to our appointed body shop. I’ll tell them to do a quick touch-up job.”
    “Have them dig out the bullet.”
    “But they’ll have to rip the guts out of the seat!”
    “Worse things have happened.”
    “I’ll have Gallo drive you home to Marinella this evening,” Fazio decided. “And he’ll come and get you in themorning as well. We’ll look for a better solution if the repair ends up taking a long time.”
    “Okay.”
         
    Half an hour later Mimì Augello straggled in.
    “Where’ve you been?”
    “To Via Pisacane.”
    “Why?”
    “I got a phone call from a man, but he didn’t want to give me his name.”
    “What did he say?”
    “That the bomb went off by accident.”
    This was a new development.
    “What do you mean ‘by accident’?”
    “That’s what he said. According to our nameless witness, the bomb was put together by a certain Filippo Russotto, who lives on the third floor of twenty-six, Via Pisacane, and every now and then makes bombs for the Mafia. Supposedly when he was putting the bomb in his car to take it to his clients, something went wrong—exactly what, I didn’t quite understand—and so he left the bomb in the street.”
    “And you believe that?”
    “Calm down. Before making any moves, I checked the records. The guy’s got a clean one. And so I went and looked at all the names of people associated in any way with bomb explosions. And, in fact, in a trial five yearsago, someone claimed Filippo Russotto was the guy who provided the explosives, but he couldn’t prove it, and so Russotto got off. And so, just to be sure, I decided to go and check things out.”
    “And how did they check out?”
    “Depends on your point of view.”
    “Explain.”
    “Russotto’s wife told me her husband’s been in Montelusa Hospital for some tests. Apparently he’s got something in his lungs. It seems our anonymous caller wasn’t aware of this