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The Voice of the Violin: An Inspector Montalbano Mystery - Rilegato

 
9780670031436: The Voice of the Violin: An Inspector Montalbano Mystery
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Discovering the murdered body of a beautiful young woman, Sicilian detective Salvo Montalbano finds suspects in the victim's aging husband, a famous doctor, a missing admirer, an antiques dealer, a close friend, and a reclusive violinist. 15,000 first printing.

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L'autore:
Andrea Camilleri's Montalbano mystery series, bestsellers in Italy and Germany, has been adapted for Italian television and translated into German, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, Japanese, Dutch, and Swedish. He lives in Rome.
Stephen Sartarelli lives in upstate New York.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:
1

Inspector Salvo Montalbano could immediately tell that it was not going to be his day the moment he opened the shutters of his bedroom window. It was still night, at least an hour before sunrise, but the darkness was already lifting, enough to reveal a sky covered by heavy rain clouds and, beyond the light strip of beach, a sea that looked like a Pekingese dog. Ever since a tiny dog of that breed, all decked out in ribbons, had bitten painfully into his calf after a furious fit of hacking that passed for barking, Montalbano saw the sea this way whenever it was whipped up by crisp, cold gusts into thousands of little waves capped by ridiculous plumes of froth. His mood darkened, especially considering that an unpleasant obligation awaited him that morning. He had to attend a funeral.

The previous evening, finding some fresh anchovies cooked by Adelina, his houskeeper, in the fridge, he’d dressed them in a great deal of lemon juice, olive oil, and freshly ground black pepper, and wolfed them down. And he’d relished them, until it was all spoiled by a telephone call.

“H’lo, Chief? Izzatchoo onna line?”

“It’s really me, Cat. You can go ahead and talk.”

At the station they’d given Catarella the job of answering the phone, mistakenly thinking he could do less damage there than anywhere else. After getting mightily pissed off a few times, Montalbano had come to realize that the only way to talk to him within tolerable limits of nonsense was to use the same language as he.

“Beckin’ pardon, Chief, for the ’sturbance.”

Uh-oh. He was begging pardon for the disturbance. Montalbano pricked up his ears. Whenever Catarella’s speech became ceremonious, it meant there was no small matter at hand.

“Get to the point, Cat.”

“Tree days ago somebody aks for you, Chief, wanted a talk t’ you in poisson, but you wasn’t ’ere an’ I forgotta reference it to you.”

“Where were they calling from?”

“From Florida, Chief.”

He was literally overcome with terror. In a flash he saw himself in a sweatsuit jogging alongside fearless, athletic American narcotics agents working with him on a complicated investigation into drug trafficking.

“Tell me something. What language did you speak with them?”

“What langwitch was I asposta speak? We spoke ’Talian, Chief.”

“Did they tell you what they wanted?”

“Sure, they tol’ me everyting about one ting. They said as how the vice commissioner Tamburino’s wife was dead.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, he couldn’t help it. They’d called not from Florida, but from police headquarters in the town of Floridia near Siracusa. Caterina Tamburrano had been gravely ill for some time, and the news was not a complete surprise to him.

“Chief, izzat still you there?”

“Still me, Cat, I haven’t changed.”

“They also said the obsequious was gonna be on Tursday morning at nine o’clock.”

“Thursday? You mean tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, Chief.”

He was too good a friend of Michele Tamburrano not to go to the funeral. That way he could make up for not having even phoned to express condolences. Floridia was about a three-and-a-half-hours’ drive from Vigąta.

“Listen, Cat, my car’s in the shop. I need a squad car at my place, in Marinella, at five o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Tell Inspector Augello I’ll be out of the office until early afternoon? Got that?”

He emerged from the shower, skin red as a lobster. To counteract the chill he felt at the sight of the sea, he’d made the water too hot. As he started shaving, he heard the squad car arrive. Indeed, who, within a ten-kilometer radius, hadn’t heard it? It rocketed into the driveway at supersonic speed, braked with a scream, firing bursts of gravel in every direction, then followed this display with a roar of the racing engine, a harrowing shift of gears, a shrill screech of skidding tires, and another explosion of gravel. The driver had executed an evasive maneuver, turning the car completely around.

When he stepped out of the house ready to leave, he saw Gallo, the station’s official driver, rejoicing.

“Look at that, Chief! Look at them tracks! What a maneuver! A perfect one-eighty!”

“Congratulations,” Montalbano said gloomily.

“Should I put on the siren?” Gallo asked as they were about to set out.

“Put it in your ass,” said a surly Montalbano, closing his eyes. He didn’t feel like talking.

Gallo, who suffered from the Indianapolis Complex, stepped on the accelerator as soon as he saw his superior’s eyes shut, reaching a speed he thought better suited to his driving ability. They’d been on the road barely fifteen minutes when the crash occurred. At the scream of the brakes, Montalbano opened his eyes but saw nothing, head lurching violently forward before being jerked back by the safety belt. Next came a deafening clang of metal against metal, then silence again, a fairy tale silence, with birds singing and dogs barking.

“You hurt?” the inspector asked Gallo, seeing him rub his chest.

“No. You?”

“Nothing. What happened?”

“A chicken cut in front of me.”

“I’ve never seen a chicken cut in front of a car before. Let’s look at the damage.”

They got out. There wasn’t a soul around. The long skid marks were etched into the asphalt. Right at the spot where they began, one could see a small, dark stain. Gallo went up to this, then turned triumphantly around.

“What did I tell you?” he said to the inspector. “It was a chicken!”

A clear case of suicide. The car they had slammed into, smashing up its entire rear end, must have been legally parked at the side of the road, though now it was sticking out slightly. It was a bottle-green Renault Twingo, positioned so as to block a dirt driveway leading to a two-story house with shuttered windows and doors some thirty meters away. The squad car, for its part, had a shattered headlight and a crumpled right fender.

“So now what do we do?” Gallo asked dejectedly.

“We’re gonna go. Will the car run, in your opinion?”

“I’ll give it a try.”

Backing up with a great clatter of metal, the squad car dislodged itself from the other vehicle. Nobody came to the windows of the house this time either. They must have been fast asleep, dead to the world. The Twingo had to belong to someone in there, since there were no other homes in the immediate area. As Gallo was trying with his bare hands to bend out the fender, which was scraping against the tire, Montalbano wrote down the phone number of Vigąta police headquarters on a piece of paper and slipped this under the Twingo’s windshield wiper.

When it’s not your day, it’s not your day. After they’d been back on the road for half an hour or so, Gallo started rubbing his chest again, and from time to time he twisted his face in a grimace of pain.

“I’ll drive,” said the inspector. Gallo didn’t protest.

When they were outside the town of Fela, Montalbano, instead of continuing along the highway, turned onto the road that led to the center of town. Gallo paid no attention, eyes closed and head resting against the window.

“Where are we?” he asked, as soon as he felt the car come to a halt.

“I’m taking you to Fela Hospital. Get out.”

“But it’s nothing, Inspector!”

“Get out. I want them to have a look at you.”

“Well, just leave me here and keep going. You can pick me up on the way back.”

“Cut the shit. Let’s go.”

Between auscultations, three blood pressure exams, X rays, and everything else in the book, it took them over three hours to have a look at Gallo. In the end they ruled that Gallo hadn’t broken anything; the pain he felt was from having bumped hard into the steering wheel, and the weakness was a natural reaction to the fright he’d had.

“So now what do we do?” Gallo asked again, more dejected than ever.

“What do you think? We keep going. But I’ll drive.”

The inspector had been to Floridia three or four times before. He even remembered where Tamburrano lived, and so he headed towards the Church of the Madonna delle Grazie, which was practically next door to his colleague’s house. When they reached the square, he saw the church hung with black and a throng of people hurrying inside. The service must have started late. Apparently he wasn’t the only one to have things go wrong.

“I’ll take the car to the police garage in town and have them look at it,” said Gallo. “I’ll come pick you up afterward.”

Montalbano entered the crowded church. The service had just begun. He looked around and recognized no one. Tamburrano must have been in the first row, near the coffin in front of the main altar. The inspector decided to remain where he was, near the entrance. He would shake Tamburrano’s hand when the coffin was being carried out of the church. When the priest finally opened his mouth after the Mass had been going on for some time, Montalbano gave a start. He’d heard right, he was sure of it.

The priest had begun with the words:
“Our dearly beloved Nicola has left this vale of tears . . .”

Mustering up the courage, he tapped a little old lady on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, signora, whose funeral is this?”

“The dear departed Ragioniere Pecoraro. Why?”

“I thought it was for the Signora Tamburrano.”

“Ah, no, that one was at the Church of Sant’Anna.”

It took him almost fifteen minutes to get to the church of Sant’Anna, practically running the whole way. Panting and sweaty, he found the priest in the deserted nave.

“I beg your pardon. Where’s the funeral of Signora Tamburrano?”

“That ended almost two hours ago,” said the priest, looking him over sternly.

“Do you know if she’s being buried here?” Montalbano asked, avoiding the priest’s gaze.

“Most certainly not. When the service was over, she was taken in the hearse to Vibo Valentia, where she’ll be entombed in the family vault. Her bereaved husband followed behind in his car.”

So it had all been for naught. He had noticed, in the Piazza della Madonna delle Grazie, a café...

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  • EditoreViking Pr
  • Data di pubblicazione2003
  • ISBN 10 0670031437
  • ISBN 13 9780670031436
  • RilegaturaCopertina rigida
  • Numero edizione1
  • Numero di pagine304
  • Valutazione libreria

Altre edizioni note dello stesso titolo

9780142004456: Voice of the Violin: 4

Edizione in evidenza

ISBN 10:  ISBN 13:  9780142004456
Casa editrice: Penguin Books, 2004
Brossura

  • 9780330492997: The Voice of the Violin [Lingua inglese]: Andrea Camilleri

    Pan, 2006
    Brossura

  • 9781529042443: The Voice of the Violin

    Picador, 2020
    Brossura

  • 9780330492980: The Voice of the Violin

    Picador, 2005
    Rilegato

  • 9781447235118: The Voice of the Violin

    Macmillan, 2012
    Brossura

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