The Snack Thief

THE SNACK THIEF

ANDREA CAMILLERI

Translated by Stephen Sartarelli

Viking

ALSO BY ANDREA CAMILLERI

The Terra-Cotta Dog

The Shape of Water

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published in 2003 by Viking Penguin,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Translation copyright Stephen Sartarelli, 2003
All rights reserved.

Originally published in Italian as Il ladro di merendine by Sellerio editore. 1996
Sellerio editore via Siracusa 50 Palermo.

Publishers Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Camilleri,Andrea.

[Ladro di merendine. English]

The snack thief / Andrea Camilleri ; translated by Stephen Sartarelli.

p. cm.

ISBN: 1-4362-7199-1

I. Sartarelli, Stephen, 1954 II. Title.
PQ4863.A3894L3313 2003
853'.914.dc21 2003041090

Set in Bembo
Designed by Jaye Zimet

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THE SNACK THIEF

1

He woke up in a bad way. The sheets, during the sweaty, restless
sleep that had followed his wolfing down three pounds of sardines
a beccafico the previous evening, had wound themselves
tightly round his body, making him feel like a mummy. He got
up, went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and guzzled
half a bottle of cold water. As he was drinking, he glanced out
the wide-open window. The dawn light promised a good day.
The sea was flat as a table, the sky clear and cloudless. Sensitive
as he was to the weather, Montalbano felt reassured as to his
mood in the hours to come. As it was still too early, he went
back to bed and readied himself for two more hours of slumber,
pulling the sheet over his head. He thought, as he always
did before falling asleep, of Livia lying in her bed in Boccadasse,
outside of Genoa. She was a soothing presence, propitious to any
journey, long or short, in country sleep, as Dylan Thomas had
put it in a poem he liked very much.

No sooner had the journey begun when it was interrupted
by the ringing of the telephone. Like a drill, the
sound seemed to enter one ear and come out the other, boring
through his brain.

Hello!

Whoozis Im speaking with?
Tell me first who you are.
This is Catarella.
Whats the matter?
Sorry, Chief, I dint recnize your voice as yours. You
mighta been sleeping.

I certainly might have, at five in the morning! Would
you please tell me what the hell is the matter without busting
my balls any further?

Somebody was killed in Maz del Vallo.
What the fuck is that to me? Im in Vig.
But, Chief, the dead guy
Montalbano hung up and unplugged the phone. Before

shutting his eyes he thought maybe his friend Valente, vice-
commissioner of Maz, was looking for him. He would call
him later, from his office.

The shutter slammed hard against the wall. Montalbano sat
bolt upright in bed, eyes agape with fright, convinced, in the
haze of sleep still enveloping him, that hed been shot at. In
the twinkling of an eye, the weather had changed: a cold,
humid wind was kicking up waves with a yellowish froth, the
sky now entirely covered with clouds that threatened rain.

Cursing the saints, he got up, went into the bathroom,
turned on the shower, and lathered himself up. All at once the
water ran out. In Vig, and therefore also in Marinella, where
he lived, water was distributed roughly every three days.

Roughly, because there was no way of knowing whether you
would have water the very next day or the following week.
For this reason Montalbano had taken the precaution of having
several large tanks installed on the roof of his house, which
would fill up when water was available. This time, however,
there had apparently been no new water for eight days, for
that was the maximum autonomy granted him by his reserves.
He ran into the kitchen, put a pot under the faucet to collect
the meager trickle that came out, and did the same in the
bathroom sink. With the bit of water thus collected, he somehow
managed to rinse the soap off his body, but the whole
procedure certainly didnt help his mood.

While driving to Vig, yelling obscenities at all the motorists
to cross his pathwhose only use for the Highway
Code, in his opinion, was to wipe their asses with it, one way
or anotherhe remembered Catarellas phone call and the
explanation hed come up with for it, which didnt make
sense. If Valente had needed him for some homicide that
took place in Maz, he would have called him at home, not
at headquarters. He had concocted that explanation for con-
veniences sake, to unburden his conscience and sleep for another
two hours in peace.

Theres absolutely nobody here! Catarella told him as soon
as he saw him, respectfully rising from his chair at the switchboard.
Montalbano had decided, with Sergeant Fazios agreement,
that this was the best place for him. Even with his habit

of passing on the wildest, most unlikely phone calls, he would

surely do less damage there than anywhere else.
What is it, a holiday?
No, Chief, its not a holiday. Theyre all down at the

port because of that dead guy in Maz I called you about, if
you remember, sometime early this morning or thereabouts.
But if the dead guys in Maz, what are they all doing

at the port?
No, Chief, the dead guys here.
But, Jesus Christ, if the dead guys here, why the hell are

you telling me hes in Maz?
Because he was from Maz. Thats where he worked.
Cat,think for a minute,so to speak...or whatever it is that

you do: if a tourist from Bergamo was killed here inVig, what
would you tell me? That somebody was killed in Bergamo?

Chief, the point is, this dead guy was just passing
through. I mean, they shot him when he was on a fishing
boat from Maz.

Who shot him?
The Tunisians did, Chief.
Montalbano gave up, demoralized.
Did Augello also go down to the port?
Yessir.
His second-in-command, Mimugello, would be de

lighted if he didnt show up at the port.
Listen, Cat I have to write a report. Im not in for anyone.

Hello, Chief ? I got Signorina Livia on the line here from

Genoa. What do I do, Chief ? Should I put her on or not?

Put her on.

Since you said, not ten minutes ago, that you wasnt in
for nobody

I said put her on, Cat...Hello, Livia? Hi.

Hi, my eye. Ive been trying to call you all morning.
The phone at your house just rings and rings.

Really? I guess I forgot to plug it back in. You want to
hear something funny? At five oclock this morning, I got a
phone call about

I dont want to hear anything funny. I tried calling at
seven-thirty, at eight-fifteen, I tried again at

Livia, I already told you I forgot

You forgot me, thats what you forgot. I told you yesterday
I was going to call you at seven-thirty this morning to
decide whether

Livia, Im warning you. Its windy outside and about to
rain.

So what?

You know what. This kind of weather puts me in a bad
mood. I wouldnt want my words to be

I get the picture. I just wont call you anymore. You call
me, if you feel like it.

Montalbano! How are you? Officer Augello told me everything.
This is a very big deal, one that will certainly have international
repercussions. Dont you think?

He felt at sea. He had no idea what the commissioner
was talking about. He decided to be generically affirmative.

Oh, yes, yes.

International repercussions?

Anyway, Ive arranged for Augello to confer with the
prefect. The matter is, how shall I say, beyond my competence.

Yes, yes.

Are you feeling all right, Montalbano?

Yes, fine. Why?

Nothing, it just seemed...

Just a slight headache, thats all.

What day is today?

Thursday, sir.

Listen, why dont you come to dinner at our house on
Saturday? My wifell make you her black spaghetti in squid
ink. Its delicious.

Pasta with squid ink. His mood was black enough to dress
a hundred pounds of spaghetti. International repercussions?

Fazio came in and Montalbano immediately laid into him.

Would somebody please be so kind as to tell me what
the fuck is going on?

Cmon, Chief, dont take it out on me just because its
windy outside. For my part, early this morning, before contacting
Inspector Augello, I had somebody call you.

You mean Catarella? If you have Catarella calling me
about something important, then you really must be a shit

head, since you know damn well that nobody can ever understand
a fucking thing the guy says. What happened, anyway?

A motor trawler from Maz, which according to the
ships captain was fishing in international waters, was attacked
by a Tunisian patrol boat. Sprayed with machine-gun
fire. The fishing boat signaled its position to one of our patrols,
the Fulmine, then managed to escape.

Good going, said Montalbano.

On whose part? asked Fazio.

On the part of the captain of the fishing boat, who instead
of surrendering had the courage to run away. What
else?

The shots killed one of the crew.

Somebody from Maz?

Sort of.

Would you please explain?

He was Tunisian. They say his working papers were in
order. Down around Maz all the crews are mixed. First of
all because theyre good workers, and secondly because, if
theyre ever stopped, they can talk to the patrols from the
other side.

Do you believe the trawler was fishing in international
waters?

Me? Do I look like a moron or something?

Hello, Inspector Montalbano? This is Major Marniti of the
Harbor Office.

What can I do for you, Major?

Im calling about that unfortunate incident on the
Mazarese fishing boat, where the Tunisian was killed. Im
questioning the captain, trying to determine exactly where
they were at the moment they were attacked, and to establish
the sequence of events. Afterwards, hes going to drop by
your office.

Why? Hasnt my assistant already questioned him?

Yes.

Then theres really no need for him to come here.
Thanks for calling.

They were trying to drag him into this mess by the ear.

The door flew open with such force that the inspector
jumped out of his chair. Catarella appeared, looking very agitated.

Sorry bout that, Chief. Door slipped outa my hand.

If you ever come in like that again, Ill shoot you. What
is it?

Somebody just now phoned that somebodys inside an
elevator.

The inkwell, made of finely wrought bronze, missed
Catarellas forehead but made such a noise when it struck the
wooden door that it could have been a cannon shot.
Catarella cringed, covering his head with his arms. Montalbano
started kicking his desk. In rushed Fazio, hand on his
open holster.

What was that? What happened?

Get this asshole to explain to you this business about

somebody stuck in an elevator. Let em call the goddamn fire
department! But get him out of here, I dont want to hear his
voice.

Fazio returned in a flash.

Somebody got killed in an elevator, he said, brief and
to the point, to preempt any further flying inkwells.

Giuseppe Cosentino, security guard, said the man standing
near the open elevator door, introducing himself. I was the
one who found Mr. Lapra.