“Did she speak good Italian?”
“Good enough.”
“Did she receive any visits from anyone during the time she lived with you?”
“Never.”
“Did she get any days off?”
“Thursdays. But she was always back by ten o’clock in the evening.”
“Did she often receive or make phone calls?”
“She had her own cell phone.”
“Did it ring often?”
“During the day, at least ten times. At night I couldn’t say.”
“Man to man, Mr. Graceffa, did you ever happen to get up in the middle of the night and go listen at the girl’s bedroom door?”
“Well, yeah. A few times.”
“Did you hear her talking?”
“Yes, but she was talking too softly for me to understand anything. However . . .”
“Go on.”
“Once, when her phone was discharged, she asked me if she could make a call on mine. I could hear her but I couldn’t understand anything because she was speaking Russian. But she must have been talking to a girl because she kept calling her Sonya.”
“Thank you, Mr. Graceffa. If you remember the name of the girl’s town, give me a ring. I mean it.”
It was already past lunchtime, and still no sign of Catarella.
The inspector decided to go to Enzo’s. It was still raining.
He smoked a cigarette in the doorway, waiting for the water pouring down from the heavens to let up. Then he made a dash to his car, got in, and drove off. Luckily he found a parking spot close to the restaurant entrance.
“Inspector, I should warn you that the sea is really rough today,” said Enzo by way of greeting.
“What the hell do I care? I don’t have to go out on a boat.”
“You’re wrong. You should care, and how!”
“What do you mean?”
“Inspector, if the sea is rough, the fishing boats don’t go out to fish, and therefore tomorrow, instead of fresh fish, you’ll find a plate of frozen fish or a nice piece of vitella alla milanese under your nose.”
Montalbano shuddered at the thought of vitella alla milanese.
“But is there any fish today?”
“Yes there is. Fresh as can be.”
“So why frighten me in advance?”
Perhaps because he knew there wouldn’t be any fresh fish the next day, he ordered a double serving of mullets.
When he stepped out of the trattoria, it was coming down in buckets. A walk along the jetty was out of the question. All he could do was go back to the station.
Still at the switchboard was Galluzzo.
“Any news of Catarella?”
“None.”
“Anyone call for me?”
“Zito the newsman. Says to call him back.”
“All right, ring him up and put it through to my desk.”
He didn’t have time to finish drying his head before the phone rang.
“Salvo? This is Nicolò. Did you see it?”
“No. See what?”
“I broadcast the photos of the tattoo on the morning edition at ten and on the afternoon edition at one.”
“Thanks. I’ve even spoken with the two people who called you.”
“Did they tell you anything useful?”
“One of them, Graceffa, maybe yes. You should—”
“—keep broadcasting the pictures. I got that. Whatever you say.”
Finally, just a few minutes before four, Catarella returned in glory and triumph.
“Iss all done, Chief! Cicco de Cicco wasted a lotta time, but ’e did a maspertiece!”
He pulled four photographs out of an envelope and set them down on the inspector’s desk.
“Look atta ’riginal, then look atta tree copies ’n’ see how the man you wanted changed is changed!”
Indeed, Di Noto, now with a mustache and glasses and a few white hairs, looked like quite another person.
“Thanks, Cat, and give Cicco de Cicco my compliments. When Inspector Augello and Fazio return, tell them to come into my office.”
Catarella walked out strutting like a peacock. Montalbano paused to think for a minute, then made up his mind and slipped the original and three copies into a drawer.
Fazio and Augello arrived almost simultaneously at around four-fifteen.
“Catarella said you wanted to see us,” said Mimì.
“Yes. Sit down, both of you, and listen to what I have to say.”
He told them what he’d found out from Dr. Pasquano and what Graceffa had said to him.
“What do you think?”
“I’m wondering,” Mimì led off, “if there’s any significance in the fact that two girls of more or less the same age, probably both foreign, had the same tattoo in the same place.”
“But, Mimì, you yourself told me that nowadays girls have tattoos all over their bodies!”
“Of the same moth?”
“What makes you so sure it’s the same?”
“It’s what Graceffa told you.”
“Yes, but bear in mind that Graceffa is over seventy, he was spying on the girl through a hole and from a certain distance, and one can just imagine how closely he was studying her left shoulder blade when the girl was naked in front of him. Then tell me how reliable you think his testimony really is!”
“It’s possible that seeing all that divine grace before his eyes, Graceffa’s vision became more keen,” Augello retorted.
“I, on the other hand, have been thinking about the purpurin,” said Fazio.
“Good for you,” said Montalbano.
“Where is it that people work with purpurin?” Fazio wondered aloud, then answered his own question: “At furniture factories.”
“Do people still make gilded furniture?” Montalbano asked.
“Of course they do!” said Augello. “The other day I went to the wedding of a distant relative of Beba’s. Well, the furniture was all—”
“At restoration workshops,” said Montalbano.
“No, it wasn’t,” said Augello, flustered. “Why do you say that? The furniture was not in restoration workshops, it was all in the house.”
“Mimì, what I meant was that one could also find purpurin in the workshop of someone who restores antique furniture.”
“I’ll start having a look around tomorrow,” said Fazio.
“All right, but you can’t limit yourself to Vigàta. You have to look in Montelusa as well, and in some of the neighboring towns. The dump at the Salsetto is used by people from Vigàta, Montelusa, Giardina, Gallotta . . .”
“And sometimes even by people from Borgina,” said Augello.
“Would to God we discovered that the murder occurred in Borgina!” Montalbano exclaimed.
“Why?”
“Have you forgotten that Borgina falls within the jurisdiction of Licata? In that case the investigation would be turned over to them.”
“I was thinking about the purpurin,” said Fazio.
“You’ve already said that.”
“Chief, I was wondering why the purpurin was under her fingernails but not on her fingers.”
“I was wondering the same thing.”
“But I saw the body and you didn’t. And I had the impression . . .”
“Of what?”
“That the girl had been stripped naked and washed after she was killed,” Mimì cut in. “I had the same thought as Fazio.”
“She was carefully washed, but whoever did it forgot to clean the fingernails,” said Fazio.
“Excuse me, but why do you both think she’d been washed?”
“Because there was no trace of blood on her neck,” said Mimì.
“Not a drop,” confirmed Fazio.
“Which means that if she hadn’t been washed, we might be able to determine where she was killed?”
“Probably, yes,” the two said in chorus.
The telephone rang. Fazio and Augello made as if to rise and leav
e the room.
“Wait, I have something else to tell you.”
“Chief, there’s a lady onna line an’ I canna ’nerstand ’er name.”
“Try telling me what you think it is.”
“Cirrinciò, Chief.”
“Actually, you got it right, Cat. Put her on.”
The inspector got worried. Want to bet Adelina was going to tell him she couldn’t come to clean house and prepare dinner?
“What is it, Adelì?”
“Signore, you gotta ’scuse me but I gotta tell you my boy Pasquali, when I went to see ’im in prison this morning, he said he wanna talk to you.”
“They haven’t yet granted him house arrest?”
“Not yet, signore.”
“Are you coming tomorrow?”
“Of course, signore.”
“When you prepare the food, don’t forget that there’s not going to be any fresh fish at the market tomorrow.”
“Leave it to me.”
With the threat of vitella alla milanese dispelled, he felt cheered up.
He leaned back in his chair and, wanting to amuse himself with a bit of playacting, he looked very seriously at the other two.
6
So seriously that Augello got worried.
“What is it?”
“I’ve got some big news about the Picarella kidnapping.”
“News?” asked Fazio, wonderstruck.
Mimì instead took a mocking tone.
“You’re not going to tell me they’ve asked for a ransom!”
“Does this seem like a laughing matter to you?”
“Absolutely, because I don’t believe for a minute that he was kidnapped!”
“What about you, Fazio? If I told you that Signora Ciccina had been called by the kidnappers demanding ransom, would you believe it or not?”
“I could believe it if—” Fazio began, but Mimì got angry and interrupted him.
“But we both arrived at the same conclusion, you and I! How is it you’ve suddenly changed your mind?”
“Please let me speak, Inspector Augello. I could believe it if I thought Picarella had spent all the money he took from his safe, and had put his friend up to phoning for more.”
“Then I’m with you!” said Mimì.
“So you two continue to believe that the kidnapping was staged?”
“Yes,” said Augello and Fazio in unison.
Montalbano opened the drawer, grabbed a copy of the photo, and handed it to Mimì.
Fazio stood up and got behind Mimì to have a look himself.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Augello.
“It’s him!” said Fazio.
“When was this taken?” asked Mimì.
“How did you get this?” Fazio followed up.
“Calm down. The photo dates from no more than three or four days ago,” said Montalbano.
“Where was it taken?” asked Mimì.
“In Havana, at a nightclub. See? You guys were wrong. Picarella was not in the Maldives or the Bahamas, but in Cuba.”
“The son of a bitch!” said Mimì.
“How did you get this?” Fazio asked again.
“That man there with the mustache and glasses gave it to me. He’s from Vigàta.”
“I don’t know ’im,” said Fazio.
“Actually I think you do,” said Montalbano, handing him the original photo.
“Why, that’s Di Noto, the fish exporter!”
“Bravo. I had his features changed to keep him out of it.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Simple. Tomorrow morning, when Fazio goes out looking for furniture works and restorers, you are going to summon Signora Ciccina Picarella and give her the lowdown.”
“Yeah, and that lady, jealous as she is, is liable to take it out on me!”
“Risks of the profession, Mimì.”
“But how should I proceed?”
“You have to handle her very tactfully, Mimì. Start, for example, by telling her that you are absolutely certain that her husband, wherever he is, is fine. Great, in fact. Actually, he couldn’t possibly be better. And at that very moment, as the lady’s worries are starting to fade, you show her the photograph.”
“What if she asks me how we got hold of it?”
“You tell her it was sent to us anonymously.”
“You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to call her right now and tell her to come here. That way I don’t have to think about it. And then, if need be, I’ll call you for help.”
“Call me? I’ve got nothing to do with this case, Mimì, and I don’t want to have anything to do with it. The honor of solving it lies with you and Fazio. So don’t even try.”
He stayed at the station another half an hour. Then, worried that Mimì, not knowing what to do with Signora Ciccina, might call him, he decided to leave.
“You goin’ home, Chief?”
“Yeah, Cat. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The rain was taking a short break. But it was threatening to start again even harder than before.
Once he set off, he realized he didn’t really feel like going home. With all the rain that had fallen, he wouldn’t be able to sit out on the veranda. He would have to eat in the kitchen or in front of the television. Alone, in short, between four walls, rehashing his situation with Livia. Imagine the fun! What to do? Go to Enzo’s, or try another trattoria? And what if it started deluging again?
Lost amidst these doubts, he was driving very slowly when somebody behind him honked. He pulled over to let them pass. But the car coming up behind him not only did not pass him, it gave another toot of the horn.
Were these people bent on breaking his balls?
It had started raining again, and, as a result, he could just barely see in the rearview mirror that the high-powered car behind him was green in color. He lowered his window, stuck out his arm, and motioned for the car to pass. The only reply was another honk.
Did they want to have it out? If so, they would get their wish.
He pulled over right there, at the side of the road.The car behind him did the same. Then the inspector lost patience. Despite the rain, he opened the car door and got out. At once he saw the driver of the other car open the door on the passenger’s side.
He ran and jumped into the green car, ready to throw the first punch, but found himself in the arms of Ingrid, who was laughing.
“I really got you pissed off, didn’t I, Salvo!”
Ingrid Sjostrom! His friend, confidante, and accomplice! He hadn’t seen her for at least six months.
“What a wonderful surprise, Ingrid! Where were you going?”
“To meet a friend and go out to dinner with him. And where were you going?”
“Home to Marinella.”
“Are you alone? Do you have any engagements?”
“I’m absolutely free.”
“Wait a second.”
She picked up her cell phone, which was lying on the dashboard, and dialed a number.
“Manlio? This is Ingrid. Listen, I’m sorry, but I have to tell you, as I was getting dressed to come to your place, I suddenly got a terrible migraine. Can we put it off till tomorrow? Okay? You’re an angel.”
She set down the cell phone.
“Never had a migraine in my life,” she said.
“Where shall we go?” asked the inspector.
“To your place. If Adelina left you something to eat, we can share it.”
“Okay.”
With Ingrid there, the prospect of an evening at home changed.
“I’ll go ahead and you follow.”
“No, Salvo, my car is incapable of following behind yours. The engine suffers. Give me your house keys, I’ll go on ahead.”
When he got there, Ingrid was in the bedroom. She was rifling through her bag.
“Salvo, I’m going to take a shower. My clothes are all damp and sticky.”
“When you’re done I’m going to take one myself.”
<
br /> At that moment Ingrid’s purse, which she had wanted to set down on the nightstand, fell to the floor, spilling its contents all over the room. They started picking things up, and after a while Ingrid checked to see if they’d found everything.
“Bah,” she said, perplexed.
“What’s missing?”
“I thought I had a packet of condoms, but I can’t find it now. Maybe I didn’t bring it.”
Montalbano looked at her dumbfounded.
“Why are you making that face?”
“Isn’t it up to the man to provide them?”
“Theoretically, yes. But if he forgets, then what do you do? Start singing, Casta diva?”
“Wait and I’ll have a better look.”
“Come on, Salvo. I don’t need them. Especially since I’ve decided to spend the evening with you . . . ,” she said, heading into the bathroom.
Especially since she’s decided to spend the evening with me, she doesn’t need any condoms, he repeated to himself. Was Montalbano the hypothetical satyr supposed to feel offended? Or was Montalbano the prude supposed to feel proud?
Lost in doubt, he went to open the French door to the veranda and stepped outside.
It was raining relentlessly, of course.
If the water from the heavens hadn’t wet the table or bench it was because the overhanging roof had done its job. To make up for this, however, the sea was washing all the way up to the bottom of the veranda, having swallowed up the entire beach.
All things considered, he could set the table outside, even if it was a little chilly.
He opened the refrigerator and was disappointed. Except for some olives and tumazzo cheese, there was nothing. Want to bet they would be forced to go out and look for a place to eat? He opened the oven.
“O ye of little faith!” he reproached himself aloud.
Adelina had made pasta ’ncasciata and melanzane alla parmigiana . He only had to light the oven and reheat them a little.
Ingrid came out, wearing his bathrobe.
“You can go in now.”
Montalbano didn’t move, but kept looking at her.
“Well?”
“Ingrid, how long have we known each other?”
“Over ten years. Why?”
“How is it you’ve become even more beautiful?”
“Are you finally starting to get ideas?”
IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) Page 6