“What’s the matter this morning? A touch of bile? Nerves on edge? Something didn’t go quite right last night?”
“Mimì, cut the shit, it’s out of place. Ingrid came this morning because she saw the photo of the tattoo on the Free Channel.”
“Has Ingrid got the same tattoo? Did you check?”
“Mimì, has it ever dawned on you just how annoying these idiotic insinuations of yours are? If you don’t feel like talking seriously, just go away and send in Fazio.”
As if summoned, Fazio appeared.
“Come in, both of you, and sit down,” said the inspector. “First of all, I want to know how things turned out with Signora Ciccina Picarella. Did she come yesterday evening?”
“Yes, she came running,” said Augello. “I had covered my rear by telling Gallo and Galluzzo to hang around and intervene as soon as the lady started yelling. Instead—”
“How did she react?”
“She took one look at the photograph and started laughing.”
“What was so funny?”
“She was laughing, she explained, because the man in the photograph was most certainly not her husband, but someone who looked a great deal like him. A double. There was no way to convince her otherwise. And do you know, Salvo, why she acted that way?”
“Enlighten me, Master.”
“She is so jealous, she is denying reality.”
“But, Master, how do you manage to plumb such unfathomable depths of the human psyche? Do you use oxygen tanks or just hold your breath?”
“Salvo, when you put your mind to it, you’re very good at acting like an asshole.”
“But who says it’s actually reality?” asked Fazio, doubtful.
“Are you in league with Signora Ciccina?” Augello reacted.
“Inspector, it’s not a matter of being in league with her or not. Once I happened to run into my cousin Antonio on a street in Palermo. I stopped him, embraced him, and kissed him, and he kept looking at me like I was crazy. You see, he wasn’t Antonio, but a spittin’ image of him.”
“So, how did you leave it with Signora Ciccina?” asked Montalbano.
“She said that she’s going to see the commissioner this morning. She claims we concocted this whole business of the photograph just so we wouldn’t have to keep looking for him.”
“Mimì, you know what I say to you? This very morning, you put that photo in your pocket and go talk to the commissioner. Bonetti-Alderighi is liable to let Signora Ciccina persuade him and bring the roof down on our heads.”
“I agree.”
“Fazio, did you have time to do those searches?”
“Yessir. Between Montelusa, Vigàta, and nearby towns, there are four furniture works. As for cabinetmakers and restorers, there are two in Vigàta, four in Montelusa, and one in Gallotta. I’ve got the names and addresses, took them right out of the phone book.”
“You probably ought to start checking them out.”
“All right.”
“Now, I’m going to make three phone calls, which I want the two of you to hear. We’ll talk afterwards,” said Montalbano.
He turned on the speakerphone.
“Cat? I would like you to ring up the ragioniere Curcuraci, at the following number—”
“Whawazzat, Chief? Culucaci?”
“Curcuraci.”
“Culculupaci?”
“Never mind. I’ll call him on the direct line.”
“Hello, Ragioniere Curcuraci? Inspector Montalbano of Vigàta police here.”
“Hello, Inspector. What can I do for you?”
“Ragioniere, I got your number from Signora Ingrid Sjostrom.”
“I’m at your service.”
“The lady told me you administer her husband’s holdings and that, among your various responsibilities, you handle the hiring of housekeeping personnel . . .”
“That’s correct.”
“Since they’re usually foreigners—”
“But always perfectly legitimate, Inspector!”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute. What I want to know is, to whom do you turn for referrals?”
“Have you ever met Monsignor Pisicchio, by any chance?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Monsignor Pisicchio is the head of a diocesan organization whose purpose is to help find arrangements for these poor unfortunate people who—”
“I get it, Ragioniere. So you would be in possession of information concerning a certain Irina—”
“Ah, her! What a wretch! Who bites the helping hand you hold out for her! Poor Monsignor Pisicchio was so upset about her! Anyway, I put all the information you want in my report to the carabinieri!”
“Have you got it within reach?”
“Just one minute, please.”
Montalbano gestured to Fazio to write things down.
“Here we are, Irina Ilych, born at Schelkovo on May 15, 1983, passport number—”
“That’ll be enough right there. Thank you, Ragioniere. If I need you for anything else, I’ll give a call.”
“Dr. Pasquano? Montalbano here.”
“What can I do for you, dear friend?”
The inspector balked. How could this be? What was happening? No obscenities, no insults, no curses?
“Doctor, are you feeling all right?”
“I feel excellent, my friend. Why do you ask?”
“No, nothing. I wanted to ask you something about the girl with the tattoo.”
“Go right ahead.”
Montalbano was so flummoxed by Pasquano’s politeness that he had trouble speaking.
“Did . . . did she wear contact lenses?”
“No.”
“Couldn’t they have fallen out when she was shot in the face?”
“No. That girl had never worn contact lenses. Of that I can assure you.”
A light came on in Montalbano’s mind.
“How did it go at the club last night, Doctor?”
Pasquano’s laughter thundered in the room.
“You know what? I got the full house you wished me!”
“Really? So how did things turn out?”
“I stuck it to all of them! Just think, one of them raised me by . . .”
Montalbano hung up.
“Signor Graceffa? Montalbano here.”
“Inspector, did you know I was just about to call you myself ?”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“That I remembered the name of the town that Katya came from. I believe it was called Schickovo, or something like that.”
“Could it have been Schelkovo?”
“Yes, that’s it!”
“Signor Graceffa, I called you for another reason.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“After Katya left, did you happen to check and see if she took anything from your home?”
“What would she have taken?”
“I dunno, silverware, something that used to belong to your wife . . .”
“Inspector, Katya was an honest girl!”
“Okay, but have you checked?”
“No, I haven’t, but . . .”
“Go on.”
“Iss a delicate matter.”
“You know I’m silent as the tomb.”
“Are you alone in your office? Is there anyone there who can hear me?”
“I’m completely alone; you can speak freely.”
“Well . . . in short . . . that night I told you ’bout . . . when I went to see Katya to . . . you remember?”
“Perfectly.”
“Okay . . . I told the girl I would give her my wife’s earrings if she . . . I even showed them to her . . . they’re really beautiful . . . but she wouldn’t budge . . . ‘no’ meant ‘no’ . . . You know what I mean?
“Absolutely.”
The old-fashioned gentleman was ready to give the girl the earrings, a memento of his dead wife, if she would sleep with him.
“Have you had a chanc
e since then to check if those earrings—”
“Well . . . just day before yesterday, those earrings, along with a necklace and two bracelets, well, I gave them to my niece Concetta, and so—”
“Thank you, Signor Graceffa.”
“So, would you please explain to us what’s going on?” asked Mimì.
“The situation is as follows: Signor Graceffa had a home care assistant by the name of Katya who came from Schelkovo and had a tattoo of a moth very near to her left shoulder blade. Incidentally, by now I no longer have any reason to doubt Signor Graceffa’s eyesight. My friend Ingrid Sjostrom, as confirmed by Ragioniere Curcuraci, had a housekeeper named Irina who came from Schelkovo and had the exact same tattoo. Except that Irina was a thief and Katya wasn’t. Irina, however, wore contact lenses and Katya had black hair. The murdered girl therefore can’t be either Katya or Irina, but she does have the exact same tattoo as the other two. What do you think?”
“That three identical tattoos all in the same place can’t be a coincidence,” said Augello.
8
“I agree with you,” said Montalbano. “It can’t be a simple coincidence. It might be a sign of membership, a kind of emblem.”
“Membership in what?”
“How should I know, Mimì? A society of cuckoo-clock lovers, a club of Russian salad eaters, or some cult that worships a female rock star . . . Don’t forget that these are very young women, and that tattoo may well date back to when they were in high school or whatever it is they have in Schelkovo.”
“But why a moth of all things?” asked Augello.
“Dunno. Maybe a tattoo of an elephant or a rhinoceros would look out of place on a pretty girl.”
Silence descended.
“What are we going to do?” Mimì asked a few moments later.
“For now, I want to check something,” said Montalbano.
“Can I begin to make the rounds of the furniture makers and restorers?” Fazio asked in turn.
“Yes. The sooner you start, the better.”
“What about me?” asked Augello.
“I’ve already told you: Put the photo of Picarella in your pocket and run to see the commissioner. Do as I say. We’ll meet back up at five this afternoon. Oh, and please send in Catarella.”
As the two were leaving, Montalbano wrote something on a half sheet of paper. Catarella shot in like a ball on a tether.
“Your orders, Chief!”
“On this piece of paper you’ll find two names: Graceffa and Monsignor Pisicchio. I even wrote down Graceffa’s number for you. I want you to call him up and ask him for the surname of his sister, whose first name is Carmela, as well as her telephone number and address. Afterwards, I want you to find Monsignor Pisicchio’s number in the phone book, call him up, and then put him through to me. Is that clear?”
“Chryssal clear, Chief.”
Five minutes later the phone rang.
“Pisicchio.”
“Ah, Monsignor. Chief Inspector Montalbano of Vigàta here. Excuse me if I took the liberty of—”
“Why do you want to know my sister’s married name and telephone number?” the other interrupted.
It was clear from his tone that the monsignor was a tad pissed off. Matre santa, what had Catarella done?
“No, Monsignor, I’m very sorry, the switchboard operator must have . . . you see, your sister isn’t . . . Forgive me, I wanted to come and talk to you this morning about an investigation—”
“Does it involve my sister?”
“In no way whatsoever, Monsignor.”
“Then come at twelve o’clock sharp.Via del Vescovado 48. And please be punctual.”
The communication terminated without good-byes. A man of few words, this Monsignor Pisicchio.
“Catarella!”
“Here I am, Chief! I got Gracezza’s sister’s number!”
“But why did you ask for the name and number of the monsignor’s sister as well?”
Catarella balked.
“But din’t you want the nummers of both sisters, Gracezza’s and Monsignor Pisicchio’s?”
“Forget about it, just give me the number Graceffa gave you and make yourself scarce.”
Catarella went out feeling humiliated and offended. Naturally, in the number he wrote down, one couldn’t tell the threes from the eights and the fives from the sixes. The inspector was lucky enough to get it right the first time.
“Mrs. Loporto?”
“Yes? Who’s this?”
“Inspector Montalbano here. I got your telephone number from your brother Beniamino. I need to talk to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes, signora.”
“And why should I speak to you? What is this anyway? My conscience is clean!”
“I have no doubt of that. I simply need a little information from you.”
“Ha ha ha! Now I get it!”
Signora Loporto cackled sardonically.
“What do you get?”
“There’s no more tripe for the cats, my friend!”
“I don’t understand, signora.”
“But I understand you perfectly! Like the other time you came here asking for information and you sold me a vacuum cleaner that didn’t work!”
Perhaps it was better to change tone.
“All right, then, in five minutes two police officers are going to come pick you up and bring you into the station.”
“So you really are a cop?”
“Yes. And I advise you to answer my question: When you were looking for a home care assistant to look after your brother, who did you turn to?”
“To Patre Pinna.”
“And who’s he?”
“Whattya mean, ‘who’s he’? He’s a priest. The priest of my parish!”
“And was he the one who put you in touch with the Russian girl, Katya?”
“No. Patre Pinna told me to talk to Monsignor Pisicchio, who’s in Montelusa.”
“And was it Monsignor Pisicchio who sent you Katya?”
“It was someone working for the monsignor.”
Tangled like the intestines in one’s belly, the streets of old Montelusa, with their “No Entry” signs, the never-ending roadworks, the overflowing garbage bins, the rubble of a town-house that had collapsed two months earlier still blocking half of a narrow street, saw to it that the inspector arrived at ten minutes past twelve.
“You’re late,” said Monsignor Pisicchio, looking at him with scorn. “And to think I even told you to be sure to be punctual!”
“I’m very sorry, but the traffic—”
“And do you think the traffic is some sort of novelty? In other words, if one knows there’s always traffic, then one leaves home earlier and doesn’t arrive late.”
Monsignor Pisicchio was a big, burly man of about fifty with red hair and the build and manner of an ex-rugbyman. All the furnishings in his office in the bishopric were proportionate to the monsignor’s bulk, including the crucifix behind the desk, which, like the monsignor, cast a harsh eye on the inspector, or so it seemed, at least to Montalbano, for having arrived late.
“I’m truly mortified,” he said, fearing some sort of corporal punishment.
“What do you want from me?”
“I’m told that you’re the head of an organization involved in finding work for—”
“Yes, the ‘organization,’ as you call it, is an association created five years ago and it has a name: It’s called ‘Benevolence.’ Our activities are strictly confined to very young girls, to keep them from falling into shady or underworld circuits like drugs or prostitution . . .”
“How many are you?”
“Six, apart from me. Three men and three women. All volunteers blessed, naturally, with benevolence.”
“How do the girls manage to find you?”
“In many ways. Some just show up on their own, alone, having learned in one way or another of our existence. Others are pointed out to us by parish priests or associations like
ours, others by ordinary people. And others still we are able to persuade to give up whatever they were doing and put their trust in us.”
“How do you persuade them?” asked the inspector, hoping that the means of persuasion didn’t include strong-arm tactics in keeping with the rugbyman’s character.
“Our volunteers approach them on the streets where they’ve started prostituting themselves, or in certain nightspots . . . To make a long story short, we try to get to them in time, before the irreparable happens.”
“How many of them accept your help?”
“More than you can possibly imagine. A lot of girls are aware of the dangers and prefer an honest job to easy money.”
“Do any girls ever get tired of the honest jobs and go back to the easy money?”
“Rarely.”
“Could I speak to your volunteers?”
“That’s not a problem.”
He searched about on his desk, picked up a sheet of paper, and handed it to the inspector.
“Here are their names, addresses, and telephone numbers.”
“Thank you. I’m here about two Russian girls, Katya and Irina, which your organization—I’m sorry, your association, had—”
“I’ve been told, unfortunately, about this Irina. But I’m not the person to talk to about her.”
“Who is, then?”
“You see, I legally and officially represent Benevolence, I preside over it, find the funding for it, but would you believe that, in these five years, I have never seen even one of these girls?”
“So to whom should I address myself?”
“To the first name on that list. Cavaliere Guglielmo Piro; he is, so to speak, our operative arm.”
“Does your organization—sorry, association—have a headquarters?”
“Yes. Two small rooms in Via Empedocle 12. You’ll find all the information on the sheet I gave you.”
“What are their hours?”
“At Via Empedocle there’s only someone there after seven in the evening. During the day my volunteers are working, you see. Anyway, to do what we do, the telephone is quite sufficient. But that’s enough questions for now. You’ll have to excuse me, but I have an engagement. If you had been good enough to get here on time . . .”
IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) Page 8