IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009)

by Andrea Camilleri

  Since he was already in Montelusa, he dropped in at the studios of the Free Channel.

  Nicolò Zito told him at once that he didn’t have much time and was about to go on the air with the one o’clock report.

  “You know, about those photos: Except for the two phone calls the first day, we haven’t received any others.”

  “Does that seem odd to you?”

  “A little. Should I keep showing them on the air?”

  “Do it again today, and then you can stop.”

  Montalbano, too, was surprised at the scarcity of testimonies. Normally, using television in the search for a missing person triggered a deluge of phone calls from people who had actually seen the person, people who thought they had seen the person, and people who hadn’t seen anything at all but decided to call anyway. This time, however, there had only been two calls, and both, moreover, had been completely useless.

  It was raining lightly when he pulled up in front of the trattoria. As there still was no fresh fish, as a first course Enzo brought him a dish of pasta with pesto alla trapanese, and as a second, piscistoccu alla ghiotta, stockfish prepared according to the Messinese recipe.

  All things considered, Montalbano felt he had little to complain about, even if he wasn’t particularly fond of stockfish.

  When he left the trattoria it was still raining lightly, so he went to headquarters.

  According to the sheet that Monsignor Pisicchio had given him, Cavaliere Guglielmo Piro, first on the list as the operative arm, had three telephone numbers—an office, home, and cell number. Quite likely at that hour the cavaliere was at home, resting after his midday meal. Using his direct line, the inspector called the first number.

  “Hello? Is this the Piro home? Yes? Chief Inspector Montalbano here. Is Cavaliere Piro there?”

  “You wait, I get him,” said a girl’s voice.

  Apparently the cavaliere made use of his association in his own home.

  “Hello? I didn’t understand who this is.”

  “Cavaliere, I’m Inspector Montalbano. I urgently need to see you.”

  “About a house?”

  What was he talking about? What did houses have to do with this?

  “No, I need some information from you about a few Russian girls who—”

  “I understand. Since my main occupation is selling houses, I thought ...Who gave you my number?”

  “Monsignor Pisicchio, who also gave me a flyer of your association, Benevolence.”

  There. He’d managed not to call it an organization.

  “Ah. So we could meet later at Via Empedocle.”

  “Okay. Tell me what time.”

  “Six o’clock okay with you? If you’d like to see me sooner, you could come to my real estate office, which is in Via—”

  “No, thank you, Cavaliere, six o’clock is perfectly fine with me.”

  He had a moment of doubt. What if everyone at Benevolence was as obsessive as Monsignor Pisicchio?

  “I should warn you that I may arrive a little late.”

  “No problem. I’ll wait for you.”

  The first to report back at five was Mimì Augello.

  “Did you see the commissioner?”

  “Did you know that Signora Ciccina had already spoken to him?”

  “Well, what a surprise! The lady was probably at the commissioner’s at the crack of dawn! In short, what did he say to you?”

  “That we’ve been taking the kidnapping too lightly. That we immediately drew the conclusion that it was all staged, and so we didn’t conduct any serious searches.That we’ve been too slapdash. That he’s not the least bit inclined to defend us if it turns out that a kidnapping indeed occurred. That we have no authorization whatsoever to think that Signora Ciccina might not be right. That the man in the photo may well be a double. That the popular belief that every person has six identical copies in the world may not be so far-fetched. That—”

  “That’s enough. To conclude?”

  “Remember Pontius Pilate?”

  Fazio came in.

  “You got anything big for me?”

  “No, Chief, I’m empty-handed. And anyway, I’m moving too slowly.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I don’t know what I’m supposed to ask, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, I don’t know where I’m supposed to look. At any rate, I began with the two restorers and the one furniture works here in town.”

  “Tell me about ’em.”

  “The Januzzi furniture works went out of business a year ago. The store is open for a clearance sale of the pieces they’ve still got remaining, but the big warehouse where they used to make them is shut down, and nobody works there anymore. I looked at the padlocks on the doors, and they’re all rusted. I can guarantee you they haven’t been touched for months.”

  “And what about the restorers?”

  “One of them works in a shop about fifteen feet by fifteen, and he’s only a restorer in a manner of speaking. He repairs wicker chairs, dressers missing a leg, that sort of thing. He keeps the stuff he needs to work on out on the sidewalk, then piles it all up inside in the evening. The other guy is a real restorer. I talked to him, and his name is Filippo Todaro. He had a little purpurin and showed it to me. He explained that he only needs a little bit to restore the gilded pieces. Just a few grams.”

  “Are you telling me we should forget about restorers?”

  “That’s right, Chief.”

  “Okay. I remember you said that there were only four furniture makers that need to be checked out.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “You think there’s no point in it?”

  “Yessir. Nuttata persa e figlia femmina.”

  “Don’t get discouraged, Fazio. By tomorrow, you’ll be done. Believe me, it’s too important.You’ve got to check them out.”

  “I can take two,” said Mimì, moved to pity by Fazio’s disconsolate face.

  “But why do you think it’s pointless?” Montalbano insisted.

  “I can’t put it into words, Chief. It’s a feeling.”

  “You want to know something?” said the inspector. “I have the same feeling as you. So let’s finish our check of the furniture makers and afterwards, when we’ve come to the conclusion that we’re on the wrong track, we’ll start looking for another.”

  “Whatever you say, Chief.”

  Since another downpour had broken out and the windshield wipers were having trouble removing the water from the glass, the inspector went crazy trying to find fucking Via Empedocle. When, at last, he turned onto it, he noticed there wasn’t room to park so much as a needle. He managed to park on a nearly parallel little street called Via Platone. Given that he was in a philosophical neighborhood, he decided to take the whole situation philosophically.

  He waited inside his car for the rain to let up, then got out, made a quick dash, and arrived at the apartment a quarter of an hour late. But there were no recriminations.

  “I would like, first of all, to know what your work entails.”

  “The work we do is actually quite simple,” said Cavaliere Guglielmo Piro.

  He was a well-dressed, rather midgetlike man of about sixty, with not a single hair on his head to save his life, and he had a tic: Every three minutes or so he would rapidly slide the index finger of his right hand under his nose. The first of the two small rooms was a kind of reception area with chairs, armchairs, and a sofa; the second room, the one the inspector and the cavaliere were in, had a computer, three file cabinets, two telephones, and two desks.

  “The point is to figure out which of the available girls has the necessary requisites to satisfy the particular needs of the people who come to us. Once we’ve found the right girl, we put her in touch with the applicant. And there you have it.”

  There you have it, my ass, thought Montalbano, who had taken an immediate dislike to the cavaliere for no plausible reason.

  “And what are the particular needs of yo
ur clients?”

  The cavaliere slid his finger under his nose three times.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but ‘clients’ is not the right word.”

  “Then what is the right word?”

  “I wouldn’t know. But I would like it to be clear that the people who come to us looking for a girl don’t pay a cent. Ours is a social service, not-for-profit, the purpose of which is to rescue and—why not?—to redeem—”

  “Okay, but where does the money come from?”

  Cavaliere Piro’s face looked troubled by the brutality of the question.

  “Providence.”

  “And who’s hidden behind that pseudonym?”

  This time the cavaliere became irritated.

  “We’ve got nothing to hide, you know. We get help from a lot of people, including donations, and then there are the regional and provincial administrations, not to mention town hall, the bishopric, charitable contributions . . .”

  “Not the national government?”

  “Yes, in a small way.”

  “How much?”

  “Eighty euros a day for each guest.”

  Which was a pretty fair contribution, however “small,” as the cavaliere called it.

  “How many girls have you got at the moment?”

  “Twelve. But we’re at our limit.”

  Which came to 960 euros a day. Calculating an average of ten girls a year, that meant 292,000 euros. And that was the least of it? Not bad for a not-for-profit association.

  Montalbano was beginning to smell a rat.

  9

  There was, moreover, something in the cavaliere’s attitude that seemed fishy to the inspector. Was he resentful of the way the inspector was asking him questions, or was he afraid he might ask the right question? One that the cavaliere might have trouble answering? And, if so, what was the right question?

  “Have you got a place for the girls to stay while they are awaiting placement?” Montalbano asked, taking a wild stab.

  “Of course. There’s a little villa a bit outside of Montelusa.”

  “Do you own it?”

  “I wish! No, we pay a rather high rent for it.”

  “To whom?”

  “To a company based in Montelusa. It’s called Mirabilis.”

  “Have you got a staff assigned to it?”

  “Yes, a permanent staff. But we also need outside people, temporary workers.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, doctors, to give one example.”

  “In case the girls get sick?”

  “Not only in case of illness. You see, every new girl who comes here is immediately given a medical examination.”

  “To see if she has any sexually transmitted diseases?”

  Cavaliere Piro did not hide his annoyance at the question. He furrowed his brow, raised his eyes to the heavens, and ran his finger under his nose, all to fine comic effect.

  “That, too, naturally. But mostly to find out if they have healthy and strong constitutions.You know, with the wretched lives they were forced to lead before . . .”

  “Are the doctors paid by you?”

  “No, we have an arrangement with the bishopric, and so—”

  Imagine them ever coughing up a lira!

  “Do you get the medications free as well?”

  “Naturally.”

  Naturally. How could you go wrong?

  “Let’s backtrack a moment. I asked you what the particular needs that you alluded to were.”

  “Well, there are people who want home care, others who want a housekeeper, others a cook. Understand?”

  “Perfectly. Is that all?”

  The cavaliere rubbed his nose.

  “Age and religion are also important.”

  “Anything else?”

  Nose rubbed at the threshold of the speed of sound.

  “What else could they want?”

  “I don’t know . . . hair color . . . eye color . . . length of legs . . . breast measurement . . . waist measurement . . .”

  “Why would they make such requests?”

  “You know, Cavaliere, there might be some old geezer dreaming of a home care assistant who looks like the blue fairy.”

  The cavaliere ran first his right forefinger, then his left, under his nose. Montalbano changed the subject.

  “What’s the average age?”

  “At a rough guess, I’d say twenty-seven, twenty-eight.”

  “But these girls come to you from an entirely different universe. How do they learn to become cooks or housekeepers?”

  Guglielmo Piro looked a little relieved.

  “It doesn’t take them long, you know. They’re very sharp girls. And whenever we notice that one of them has a particular knack for something, we help her, so to speak, to perfect herself . . .”

  “Let me get this straight. Do you hire instructors to teach them how to cook, how to—”

  “What need is there to hire instructors? They learn from our own staff.”

  And that way they also saved on labor costs.

  “Monsignor Pisicchio told me that some girls are brought to your attention by parish priests, others by associations like yours, and others still are directly recruited . . .”

  The cavaliere ran his finger frantically under his nose.

  “Good God, what an ugly word! ‘Recruited’!”

  “Have I said the wrong thing again? Please forgive me, Cavaliere, I have a rather limited vocabulary. How would you yourself describe it?”

  “Bah, I dunno . . . persuaded . . . saved, that’s it.”

  “And how are they persuaded to be saved?”

  “Well, every now and then Masino takes it upon himself and makes the rounds on the nightclub circuit.”

  “That must be an onerous task.”

  Cavaliere Piro didn’t grasp the irony.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Does he limit himself to Sicilian nightclubs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he pay for his, er, entertainment out of his own pocket?”

  “That would be nice! No, he presents us with a list of expenses.”

  “So how does he work?”

  “Well, once he notices a girl a little, how shall I say, different from the others—”

  “Different in what way?”

  “More reserved . . . less open to the sexual advances the clients make at her ...Then Masino approaches her and starts to talk to her. Masino is, how shall I say, rather loquacious.”

  “Loquacious! Thank you for enriching my vocabulary. Does Masino make these rounds every night?”

  “Heavens, no! Only Saturday nights. Otherwise, staying up all hours of the night, his work would go, how shall I say . . .”

  “To pot?”

  The Cavaliere shot him a scornful glance.

  “To the dogs.”

  “What’s Masino’s full name?”

  “Tommaso Lapis, which would be the third name on the list that the monsignor gave you. But Anna also sometimes does the same thing. Anna Degregorio is the fourth name on the list.”

  “Anna Degregorio hangs out alone in nightclubs?”

  “Absolutely not. She’s a very attractive girl, and that could give rise to misunderstandings. She goes with her boyfriend, who does not, however, belong to our association.”

  “But he knows how to combine benefit and delight.”

  “I’m not sure what you—”

  “Does the young lady also present a list of expenses?”

  “Of course.”

  “And does she also go out on Saturday nights?”

  “No. Sundays. She has Mondays off.”

  “What does she do for a living?”

  “She’s a hairdresser.”

  “Listen, I’ll tell you now why I wanted to meet with you. I’m going to give you two names: Irina and Katya, Russian, both a little over twenty, both born in Schelkovo.”

  “I imagined that’s what it was, you know. Has Irina got into trouble again?
Ragioniere Curcuraci complained bitterly to us about the theft of Signora Sjostrom’s jewelry. But there’s no way we can guarantee the ethical conduct of these girls. So what’s she done this time?”

  “I don’t know that she’s gotten into any more trouble. I know that Irina’s surname is Ilych. I would like to know Katya’s surname.”

  “Wait just a minute.”

  He went over to the computer and fiddled around a bit.

  “Katya Lissenko, born at Schelkovo on the third of April, 1984. Did she do something wrong, too?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It says here that we placed her as an assistant at the home of a Vigàta man, Beniamino Graceffa. Is she still working for him?”

  “No, she left. Did she ever get back in touch with you?’

  “No, we never heard from her again.”

  “And what about Irina?”

  “Never heard from her, either, and anyway, if we had, we would have been forced to have her arrested. It couldn’t be helped. We are absolutely respectful of—”

  “Have you had many cases where the girls have disappointed you, betrayed your trust?”

  “Only twice, fortunately. An almost laughable percentage, as you can see. Irina and a Nigerian girl.”

  “What did the Nigerian do?”

  “She pulled a knife on the lady she was working for. It happened about four years ago. We haven’t had any other complaints, thank God.”

  The inspector couldn’t think of any other questions to ask. He continued to smell a rat, even stronger than before, but had been unable to tell where the smell was coming from. He stood up.

  “Thank you for everything, Cavaliere. If I need you again in the future—”

  “I am entirely at your disposal. Let me show you out.”

  When he was in the doorway, Montalbano thought to ask:

  “Do you remember if Katya and Irina arrived at the same time at your association?”

  The cavaliere answered without hesitation.

  “They came together, I remember it perfectly.”

  “How come?”

  “They were very frightened.Terrified, in fact. Michelina—whose name is the second one on the list—is the person in charge of welcoming new arrivals—didn’t know what to do. She had to call me to help her calm them down a little.”