IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Why?”

  “He’d fallen in love.”

  “And that was the effect it had on him?”

  “Yeah, ’cause he couldn’t be without the girl. At night he would groan and call her name. I felt really bad for the poor guy! He was always holdin’ up a picture of her, and now and then he’d kiss it. Then one day he let me see it. She was really a beautiful girl.”

  “How is it you could see the tattoo in the photo?”

  “ ’Cause the picture was taken from behind, with the bottom cut off a little below the girl’s shoulder blades and her head turned round. So you could see the butterfly real good.”

  “What did he tell you about her?”

  “He said she was Russian, twenty-five years old, and she used to be a dancer.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Zin, I think.”

  What kind of name was that? Perhaps a diminutive for Zinaida?

  “What else did he tell you about her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where can I find Cannizzaro?”

  “How should I know, Inspector? I’m inside and he’s out.”

  “Thanks, Pasquà. I hope they let you out soon. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Before leaving the prison, he asked the management office for the address of Peppi Cannizzaro. He lived in Montelusa, in a cross street off Via Bacchi-Bacchi. The inspector decided to go see him at once.

  It was a four-story building. Cannizzaro lived on the third floor. Montalbano rang the doorbell, but nobody came to the door.

  He rang a bit longer. Nothing. So he started knocking with his closed fist. Then he complemented the fist with a few kicks. He made so much noise that the door facing Cannizzaro’s opened, and an infuriated elderly woman appeared.

  “What’s all this racket? My son is sleeping!”

  “Well, signora, it’s a bit late for sleeping.”

  “My son is a night watchman, you ignorant son of a bitch!”

  “I’m sorry, I was looking for Cannizzaro.”

  “If he doesn’t answer the door, it means he’s not there.”

  “Do you know if he’ll be back soon?”

  “How should I know? I haven’t seen Peppi going up or down the stairs for three days.”

  “Listen, signora, have you recently seen Peppi’s girlfriend, who’s called Zin?”

  “What the hell do you care if I’ve seen her or not?”

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  “D’you realize how much you’re frightening me? You got me so scared I’m shittin’ my pants!” said the old woman.

  And she slammed the door in his face so hard that her poor night watchman of a son must surely have fallen out of bed.

  There was no way to track down Cannizzaro.

  He went back to the prison, and this time the warden made something of a fuss, but in the end she let herself be persuaded. Montalbano found himself with Pasquale in the same little room as before.

  “What happened, Inspector?”

  “I went to Cannizzaro’s place, but he wasn’t at home. The lady from the apartment across the landing says she hasn’t seen him for three days.”

  “Zin wasn’t there, either? Peppi told me he’d taken her home to live with him.”

  “She wasn’t there, either. Any idea where I might find him?”

  “No, Inspector. But maybe talking to somebody in here . . . Two of Peppi’s friends are here . . . If I find anything out, I’ll let you know.”

  He didn’t arrive at the office till past midday, his nerves on edge from the heavy traffic he’d encountered on the way there. The moment he walked in, Catarella launched into a Greek choral lament.

  “Ahh Chief Chief!”

  “Wait. Is Fazio here?”

  “He ain’t here yet. Ahh Chief Chief !”

  “Wait. What about Augello?”

  “Him neither. Ahh Chief Chief !”

  “Jeez, what a pain in the ass, Cat! What is it?”

  “The c’mishner called! Twice, he called! An’ he was rilly ousside himself, he was! An’ the secon’ time more than the foist!”

  “What’s he want?”

  “He says as how you gotta drop everyting yiz about to be doin’ and go emergently right now to see ’im. God, you shoulda heard ’im yell! Wit’ all doo respeck for the c’mishner, he was like ’e was outta his mine!”

  What could the inspector possibly have done to put the commissioner in such a rage? Then he had a frightening thought.Want to bet it turned out that Picarella had indeed been kidnapped?

  “Do me a favor, call Fazio on his cell phone and put him through to me on the office phone.”

  “Buuu . . . Chief, Chief, if you don’t go there emergently, the c’mishner—”

  “Just do as I say, Cat.”

  The moment he sat down, the phone rang.

  “Fazio, where are you?”

  “In Montelusa, Chief. Doing what you asked me to do.”

  “D’you find out anything about Mirabilis?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Therefore there was something. He’d been right.

  “Listen, Fazio, I’ve been called into the commissioner’s office, and I wouldn’t want . . . Is there any news about the Picarella kidnapping?”

  “What news could there possibly be, Chief?”

  “See you at four.”

  He hung up.

  “Catarella? Call Inspector Augello on his cell.”

  “Straightaways, Chief. Count up to five . . . ’ere ’e is, Chief, I’ll put ’im on.”

  “Mimì, where are you?”

  “In Monterago. I’ve checked out the furniture works they’ve got here.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Nothing.They make modern furniture without any gilding. Horrendous.”

  “Do you know by chance if there’s any news about Picarella?”

  “Why should there be any news about Picarella?”

  “See you at four.”

  He went out, cursing the saints as he got in his car, and headed back up the road to Montelusa. It was a good thing the pleasant morning weather had held up. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  “Hello, Montalbano.”

  “Hello, Dr. Lattes.”

  How was it possible that every time he went to the commissariat, the first person he ran into was always Dr. Lattes, known as Caffè-Lattes?

  “How’s the family?”

  Lattes—the chief of the commissioner’s cabinet—had long ago got it in his head that Montalbano was married with children, and there was no convincing him otherwise. Thus Montalbano’s reply could only be:

  “They’re all fine, with thanks to the Blessed Virgin.”

  Lattes said nothing. Since “with thanks to the Blessed Virgin” was an expression he was very fond of, why hadn’t he joined the inspector in giving thanks, as he normally would? And why hadn’t he called him “dear inspector,” as was his custom? Montalbano noticed that Lattes was less expansive than usual. He wondered whether the man’s attitude was owing to the fact that the commissioner had called him in.

  “Do you know the reason—”

  “I haven’t been informed.”

  Too quick to respond was the chief of the cabinet. Perhaps it was worth investigating.

  “I’m afraid I’ve done something wrong,” he muttered, assuming a contrite expression.

  “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  The tone was severe.

  “So you know something but you don’t want to tell me! Is it serious, Dr. Lattes?” Dr. Lattes nodded in confirmation. Montalbano continued to ham it up:

  “Oh my God! I can’t lose my position! I have a family to support! A real family! With all those children! Not one of those common-law arrangements like so many people have nowadays!”

  Dr. Lattes looked carefully around. The usher was reading a newspaper. They were the only two people in the waiting room.

  “Listen to me,” he said brusquely. �
��Apparently you—”

  At that moment the commissioner opened the door to his office.

  “You mean he’s still not here, that—”

  Lattes had an instinctive reaction. Using both hands, he pushed Montalbano towards the commissioner and at the same time gave a little jump, to put some distance between himself and the inspector.

  What, did he have the plague or something?

  “He’s here!” he yelled.

  “I can see. Come in, Montalbano.”

  “Do you need me for anything?” Lattes asked.

  “No!”

  The door closed behind the inspector with the thud of a tombstone.

  11

  It had to be something very serious. So it was best not to start making wisecracks right off the bat with Bonetti-Alderighi. Or to give in to the desire to have it out with him and have the whole thing end in a blowup.

  The commissioner went and settled into the armchair behind his desk, but made no sign to Montalbano to sit down. Which was in itself a confirmation of the gravity of the situation.

  Bonetti-Alderighi sat there a good five minutes, staring at the inspector as if he’d never seen him before, and the conclusion of his examination was a disconsolate “Bah!” Montalbano expended half his energy reserves merely keeping still and silent and not flying into a rage.

  “Would you explain to me how you get certain ideas into your head?” the commissioner finally began.

  What ideas was he referring to? For caution’s sake, it was probably best to play it safe.

  “Look, Mr. Commissioner, sir, if you want to talk about Picarella’s so-called kidnapping, I take full—”

  “I don’t give a damn about the Picarella kidnapping. But don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of opportunities to talk about that later.”

  So why, then?

  All at once he remembered that fucking Piccolo file, when he had written back to the commissioner in poetry. Want to bet Bonetti-Alderighi, inspired by the Holy Spirit, had realized he was making fun of him by answering him in verse?

  “Ah, I get it. You’re referring to what I wrote when I said that Vigàta is not Licata, and Licata not Vigàta . . .”

  The commissioner goggled his eyes.

  “Are you insane? What is this, anyway? I know perfectly well that Vigàta is not Licata, and Licata is not Vigàta! Do you take me for an idiot? Listen, Montalbano, don’t start in with your usual routine of playing dumb. I assure you this is really not the time for it!”

  The inspector surrendered.

  “All right, then, you tell me.”

  “Damn right I’ll tell you! Will I ever! But please let me get something straight. Explain to me exactly what sort of enjoyment, what sovereign pleasure you experience in getting yourself and me into trouble?”

  “No enjoyment or pleasure at all, believe me. And I assure you that when this happens, I don’t do it intentionally.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t do it on purpose?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then that’s even worse!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it means that you act indiscriminately, without weighing the consequences of what you do.”

  Keep calm, Montalbano, keep calm. Count to three before you speak. Actually, count to ten.

  “Have you lost your voice?”

  “But what did I do?”

  “What did you do?”

  “Yes, what did I do?”

  “Would you please explain to me why you went and stirred things up at Benevolence? Why? Would you be so kind as to tell me why?”

  So that was what all the mystery was about.

  All the same, how quick Cavaliere Piro was to go run and complain to the people in charge! And if the cavaliere was so quick to run for cover, want to bet that when the inspector had smelled a rat, he had smelled right?

  “Do you even know who those people have behind them?” the commissioner continued.

  “No, but I can easily imagine. Was it Monsignor Pisicchio who called you?”

  “Not only the monsignor, but also the prefect, whose wife contributes very generously to that charitable association; and also the vice president of the region. Not to mention the provincial councillor for social welfare. As well as the municipal councillor.You have stuck your finger into a real hornet’s nest, do you realize that?”

  “Mr. Commissioner, sir, when I stuck my finger in it I didn’t know yet that it was a hornet’s nest. Actually, in appearance, it seemed like anything but a hornet’s nest. All I did was ask a few questions of the person to whom Monsignor Pisicchio had referred me, a man by the name of Guglielmo Piro.”

  “Who claims that you used an insulting, inquisitorial tone after you burst in on him.”

  “Burst in on him? He himself gave me an appointment!”

  “Could you at least tell me why you went and bothered this Monsignor Pisicchio and his association?”

  With saintly patience Montalbano explained to him how he had come to investigate the association.

  When the commissioner resumed speaking, his tone had changed slightly.

  “It’s a tremendous headache, you know.”

  “I agree. From our perspective, however, the moment we make a move on a case, we always run into a parliamentary deputy, priest, politico, or mafioso, who then form a daisy chain to protect the person likely to be under investigation.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Montalbano, spare me your theories! In all honesty, do you really think there could be a connection between the charitable association and the murdered girl?”

  “I stick to the facts. I had no choice but to go question the people at Benevolence, because two other girls with the same tattoo as the murder victim sought help from the association. You can’t find a closer connection than that!”

  “But do you think there’s more?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t yet figured out if this ‘more’ really exists, and, if so, what it consists of.”

  “It’s the fact that you say ‘yet’ that worries me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How much more time ‘yet’ will you be investigating the association?”

  How could he possibly know exactly how long it would take?

  “I can’t say with any certainty.”

  “Then I’ll tell you myself. I’ll give you four days and not one day more.”

  “And what if it’s not enough?”

  “You’ll have to make do. And, during these four days, I advise you to proceed with the utmost caution.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t spare the Vaseline.”

  Damn, it had slipped out!

  “I wouldn’t make wisecracks if I were you, because if I receive another complaint, you’ll be the one to take it you-know-where, and without Vaseline! And if they object to your methods, I shall remove you from the case at once. And even if you eat humble pie at my feet, I will turn a deaf ear and say: You can’t fool me twice!”

  Hearing such a long string of clichés, Montalbano felt suddenly dizzy. A feeling of nausea came over him.

  “In other words, Mr. Commissioner, if you break it, it’s yours.”

  “I see that you understand me perfectly.”

  In the waiting room Lattes was talking to someone. But the moment he saw Montalbano come out of the commissioner’s office, he rushed into the first open door he could find, and disappeared.

  Clearly he didn’t want any contact with Montalbano the outcast, the excommunicate, the stinking anticlerical who didn’t deserve the beautiful family he had created with the Madonna’s blessings.

  It was getting late, and his hunger was eating him alive. Probably because of the effort he’d made to stay calm during his meeting with Bonetti-Alderighi.

  “The fresh fish arrived today!” said Enzo the moment Montalbano walked into the trattoria.

  He not only had a feast, but when it was over he took his customary walk out to the lighthouse. The fisherman was in his usual spot.
/>   “I was wrong,” he said. “It didn’t last a week.”

  “So much the better. But will it start raining again?”

  “Not right away.”

  As soon as he got to the flat rock, it occurred to him, for no apparent reason, that he had never sat down on it with Livia. But would Livia have ever agreed to sit down on it? Today, for example, surely not.

  “Can’t you see that it’s still wet?”

  It was true. All the little pits and hollows on the rock still glistened with rainwater. If he sat on it, the seat of his trousers would become one dark wet spot. He remained standing, undecided.

  Do as Livia would suggest, said Montalbano One.

  Do what you want to do, said Montalbano Two.

  Montalbano sat down on the rock.

  Did you do it to spite Livia? asked Montalbano One.

  Of course, replied Montalbano Two.

  How is that spiting anyone? If Livia were here, then all right, but in the present circumstances . . . , said Montalbano One.

  It doesn’t matter if Livia is here or not, retorted Montalbano Two. The point is to take a stand. That’s the reality of it.

  “Could I say something?” Montalbano himself said at this point. “The only reality is that my trousers are now sopping wet.”

  “Ah, Chief! Mr. Gracezza called.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He emergently wanted a talk to you poissonally in poisson. He said as how if you could call him ’cause he’s at home anyways.”

  “I’ll call him later.”

  Augello and Fazio were already in his office waiting for him.

  “What have you got to tell me, Mimì?”

  “What have I got to tell you? The other furniture works also makes modern furniture and doesn’t use purpurin.”

  “And you, Fazio?”

  “Can I use notes?”

  “As long as you don’t start reciting me any birth certificates.”

  “The Mirabilis Company of Montelusa has been in operation for about ten years and is properly incorporated. They’re involved in buying—and then reselling or renting out—large buildings, such as hotels, office buildings, conference halls, industrial warehouses, things like that.”

  “So Mirabilis does not own the villa, as Piro claimed?”