IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009)

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Piro spoke the truth. The villa does belong to Mirabilis, but it’s an exception; they don’t own any others. They bought it less than five years ago from the agency of Guglielmo Piro, who had bought it for a song from the Marchese Torretta, because it was falling into ruin.”

  “What a wonderful coincidence!” Montalbano exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “The Benevolence Association was set up five years ago, and immediately Mirabilis finds, through Piro, a villa made to measure and rents it to them. Were you able to find out how much they pay?”

  “Seven thousand euros a month,” replied Fazio.

  “A pretty penny, twice the going rate in Montelusa. Did you get the names of the board of directors?”

  “Of course,” said Fazio, laughing.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “You’ll laugh, too, as soon as you hear one of the names. So, currently on the board of directors we have the chairman and managing director, Carlo Guarnera, and the associates Musumeci, Terranova, Blandino, and Piro.”

  “Piro?”

  “Emanuele Piro, Chief.”

  “Is he a relative of—”

  “He’s Guglielmo’s younger brother. Emanuele joined the board of directors two months before Mirabilis bought the villa. What, doesn’t that make you laugh?”

  “No.”

  “How about if I tell you that Emanuele Piro is considered a nitwit who spends his days popping blackheads and starts crying if the wind blows his kite away?”

  “Shit!” said Mimì.

  “Obviously Emanuele is a front man for his brother, the cavaliere,” said Montalbano, who then started to laugh.

  “And why are you laughing now?”

  “Because, though it has nothing to do with our investigation, I just thought of another cavaliere who uses his younger brother as a front man for himself. It’s become a widespread practice.”

  “What can we do?” asked Augello.

  “What do you want to do, Mimì? There’s nothing illegal about it. Or ‘actionable,’ as one says nowadays. Even a homicide, with these new laws, can prove ‘unactionable.’ Forget about it. That association, as I immediately realized, must be one giant pork barrel. And then some. But we have to proceed very carefully.”

  “What did the commissioner want you for?” asked Augello.

  “Mimì, you’re a subtle one. How did you know I went to talk to the people of Benevolence? Who told you?”

  “I told him,” Fazio cut in.

  “And Cavaliere Piro raised the roof. The commissioner is willing to cover us for four days, then we’re on our own.”

  “Would you please tell us what you found out?” asked Mimì.

  Montalbano told them. And he concluded:

  “Irina Ilych, Katya Lissenko, and Sonya Meyerev, all three were dancers from Schelkovo, all three had the same moth tattoo, and all were lodged for a certain period of time at the villa rented by the association. They showed up of their own accord and had not been persuaded to do so by Tommaso Lapis or Anna Degregorio. At least that’s what Piro told me. And he added that they were very frightened when they arrived but hadn’t told him why. But who knows if this story of them being scared is true or not? One week later, Sonya disappears. Katya goes to work as a home care assistant for Mr. Graceffa, but when she’s no longer needed, she disappears, too. Irina instead goes to work as a maid at the house of my friend Ingrid, steals her jewels, and disappears in turn. But there’s a fourth girl with the same tattoo. Her boyfriend, a hoodlum by the name of Peppi Cannizzaro, calls her Zin, which is perhaps short for Zinaida. This girl is the only one who didn’t pass through Benevolence.”

  “Or maybe she did, and Piro didn’t want to tell you,” Mimì cut in.

  “Right. In any case, Peppi Cannizzaro and Zin are also nowhere to be found.”

  “But how many more dancers from Schelkovo with a moth tattoo are still going to crop up in this affair?” asked Augello.

  “I don’t think there are any others aside from these four.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know that to be true with any certainty. But . . . doesn’t a moth have only four wings?”

  “To conclude, the murdered girl can only have been either Sonya or Zin,” said Fazio.

  “Precisely,” Montalbano approved.

  “But why did they kill her?” Mimì wondered.

  “I’m beginning to have an idea,” said the inspector.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “It’s the thinnest of threads, too vague, really.”

  “Well, tell us anyway!”

  “Irina’s a thief. Zin hooks up with a thief. Katya, on the other hand, confides to Graceffa that she wants to steer clear of a certain environment. And in fact she doesn’t steal anything from Graceffa, even though she keeps phoning a certain Sonya.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Let me finish, Mimì. Let’s stop to think about Irina for a moment. She steals quite a few jewels. But she’s a foreigner. How’s she going to make contact with the local crime circuits where she can resell them? Who could she possibly have met in the short amount of time she’s been in Montelusa?”

  “Well, to venture a guess—” Mimì began.

  “I haven’t finished. Now let’s take the girl who was murdered. Pasquano found black wool filaments inside her head. They can’t be from a sweater or scarf. So I say, what if, at the moment she was killed, the girl was wearing a ski mask so she wouldn’t be recognized?”

  “You think she might have been caught in the act of committing a robbery?”

  “Why not? Somebody catches her by surprise and shoots her. Haven’t you heard about the wonderful new law on self-defense passed by our sovereign Parliament?”

  “But wouldn’t it have been better for the person who shot her to leave the girl’s body right where it was, without going through all the hassle of stripping her and throwing her into the dump?” Fazio cut in.

  “Of course,” Montalbano admitted. “But I prefaced my statement by saying that my hypothesis was weak. If, however, we can prove that the murdered girl is Sonya, who is blond—I saw her passport photo—then my question to you is: Who did Red Riding Hood find in her grandmother’s bed?”

  “The wolf,” said Mimì.

  “Right. And the wolf is none other than the charitable association.”

  “Agreed. But how will we—”

  “Fazio, what other news have you got for me about Guglielmo Piro?”

  “I didn’t have enough time, Chief.”

  Montalbano pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.

  “This was given to me by Monsignor Pisicchio. It’s got the names of everyone who works for the association.They’re listed here by first and last names, address, and telephone number. That’s not enough for me. I want to know everything about them, and I mean everything. Guglielmo Piro, Michelina Zicari, Tommaso Lapis, Anna Degregorio, Gerlando Cugno, and Stefania Rizzo. You can skip the telephone operator and the cleaning help. Split the work up between the two of you, but I want at least some information by noon tomorrow.”

  He phoned Graceffa without putting the call through the switchboard. The other picked up after one ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Signor Graceffa, Montalbano here.”

  “Ah, thank you, Doctor, I was waiting for your call!”

  “Signor Graceffa, I’m not your doctor, I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “Isn’t it better if I come to your office, Doctor?”

  It suddenly became clear to Montalbano. Graceffa’s niece must be nearby, and the old man didn’t want her to hear what he had to say.

  “It’s a delicate matter, isn’t it?” the inspector asked in a conspiratorial tone.

  “Yes.”

  “Could you come to the station right away?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

>   Beniamino Graceffa walked into the inspector’s office with the same attitude a Mazzinian activist must have had when he went to a secret meeting of la Giovine Italia.

  “Would you let me make an urgent phone call?”

  “Use this phone here.”

  “Dr. Marzilla? This is Beniamino Graceffa. Listen, if my niece Concetta calls, I’m on my way to your office. No, I’m not on my way to your office, but I want you to tell her that, please. Okay? Thanks.”

  “Does your niece keep tabs on you?” asked Montalbano.

  “Every time I go out.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s worried I spend my money on whores.”

  Maybe young Concetta wasn’t entirely wrong.

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “I wanted to tell you that this morning I took the bus to Fiacca.”

  “For business?”

  “What business? I’m retired! I went . . . iss a delicate matter.”

  “Don’t tell me. Then why did you want to talk to me?”

  “Because as I came out after taking care of that delicate matter, and went to catch the bus back home, I saw Katya.”

  Montalbano sat up in his chair.

  “Are you sure it was her?”

  “I’d bet my life on it.”

  “And did Katya see you?”

  “No. She was standing there unlocking the front door of her building. Then she went in and shut the door behind her.”

  “Why didn’t you call out to her and try to talk to her?”

  “There wasn’t any time. If I missed the bus, what was I gonna tell my niece?”

  “Do you remember the street and number of this building?”

  “Of course. Via Mario Alfano, number 14. It’s a small, two-story house. Outside the front door is a plaque with the name ‘Ettore Palmisano, Notary.’ ”

  12

  After Graceffa left, the inspector told Catarella he wanted to see Fazio and Mimì at once. But Augello was already gone. Apparently Beba had called him because the baby had a bel lyache again.

  Fazio listened carefully to the inspector’s summary of developments and then asked:

  “Should we go immediately to Fiacca?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Fazio glanced at his watch.

  “If we leave right away, we’ll definitely be there by eight-thirty, in Fiacca, that is,” he said. “That’s a good time. We might just find the notary at the table with his wife, as Katya is serving them supper.”

  “And what if Katya doesn’t work evenings and therefore doesn’t sleep at the notary’s house at night but somewhere else?”

  “We’ll ask Palmisano to give us the address of where she sleeps, and then we’ll go and talk to her.”

  “Assuming the notary knows the address. And assuming that Katya gave him the right one.”

  “Then let’s phone Palmisano right now, let’s talk to him, see what the situation is, and act accordingly.”

  The more determined Fazio seemed, the more Montalbano felt doubtful. But the truth of the matter—as he well knew—was that he had no desire whatsoever to tramp all the way to Fiacca that evening.

  “And what if Katya answers?” he objected.

  “I’ll tell her that my name is Filippotti, and that I urgently need to speak with the notary. If the notary himself answers, so much the better.”

  “And what will you say to the notary?”

  “I’ll tell him who I am and ask him if Katya Lissenko sleeps at his house or if she’s lodged somewhere else. If she’s staying at his place, there’s no problem; I’ll tell him we’ll be there in an hour and ask him to say nothing to the girl. If, on the other hand, the girl sleeps elsewhere, I’ll ask him for the address. Did I pass the test you’re giving me?”

  “All right, go ahead and try. Call on the direct line and turn on the speakerphone.”

  Fazio looked up the number in the phone book and dialed.

  “Hello?” answered an elderly woman.

  Fazio looked baffled at the inspector, who gestured to him to keep talking.

  “Is this . . . the Palmisano home?”

  “Yes, but who is this?”

  “Filippotti. Is the notary there?”

  “He’s not back yet. He went out for a walk. I can take a message, if you like; I’m his wife.”

  “No, thanks, have a good evening.”

  He hung up.

  “Couldn’t you make up some bullshit to find out if Katya was there or not . . . ?”

  “Sorry, Chief, I got confused. I hadn’t figured on the wife being there when I was studying for the exam.”

  “You know what? With this brilliant idea of calling them up, we may have created a problem,” said Montalbano.

  “Why?”

  “I’m convinced that Katya knows everything, including the fact that one of her group of tattooed girls was murdered. She’s scared to death and trying to hide.”

  “I realized that myself. But why do you think we’ve created a problem?”

  “Because if Katya, as she’s serving them dinner, hears the wife tell the notary that a certain Filippotti called and he says he doesn’t know him, the girl might get suspicious and disappear again. But maybe that’s an exaggerated concern.”

  “Yeah, I think so. What are we going to do?”

  “Pick me up in a squad car at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, and we’ll go to Fiacca.”

  “And what about those people at Benevolence whose names you gave me?”

  “You can deal with them when we get back.”

  After eating Adelina’s preparation of mullet and onions on the veranda, he went inside and sat down in front of the television.

  The Free Channel’s evening news program presented stories that seemed copied from stories of the day before and the day before that.

  Actually, if one really thought about it, the television had been presenting the exact same news items for years; the only things that changed were the names: the names of the towns in which the events were occurring and the names of the people involved. But the substance was always the same.

  In Giardina the mayor’s car was set on fire (the previous morning it had been the car of the mayor of Spirotta).

  In Montereale, a town councillor was arrested for auction tampering, graft, and corruption (the previous day a town councillor of Santa Maria had been arrested on the same charges).

  In Montelusa there was a fire set by arsonists, probably owing to failure to pay protection money, at a shop that sold picture frames and paints (the previous evening arsonists had set fire to a linen shop in Torretta).

  In Fela the charred remains of a farmer earlier convicted of collaborating with the Mafia were found in his car (the previous evening it had been the turn of an accountant from Cuculiana, likewise a collaborator, to be charred).

  In the Vibera countryside the search for a mafioso on the run for seven years intensified (the previous day the search for another mafioso, on the run for only five years, had intensified in the Pozzolillo countryside).

  In Roccabumera, carabinieri and criminal elements exchanged gunfire (the previous evening bullets had been exchanged in Bicaquino, but instead of the carabinieri it had been the police).

  Fed up, Montalbano turned off the television, lolled about the house for an hour, then went to bed.

  He started reading a book that had been praised by a newspaper that discovered a new masterpiece every other day.

  The human body begins to decompose four minutes after death. What was once the vessel of life now undergoes the final metamorphosis. It begins to digest itself. Cells start to decompose from the inside. Tissues turn to liquid, then to gas.

  Cursing the saints, he took the book and hurled it against the wall in front of him. How could anyone read a book like that before falling asleep? He turned off the light, but the moment he lay down, he felt uneasy. He was very uncomfortable. Had Adelina somehow not properly made the bed?

  He got up,
tightened the bottom sheet, folded it well under the mattress, and lay back down.

  Nothing doing. He still felt uncomfortable.

  Maybe it had nothing to do with the bed. Maybe the problem was himself, something in his head. What could it be? The first lines of that damned book which had upset him? Or had something come to mind while Fazio was phoning the notary? Perhaps it was a news item he had heard on television, something that prompted a half-formed idea, the shadow of a thought immediately forgotten as quickly as it had appeared. It took him a long time to fall asleep.

  Fazio arrived at eight on the dot in his own car.

  “Why didn’t you come in a squad car?”

  “Still no gasoline, Chief.”

  “You going to pay for the gas for this trip yourself?”

  “Yessir. I’ll turn in the receipt.”

  “Do they reimburse you right away?”

  “It takes a few months. And sometimes they reimburse me, sometimes they don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they follow a specific criterion.”

  “Namely?”

  “How they happen to feel.”

  “This time, give the receipt to me, and I’ll take care of turning it in.”

  They sat there in silence. Neither felt like talking.

  When they were already on the outskirts of Fiacca, Montalbano said:

  “Call Catarella.”

  Fazio dialed the number, brought the cell phone to his ear as he was negotiating a curve, and suddenly found himself before a roadblock of carabinieri. He slammed on the brakes, cursing. A carabiniere leaned downed to the car window, gave him a long, severe look, shook his head, and said:

  “Not only were you speeding, but you were also talking on the phone!”

  “No, I—”

  “Are you going to deny that you had your cell phone to your ear?”

  “No, but I—”

  “License and registration.”

  The carabiniere used only his fingertips to take the documents Fazio held out to him, as if he were afraid of catching some fatal disease.

  “Of all the . . . ,” said Fazio.

  “The guy’s got the face of someone who’s going to make you dance a jig at the very least, if your papers aren’t in order,” Montalbano seconded him.