The Wings of the Sphinx

by Andrea Camilleri

“Two.”

  “Give me the addresses. Do we have a list of all the people who work at them?”

  “Yup.”

  “Go get it. But first tell me something: In Picarella’s absence, who kept the warehouses running?”

  “Ragioniere Crapanzano.”

  “What have you got in mind?” Mimì asked him as Fazio went off to fetch the lists.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Could I have a little preview?”

  “Mimì, Picarella had one or two accomplices, right? Accomplices who ran, and are still running, the risk of prosecution. What I mean is that there are certain things people do out of friendship or for money. Didn’t you and Fazio say that Picarella didn’t have any close friends?”

  “That’s right, he’s a lone wolf. He stays in his den and only goes out to hunt women.”

  “Which means he probably paid a high price to the accomplice or accomplices he needed to stage the kidnapping. I want to start looking for them among the men who work for him.”

  “Here are the lists,” said Fazio, entering.

  “Good. Now, I don’t want any journalists talking to Picarella. I mean it. A total press blackout. We’ll meet back up at nightfall.”

  “Ragioniere Crapanzano? Inspector Montalbano here.”

  “At your service, Inspector.”

  “Mr. Crapanzano, no doubt you’re aware of the happy outcome of Mr. Picarella’s kidnapping, for which we must eternally thank the Lord?”

  “Of course, of course! We even toasted to celebrate! And we’re considering holding a Mass to give thanks.”

  “Good for you! I think we can say, then, that his troubles are over, but somebody else’s have only begun.”

  “Somebody else?” asked Crapanzano, concerned.

  “Why, the person who kidnapped him, of course. We didn’t make any moves earlier because we were afraid to put Mr. Picarella in danger. Now, however, our hands are no longer tied.”

  A great big lie, though plausible.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, Ragioniere, aside from yourself, how many people work at the warehouse in Via Bellini?”

  “Five. One clerk and four warehousers.”

  “And how many at the warehouse in Via Matteotti?”

  “Also five.”

  “Good.”

  He looked at Fazio’s lists. It tallied.

  “In one hour, at the latest, I want to see all the employees together in your warehouse.”

  “But it’ll be nearly one o’clock! We need to close for lunch!”

  “That’s precisely the point.You reopen at four, no? I need barely an hour, at the most. I won’t make any of you miss lunch. And, that way, you won’t have to keep your warehouses closed beyond the usual hours.”

  “Well, when you put it like that . . .”

  Fazio’s lists were very fussy: Not limiting himself to first name, last name, address, and telephone number, he also wrote down, for each employee, whether or not he was married, what vices he had, what criminal offenses, if any . . .

  If Fazio, thought the inspector, hadn’t been Sicilian but Russian at the time of the KGB, he would have had a brilliant career. Perhaps to the point of becoming prime minister, as had now become the custom there, in times of democracy.

  When he arrived at the warehouse, they were all there.

  Ragioniere Crapanzano, who looked to be in his sixties, introduced to him the firm’s other ragioniere, a young man in his thirties named Filippo Strano, who managed the warehouse in Via Matteotti, as well as the fiftyish Signorina Ernestina Pica, accountant. There were only four chairs, and the inspector and the three clerks sat in them.

  The warehousers, on the other hand, took their places on two wooden boards resting on top of other boards. Crapanzano introduced them all, from left to right.

  Montalbano began to speak.

  “I am sure Ragioniere Crapanzano has already told you who I am and why I wanted to see you all. We can’t lose another minute in our pursuit of the dangerous criminals who kidnapped Mr. Picarella. I beg your pardon for asking you to come here during your break. But I think you’ll understand that the real investigation of the case begins now. Poor Mr. Picarella hasn’t been able to say much yet, given the truly disturbing condition he finds himself in at the moment.”

  “Is he unwell?” Crapanzano ventured to ask.

  Montalbano answered in masterly mime. He spread his arms, raised his eyes to the heavens, and shook his head several times.

  “Very unwell. He can hardly speak.”

  “Poor man!” said Signorina Pica, the accountant, wiping away a tear.

  “And this,” Montalbano continued, “because he was severely beaten, day and night, during the duration of his confinement. That’s what he told us. Kicked, punched, blud geoned. Abused and humiliated in every way imaginable. And for no reason.”

  “Poor, poor man!” the accountant repeated.

  “His jailers showed no pity. And such behavior aggravates their position. I believe the public prosecutor plans to charge them with attempted murder. We shall be implacable with them!”

  Was it really going to be so easy? No sooner had he begun talking about the abuses to which Picarella was subjected, making them up on the spot, than the third warehouseman from the left, the fortyish Salvatore Spallitta, first made a face of utter befuddlement, then began to look quite afraid.

  Montalbano looked down at one of the lists, which he’d held in his hand all the while. Spallitta worked at the Via Matteotti warehouse, and Fazio described him as a drug addict and occasional dealer.

  Since he was already improvising his performance, he decided to keep it up.

  “But there’s more. And I ask you to pay close attention. No ransom was ever demanded for the liberation of Mr. Picarella. So why was he kidnapped? The answer to this question is very simple: To keep him away from his workplace for a while. For what reason? Because during that time, at one of his warehouses, or both, something was supposed to happen, without his knowledge, something he might have noticed had he been present.”

  “But . . . nothing happened here during that time!” said Crapanzano.

  Montalbano prayed to the Blessed Baby Jesus in heaven that something, anything at all, had happened at the other warehouse. And he looked straight at Filippo Strano.

  “Nothing at our warehouse, either. Apart from a large shipment of lumber . . . ”

  “From where?”

  “From the Ukraine.”

  Montalbano chortled sardonically. He pulled it off well. “And you call that nothing?”

  “But why, if I may ask?”

  “I’m sure I know why.”

  Ragioniere Strano fell silent, worried.

  “Is the wood still in the warehouse?” the inspector continued.

  “No. It was already reserved, so we—”

  “Didn’t waste any time, eh?”

  Strano looked over at Crapanzano as if asking for help.

  “Care to tell us why this wood was so special?” Crapanzano asked gruffly.

  “Because some of the boards were hollow and contained narcotics,” the inspector shot back.

  Everyone present seemed to suffer a collective stroke simultaneously. Spallitta took it especially hard, turning pale as a corpse.

  “This, mind you, is the assumption of the Narcotics unit. But they usually know what they’re talking about.”

  The warehouse was quieter than a tomb.

  “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Starting tomorrow, you will be called in, one by one, for questioning. Our interrogations will be long and thorough. A few agents from Narcotics will also be present. However—and this is why I wanted to meet with you—if, in the meantime, any of you thinks of anything, you can reach me by telephone. Good-bye, and thank you.”

  He stood up and went out, leaving them all in a daze.

  At Enzo’s he ate as ravenously as if he hadn’t had a decent meal for years. Afterwards, seeing the
kind of day it was, he took his usual stroll out to the lighthouse.

  “What kind of weather we got coming?” he asked the angler.

  “Good.”

  He sat down on the flat rock. But he didn’t want to think about anything. He felt empty inside. He spent half an hour busting the balls of a crab that was trying to climb up a rock. Every time the creature progressed a couple of inches, he sent it back to its starting point with the flick of a twig.

  Here you are again! said Montalbano One. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself ? Look what’s become of you! Toying with a crab!

  Would you leave him alone? intervened Montalbano Two. What, is there some law against passing the time however one pleases? Did he do a good job this morning or not?

  Ah, imagine the effort! He must be dead tired!

  To punish himself—since, at bottom, Montalbano One was right—as soon as he got back to the office he started signing the mountain of papers piled up on his desk.

  At a few minutes past six, the phone rang.

  “Chief, that’d be a Mr. Mallitta.”

  “Ask him what his name is.”

  “Chief, I jess tol’ you what ’is name is.”

  “Ask him anyway.”

  The inspector heard some muttering in the background.

  “I’s wrong, Chief. ’Is name is Spalitta.”

  He was one l short, but the inspector was satisfied, perfection not being of this world.

  “Put him on.”

  “I can’t, seeing as how ’e’s ’ere onna premisses.”

  “All right, then, send him in.”

  He felt absolutely certain that he would be able to call Livia that same evening. He had kept his solemn promise.

  Spallitta looked like he was suffering from an attack of malaria.

  “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Yessir. Since I’ve had a couple a minor drug convictions, I’s scared o’ you gettin’ me mixed up in this.”

  “Mixed up in what, excuse me?”

  “This business of the wood with the drugs inside. I swear I din’t know nothin’ about this and I still don’t know nothin’!”

  “Well, then, if your conscience is clear, what are you afraid of ?”

  “The fact is, that . . .”

  “. . . that your conscience isn’t exactly clear, right?”

  Spallitta dropped his head and said nothing.

  “How much did Picarella give you to help him stage the kidnapping?”

  “Five hundred euros. But, I swear, he tol’ me it was all a joke! He needed to disappear for a week because he promised some whore he’d take her to Cuba. So why’d you feed us that bullshit about him gettin’ beat up ’n’ all? I always treated ’im just like he asked, I kep’ ’im hidden at my brother’s place in the country, every day I brought him food, cigarettes, newspapers . . . An’ now he wants to finish me off, the goddamn son of a bitch!”

  There was a knock at the door, and Augello entered. Seeing that the inspector was busy, he made as if to leave.

  “No, no, Mimì, come in. You dropped in at just the right moment. Have a seat. How’d the interrogation go?”

  Augello had a moment of hesitation, given the stranger’s presence. He decided to answer without mentioning any names.

  “Not bad. I’d say in another couple of days, max, he’s gonna crack.”

  “I’d say sooner. Oh, in case you haven’t already met, this is Mr. Spallitta. He’s the man who helped Picarella get kidnapped. You can continue talking here.”

  He stood up.

  “And where are you going?” asked Mimì, a little flustered.

  “To Marinella. I have to make an important phone call. See you tomorrow.”

  17

  “How are you feeling?”

  “A little better, thanks. And you?”

  “Not bad, thanks.”

  “How’s the weather there?”

  “Good. How about up there?”

  “Unstable.”

  How can two people spend years and years together and still be reduced to talking to each other like strangers? Wouldn’t it be better to exchange a few obscenities and insults? And maybe even a few pushes and shoves, and a cuff to the head?

  Montalbano felt a malignant rage against the situation in which he and Livia had come to find themselves. Whether it was his fault or Livia’s fault no longer mattered. What mattered was for them to talk to each other a long time, eye to eye, to clear everything up and extract themselves, in one way or another, from the quicksands in which they were slowly sinking.

  “Still got the same thing in mind?”

  “What thing?”

  “To come down here if—”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I wanted to let you know that I’ve managed to get myself three or four totally free days.”

  “Fine.”

  Was that it? Not Oh how wonderful, I’m so happy? What a shower of enthusiasm! Hadn’t he kept his word? I’ll phone you as soon as I have a few free days, he had promised her. He had raced home to Marinella to give her the good news, and this was her way of saying thanks?

  “So, whenever you feel like it . . .”

  “As far as I’m concerned, I could even come tomorrow morning,” she quickly replied.

  Which meant that she had already packed her bag and been waiting at home as long as possible for his phone call. And it also meant that her behavior showed not a lack of enthusiasm, as he had thought, but that she was carefully weighing every word she said, afraid that she might in some way let the intensity of her emotions show.

  “Excellent. I’ll come pick you up at Punta Raisi.”

  “No need to bother.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because something might suddenly come up for you, and I don’t think I could stand waiting for you and not have you come. For my own peace of mind, I would rather take the bus.”

  “But, Livia, I told you I’m totally free!”

  “What does it cost you to let me—”

  “But I told you there’s no problem whatsoever! Come on, what time do you think you’ll get in?”

  “On the usual midday flight.”

  “I’ll be there at noon.”

  “Listen, don’t get mad, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t want us to stay in Marinella.”

  “You don’t want to spend your time here at my house?”

  “No.”

  He felt slightly offended. What had his house done to her to make her not want to stay there?

  “Why, have you ever not felt right at my place?

  “That’s just it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve always felt so good at your place. Maybe too good.”

  “So what?”

  “I feel as if the place would affect my decisions; it would end up influencing me.”

  “What about me? Doesn’t it influence me?”

  “Less so, relatively speaking, because it’s your home.”

  “I get it. You want the game to be played on a neutral field.”

  In Livia’s silence he could sense the effort she was making not to answer him the way he deserved.

  “I’m sorry, that was stupid, what I just said,” he continued. “Let’s do this. When we meet at the airport, we’ll decide together where we should go, then we’ll go straight there, without coming back here first. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  He hung up but remained next to the telephone, thinking about what Livia had said.

  So the house would influence her! What kind of bullshit was that? Four walls don’t influence anything! They’re just walls like any others, nothing more. Good and bad houses that determine the happiness or misfortune of the people living in them exist only in American movies. And, come to think of it, even furniture had no effect. That is, as long as one didn’t want it to.

&n
bsp; In other words, unless one wanted expressly to be influenced by it. And in that case, anything at all, like, for example, the statue Livia had bought for him in Fiacca . . .

  He picked it up.

  About five inches tall, it represented a little boy with a cheerful, urchinlike face, carrying a basket of fish on his shoulder. It was no work of art, but it had a certain grace. Indeed Livia had bought it for the expression of the face: wise, open, intelligent. Then he suddenly remembered what she’d whispered to him as she was handing it to him:

  “If we have a son one day, I would like one like this.”

  How many years had passed since then? Ten? Fifteen? Feeling suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, he realized that Livia was right.

  It wasn’t the house in itself, but all the memories, the griefs and joys, the hopes and disappointments, the tears and laughter, that influenced them, and how!

  When he went to put the little statue back, it slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. He bent down to pick it up, cursing the saints.

  The head alone had come off, a clean break at the neck. There was no other damage. He tried putting it back on: a perfect fit. Not even the tiniest chip had been lost.

  So he started looking for the all-purpose glue, found it, sat down and, paying very careful attention, stuck the head back onto the body. He felt pleased with himself. The reattachment came out perfectly, even though he was not very good with his hands. He set the statuette down on the table and got up to go pack his suitcase.

  He would be away for at least four days with Livia. But the moment he took the bag down from atop the armoire, he fell into the doldrums and no longer felt like packing.

  He would have all the time in the world to do it the following morning.

  He decided to stay out on the veranda until sleep came over him.

  The next morning he woke up later than usual, after eight. Apparently his brain and body already felt like they were on vacation. He took a long shower and, after shaving, grabbed his razor, soap, comb, and other things he needed for personal maintenance, put them in an elegant black toilet kit that Livia had given him, and put it all into the suitcase. Then he opened the armoire and started picking out some shirts. By nine o’clock the suitcase was ready. He shut it, carried it out to the car, and put it in the trunk.