IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (12 page)

“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 chance 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 . . .”