IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009)

by Andrea Camilleri

  His assistant took a notepad and pen out of his pocket.

  “You ask the questions,” the inspector continued.

  Fazio’s eyes glistened with contentment. Anything to do with people’s vital statistics were like drugs to a drug addict for him.

  “First name and maiden name.”

  “Rosalia Mangione.”

  “Day, month, year, and place of birth.”

  “September the eighth, 1930, in Lampedusa. But . . .”

  “Yes, signora?” said Montalbano.

  “Could you tell me who gave you my name?”

  Montalbano stuck a big smile on his face, all teeth, like Sylvester the Cat.

  “Katya told us about you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is she here? We’d like to say hi to her.”

  “Katya’s not here. When she came home lass night, she packed up her bags, paid me the rent, and left.”

  Montalbano and Fazio stood up simultaneously.

  “Did she tell you where she was going?” asked the inspector.

  “No.”

  “Monday evening, did Katya receive a telephone call from Russia?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “What makes you say that? Doesn’t Katya have a cell phone?”

  “Sure. But she’s not the type to be talkin’ to the whole world.”

  “Do you have a television?”

  “Yes . . . but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I haven’t paid the subscription for five years.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Did you hear about the murdered girl who was found in an illegal dump?”

  “The one with the butterfly? Yes.”

  “Did Katya know about it?”

  “She was with me when they reported it on TV.”

  “Let’s go,” said Montalbano.

  The old woman ran after them.

  “What was the offer?”

  “We’ll be back this afternoon, and we’ll make you our offer then,” said Fazio.

  Montalbano realized at once that Don Antonio was going to be difficult.

  Fiftyish, stocky, muscular, and taciturn, he had hands that looked like sledgehammers. In a corner of the sacristy, the inspector espied a pair of boxing gloves hanging on the wall.

  “You a boxer?”

  “Now and then.”

  “Excuse me, Father, but was it you who put the Palmisano family on to Katya Lissenko?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who, in turn, was it who put you on to her?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Let me try to help you. Perhaps it was the Benevolence Association of Monsignor Pisicchio?”

  “I have no dealings with Monsignor Pisicchio or his association.”

  Was there not a note of disdain in his voice? Fazio must have heard it, too, because he shot a glance at the inspector.

  “You don’t remember at all?”

  “No.”

  “And there’s no way that, with a little effort . . . ?”

  “No. Why are you looking for her? Has she done anything wrong?”

  “No,” said Fazio.

  “We only want to question her concerning some things she may know about,” Montalbano clarified.

  “I see.”

  But the priest didn’t ask what these “things” might be. Either he wasn’t curious or he knew perfectly well what these “things” were. But weren’t priests supposed to be curious by profession?

  “Why did you come looking for her here?”

  “Because she never returned to the Palmisanos’ and left her own lodgings all of a sudden. So we thought that Katya, having turned to you once before for help—”

  “You were mistaken.”

  “Father, I have reason to believe that this girl could be in grave danger. Maybe even mortal danger. Therefore, whatever information you—”

  “Would you believe me if I told you I haven’t seen Katya for the last ten days or so?”

  “No,” said Montalbano.

  The priest looked meaningfully at the boxing gloves.

  “If you want to submit to God’s judgment and fight it out, I’m ready,” said the inspector, hoping that Don Antonio wouldn’t take him seriously.

  And, in fact, for the first time, the priest laughed.

  “And then you’ll charge me with resisting arrest and as saulting a police officer? Listen, Inspector, I like you. Along with all her bad luck, Katya, who’s a good girl, also had some good luck. After deciding not to have anything more to do with the Benevolence people, she has met the right people, and they’ve been able to help her. Leave me your telephone number, and if I have any news of Katya, I’ll let you know.”

  Montalbano wrote down some numbers for him, including that of his home phone, then asked:

  “Do you know why Katya no longer wanted to have anything to do with Monsignor Pisicchio’s association?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it was told to me during confession.”

  They left Fiacca.

  “Do you think we’ll ever hear back from the priest?”

  “I think so. After he’s consulted with Katya. Because it’s Don Antonio—and I would bet my family jewels on it—who saw to finding a safe hiding place for Katya. Maybe even in his own home.”

  “So you would say that, all things considered, our trip was not entirely in vain?”

  “Exactly. I actually think we have established indirect contact with Katya.”

  “Do you know what time it is? We won’t be back in Vigàta till three-thirty or so,” said Fazio.

  At that hour, they were sure to find nothing left to eat at Enzo’s.

  “If the carabinieri stop us again, we won’t get back till five. And I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too,” Fazio seconded him.

  Montalbano saw a sign at a crossroads.

  “Turn left here. We’re gonna go to Caltabellotta.”

  “What for?”

  “There used to be a good restaurant there.”

  Fazio turned onto the road indicated.

  A passage from a history lesson came back to Montalbano, and he recited it aloud, with eyes closed:

  “The Peace of Caltabellotta, signed on August 31, 1302, put an end to the War of the Vespers. Frederick II of Ara gon was recognized as King of Trinacria and pledged to marry Eleanor, sister of Robert of Anjou.”

  He stopped.

  “So?” asked Fazio. “How’d it end up?”

  “How did what end up?”

  “Did Frederick keep his pledge? Did he marry Eleanor?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Poach a head of cauliflower in salted water, remove it when still slightly firm, and chop it into large chunks. Then season it in a skillet after you have sautéed a small onion, thinly sliced, in olive oil in the same pan. In another pan, fry up a piece of fresh sausage, and the moment it turns golden, cut it into small disks no more than an inch wide, removing the skin. Add the cauliflower to the pan with the sausage bits and oil, adding a few potatoes sliced into thin, transparent disks, some chopped black olives, salt, and spices. Stir this assortment well. Knead some leavened bread dough into a broad, flat disk and mold this into a cake tin with a tall rim; fill this with the mixture and cover with another round sheet of dough, kneading the edges together. Spread lard over the upper parts and put the tin into a very hot oven. Remove it as soon as it turns golden brown (but this will take half an hour or so).”

  This was the recipe for ’mpanata di maiali that the inspector asked the cook to dictate to him after he and Fazio had finished licking it off their fingers. For a first course, they had gone light: risu alla siciliana, that is, rice seasoned with the flavors of wine, vinegar, salted anchovies, olive oil, tomatoes, lemon juice, salt, hot pepper, marjoram, basil, and dried black passuluna olives.

  They were dishes that called for wine, and t
he call did not go unanswered.

  When they stepped back out into the open air, Montalbano regretted that he couldn’t take his customary walk to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty.

  “Listen, Fazio, let’s have a little walk. We can go as far as the castle, then come back and pick up the car.”

  “Good idea, Chief. That way the smell of the wine we drank should evaporate a little. If the carabinieri stop us now, they’ll throw us in jail for DUI.”

  The walk helped a bit. As they were getting back into the car, Fazio saw a man raising the shutter over the front of a books and paper shop.

  “Would you excuse me a minute, Chief?”

  “What do you need to do?”

  “This evening my wife and I have to go to the house of a friend whose little boy is turning four. I want to buy him a set of colored chalks for his birthday.”

  He returned with a small box, laid this down on the dashboard, and they set off.

  At the first curve, the box slid off the dashboard and fell to the floor near Montalbano’s feet. As he was picking it up, he was wondering if colored chalks already existed when he was a little kid or if all chalk was white. He was about to put the box back in the same place when his eye fell on some very fine print on one side: “Arena Color Works—Montelusa.”

  He didn’t know there was a color works in Montelusa. One that, moreover, retailed color products.

  It was hard to think clearly with all the wine he had in his body. His thoughts were sort of all jumbled together and almost impossible to disentangle.

  Where was he? Ah yes: the colors sold in colors shops. So what? Some discovery! Congratulations, Insp— Wait a minute! What had he heard last night on television? C’mon, Montalbà, think hard, it might be really important! Searching for a fugitive, the arrest of a town councillor . . . Aha! A fire, probably arson, at a shop that sold frames and paints in Montelusa. So that was the news that hadn’t let him fall asleep! Where can one find purpurin in considerable quantities? Either where it is made or where it is sold. Not where it is used, because the people who use it need only a little tiny bit of it. He’d got it all wrong.

  “Asshole!” he said, giving himself a powerful slap in the forehead.

  The car swerved.

  “Do we wanna do a repeat of this morning?” asked Fazio.

  “Sorry.”

  “Who you upset at?”

  “With myself, first of all. And second, with you and Augello.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re never going to find purpurin in significant quantities in furniture factories or restoration workshops, but only in places where it’s produced or sold. Last night on the news I heard that there was a fire in a store that sold paints. I’d like to drop in there right now. Call one of our people in Montelusa and get the phone number and address of the proprietor.”

  14

  One could not say Carlo Di Nardo was secretive about his work.

  He welcomed Montalbano into his office at Montelusa Central with open arms. After all, they’d been fellow travelers and had always been fond of each other.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Montalbano explained what he wanted.

  “Here in Montelusa you have only to look in three places: the Arena Color Works, which supplies half of Sicily, the Disberna sisters’ shop, and Costantino Morabito’s store, or what remains of it. Now, I think I’ve understood that you believe the girl fell when she was shot and got purpurin all over herself. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I would rule out that either of the Disberna sisters could have shot any living thing, even an ant. And there’s only the two of them, who are both around seventy, looking after the store, with the help of a niece who’s about fifty. They didn’t do it, I assure you. The color factory, on the other hand, is big, and you probably ought to have a look there.”

  “Can’t you tell me anything about Morabito’s store?”

  “I’ve saved that for last. First of all, it was clearly a case of arson, there’s no doubt about that. Except that a different method was used in this case.”

  “Namely?”

  “You know how the shops of people who don’t pay the protection racket usually get torched? Very rarely do the arsonists ever enter the shop. They normally limit themselves to throwing gasoline through an open window or pouring it under the front shutter or door. In ninety percent of the cases where the arsonist actually goes inside, he ends up getting more or less severely burnt.”

  “So here the fire was started from the inside?”

  “Exactly. And none of the metal shutters, doors, or windows had been forced. Mind you, this is also the opinion of Engineer Ragusano of the Fire Brigade.”

  “So, all things considered, you would lean towards a hypothesis implicating Morabito himself in the deed?”

  “My, how diplomatic you’ve become in your old age, Montalbà! Even Locascio, the insurance man, thinks Morabito did it.”

  “For the insurance money?”

  “That’s what he thinks.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Morabito’s financial position is pretty solid. If he set fire to his own store, there must be another reason. I had promised myself I would try to find out tomorrow, but then you arrived. What are you going to do now?”

  “I want to go have a look at Morabito’s store.”

  “No problem. I’ll go with you. You coming, too, Fazio?”

  The store that sold paints wasn’t really, strictly speaking, a paints store. It was rather unimaginatively called Immaginazione and was a kind of supermarket where one could buy a great variety of things for the home, from bathroom tiles and rugs to ashtrays and light fixtures. The very large paints department was the part of the store that had been destroyed by fire, and very little of it remained. Anyone wishing to paint their bedroom straw-yellow with little green checks and their dining room fire-engine red could find everything they needed here; just as anyone devoted to painting pictures could choose from thousands of tubes of oil paint, tempera, and acrylics.

  In this section of the store was a staircase that led to the apartment in which Costantino Morabito, the proprietor, lived. Naturally one could also enter the flat from a front door that gave onto the street; the internal staircase was merely a convenience that allowed Morabito to open and close the store from the inside.

  Di Nardo answered all the questions the inspector asked him, which were many.

  “I want to talk to Morabito,” Montalbano said as they returned to Montelusa Central.

  “No problem,” Di Nardo said again. “He’s moved in with his sister, since his place may be unsafe. The firemen need to do a safety check.”

  “Speaking of firemen, who controls this neighborhood? Who runs the protection racket?”

  “The Stellino brothers. Who, in my opinion, are pissed off about this fire, which will be blamed on them even though they probably had nothing to do with it.”

  “That might be a good starting point for making Morabito nervous. Where can I talk to him?”

  “In my office. I have to go do something else. I’ll put Detective Sanfilippo at your disposal; he knows everything.”

  “If Morabito wasn’t hard up for cash, why would he set fire to his store?” asked Fazio, as soon as they were alone. “Inspector Di Nardo,” he continued, “told us he wasn’t married, doesn’t gamble, hasn’t got any girlfriends, he’s not a big spender but just the opposite, a tightwad, and he hasn’t got any debts . . . Why rule out arson by the protection racket?”

  “I once saw an American movie, a comedy,” Montalbano said distractedly, “about a guy who brings a whore home with him, taking advantage of the fact that his wife has gone to spend the night at her mother’s place. When she starts getting ready to leave, three hours before the wife is supposed to be back, the whore can’t find her panties. They look and look, to no avail. The whore leaves. And the man, realizing that sooner or later his wif
e is gonna find those goddamn panties, goes and sets fire to the house. Doesn’t that seem like a good reason to you?”

  “But Morabito isn’t married!” said Fazio.

  “It’s not the same thing, of course. But I was wondering: What if the fire was set to hide something else that couldn’t be found?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like an empty shell.”

  “What are we gonna do?”

  “Tell Sanfilippo to bring in Morabito. And I’m warning you now: Give me a lot of rope, ’cause I’m really gonna ham it up.”

  Costantino Morabito was a man of about fifty who was sloppily dressed, carelessly shaven, with wild hair and dark bags under his eyes. He was extremely nervous and moved in fits and starts. He sat down on the edge of the chair, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and held it in his hands.

  “It was a nasty blow, eh?” Montalbano asked after introducing himself.

  “Everything ruined! Everything! The smoke got soot all over everything, even the stuff in the other departments, and ruined it all! The damage is incalculable! I’m finished!”

  “But in your misfortune you were lucky.”

  “What do you mean, lucky?”

  “Lucky to be still alive.”

  “Oh, yes! With the help of San Gerlando! It was a real miracle, Mr. Inspector! The flames very nearly engulfed the upstairs where I was and roasted me alive!”

  “Listen, who first realized there was a fire?”

  “I did. I noticed a strong burning smell, and—”

  “I smell it, too,” Montalbano interrupted him.

  “Right now?” asked Morabito, confused.

  “Right now.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s coming from you. How odd!”

  He got up, walked around the desk, went up to Morabito, bent down, bringing his nose to about a couple of inches away, and began sniffing him from the hair to the chest.

  “Come and smell for yourself.”

  Fazio got up, stood on the other side of Morabito, and started doing the same as the inspector.

  Flummoxed, Morabito froze.