IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (11 page)

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Authors: Andrea Camilleri

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BOOK: IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009)

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You know why you happened to spill the beans with Ingrid? Because you’re old and you can’t handle mixing wine and whisky anymore,
said Montalbano One.

Wine, whisky, and old age have nothing to do with it,
Montalbano Two butted in.
How can you avoid bleeding from an open wound?

Ingrid, however, didn’t bring the previous evening’s subject back up. It was clear she sensed Montalbano’s uneasiness.

“What are you working on these days?”

“The local TV stations haven’t been talking about anything else these last few days.”

“I never watch the local TV stations. Or the national ones, for that matter.”

“A dead girl was found in an illegal dump, murdered. We’re having a very hard time identifying her. She was naked, without clothes or documents. Just a small tattoo.”

“What kind of tattoo?”

“A moth.”

“Where?” asked Ingrid, suddenly attentive.

“Right near her left shoulder blade.”

“Oh my God!” said Ingrid, turning pale.

“What is it?”

“Until about three months ago I had a Russian housekeeper who had a tattoo just like that . . . How old was the girl who was killed?”

“Twenty-five, at the most.”

“It fits. My girl was twenty-four. Oh my God!”

“Not so fast. It might not be her. Listen, why didn’t you keep her as your housekeeper?”

“She suddenly disappeared!”

“What do you mean?”

“One morning I noticed she wasn’t about the house. I asked the cook, but she hadn’t seen her, either. So I went into her room, but she wasn’t there. She never came back. I ended up replacing her with a woman from Zambia.”

Right, as if she would ever replace her with someone from Bologna or Messina. Every time the inspector called Ingrid’s house, the phone was answered by someone from Tananarive, Palikir, or Lilongwe . . .

“But her disappearance seemed suspicious to me,” Ingrid continued.

“Why?”

“As you know, I’m hardly ever at home, but the few times I spoke to her—”

“How long did she stay with you?” Montalbano interrupted.

“A month and a few days. As I was saying, the few times I spoke with her she didn’t make a good impression on me.”

“Why not?”

“She was evasive, vague. She didn’t want to tell me anything about herself.”

“And after you became suspicious, what did you do?”

“I went to check the places where I kept my jewelry.”

“You don’t have a safe?”

“No. I keep them hidden in three different places. I never wear them, but once I did put some on, because I had to accompany my husband to an important dinner, and on that occasion, the girl must have figured out where I kept them.”

“Did she steal them?”

“The ones in that particular hiding place, yes.”

“Were they insured?”

“You must be kidding!”

“How much were they worth?”

“About three, four hundred thousand euros.”

“Why didn’t you report her?”

“My husband did report her!”

“To Montelusa Central?”

“No, the carabinieri.”

So that was why he hadn’t heard anything about it. Imagine the carabinieri ever keeping them informed about anything! But didn’t the police, for their part, do the same with the carabinieri?

“What was her name?”

“She said it was Irina.”

“But weren’t you ever able to see any sort of identification papers?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Listen, how can you hire housekeepers, cooks, butlers . . . Your house is a revolving door.”

“I’m not the one who hires them. The
ragioniere
Curcuraci does.”

“And who’s he?”

“He’s the accountant who used to manage my father-in-law’s estate, which is now my husband’s.”

“Have you got his phone number?”

“Yes, but it’s on my cell phone, which I left in the car. When we go out now, I’ll get it for you. Listen, if you want, I could . . . though I don’t really like the idea at all . . .”

“You want to see the body?”

“If it would help you to identify her . . .”

“The shot that killed her practically took away her whole face. You wouldn’t be able to recognize her. Unless . . . Listen, this Irina, did she have any distinguishing features you may have noticed?”

“In what sense?”

“Moles, scars . . .”

“On her face and hands, no. On other parts of her body, I couldn’t say. It’s not like I saw her naked or anything.”

It was a stupid question.

“Wait,” Ingrid continued . . . Would contact lenses be a distinguishing feature?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because Irina wore them. One day, I remember, she lost one, but then we found it.”

“Could you come with me to my office for five minutes? I want to show you a photograph.”

“This is the second time,” said Ingrid, standing up.

“For what?”

“The second time we’re talking about an unknown person you’re investigating and who I—”

“Right . . .” Montalbano said hesitantly.

Ingrid was referring to the time she saw on his desk the photograph of a drowned man who had been her lover, a fact that had enabled the inspector to break up a child-trafficking ring.

But Montalbano wasn’t fond of remembering that case. It had cost him an injury to his shoulder and, what weighed far more heavily on him, he had even been forced to kill a man.

“I have no doubts. The tattoo is the same,” said Ingrid, handing the photograph back to the inspector, who set it down on the desk.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

Ingrid he could trust.

“Well, that’s all. Thanks.”

Ingrid gave him a big hug, which Montalbano returned. That moment of unease, when they were drinking their coffee in the kitchen, had entirely passed.

Naturally, that was the moment when the door opened and Mimì Augello appeared.

“Is this a bad moment?” he asked in a tone that made one want to pummel him.

“Not at all,” said Ingrid. “I was just leaving.”

“I’ll show you out,” said Montalbano.

“No need to bother,” said Ingrid, stopping him with a light kiss on the lips. “And I mean it: Keep me informed.”

She waved good-bye to Augello and went out.

“Ingrid’s never liked me much,” said Mimì.

“Did you ever give her a try?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Sorry, but not all woman are yearning to be held in your manly arms.”

“What’s the matter this morning? A touch of bile? Nerves on edge? Something didn’t go quite right last night?”

“Mimì, cut the shit, it’s out of place. Ingrid came this morning because she saw the photo of the tattoo on the Free Channel.”

“Has Ingrid got the same tattoo? Did you check?”

“Mimì, has it ever dawned on you just how annoying these idiotic insinuations of yours are? If you don’t feel like talking seriously, just go away and send in Fazio.”

As if summoned, Fazio appeared.

“Come in, both of you, and sit down,” said the inspector. “First of all, I want to know how things turned out with Signora Ciccina Picarella. Did she come yesterday evening?”

“Yes, she came running,” said Augello. “I had covered my rear by telling Gallo and Galluzzo to hang around and intervene as soon as the lady started yelling. Instead—”

“How did she react?”

“She took one look at the photograph and started laughing.”

“What was so funny?”

“She was laughing, she explained, because the man in the photograph was most certainly not her husband, but someone who looked a great deal like him. A double. There was no way to convince her otherwise. And do you know, Salvo, why she acted that way?”

“Enlighten me, Master.”

“She is so jealous, she is denying reality.”

“But, Master, how do you manage to plumb such unfathomable depths of the human psyche? Do you use oxygen tanks or just hold your breath?”

“Salvo, when you put your mind to it, you’re very good at acting like an asshole.”

“But who says it’s actually reality?” asked Fazio, doubtful.

“Are you in league with Signora Ciccina?” Augello reacted.

“Inspector, it’s not a matter of being in league with her or not. Once I happened to run into my cousin Antonio on a street in Palermo. I stopped him, embraced him, and kissed him, and he kept looking at me like I was crazy. You see, he wasn’t Antonio, but a spittin’ image of him.”

“So, how did you leave it with Signora Ciccina?” asked Montalbano.

“She said that she’s going to see the commissioner this morning. She claims we concocted this whole business of the photograph just so we wouldn’t have to keep looking for him.”

“Mimì, you know what I say to you? This very morning, you put that photo in your pocket and go talk to the commissioner. Bonetti-Alderighi is liable to let Signora Ciccina persuade him and bring the roof down on our heads.”

“I agree.”

“Fazio, did you have time to do those searches?”

“Yessir. Between Montelusa, Vigàta, and nearby towns, there are four furniture works. As for cabinetmakers and restorers, there are two in Vigàta, four in Montelusa, and one in Gallotta. I’ve got the names and addresses, took them right out of the phone book.”

“You probably ought to start checking them out.”

“All right.”

“Now, I’m going to make three phone calls, which I want the two of you to hear. We’ll talk afterwards,” said Montalbano.

He turned on the speakerphone.

“Cat? I would like you to ring up the
ragioniere
Curcuraci, at the following number—”

“Whawazzat, Chief? Culucaci?”

“Curcuraci.”

“Culculupaci?”

“Never mind. I’ll call him on the direct line.”

“Hello, Ragioniere Curcuraci? Inspector Montalbano of Vigàta police here.”

“Hello, Inspector. What can I do for you?”

“Ragioniere, I got your number from Signora Ingrid Sjostrom.”

“I’m at your service.”

“The lady told me you administer her husband’s holdings and that, among your various responsibilities, you handle the hiring of housekeeping personnel . . .”

“That’s correct.”

“Since they’re usually foreigners—”

“But always perfectly legitimate, Inspector!”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute. What I want to know is, to whom do you turn for referrals?”

“Have you ever met Monsignor Pisicchio, by any chance?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Monsignor Pisicchio is the head of a diocesan organization whose purpose is to help find arrangements for these poor unfortunate people who—”

“I get it, Ragioniere. So you would be in possession of information concerning a certain Irina—”

“Ah, her! What a wretch! Who bites the helping hand you hold out for her! Poor Monsignor Pisicchio was so upset about her! Anyway, I put all the information you want in my report to the carabinieri!”

“Have you got it within reach?”

“Just one minute, please.”

Montalbano gestured to Fazio to write things down.

“Here we are, Irina Ilych, born at Schelkovo on May 15, 1983, passport number—”

“That’ll be enough right there. Thank you, Ragioniere. If I need you for anything else, I’ll give a call.”