IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (19 page)

“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.

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.

“Should I tell him we’re with the police?” asked Fazio.

“Not even if they torture you,” replied the inspector.

Another carabiniere circled around the car. He, too, leaned down to the window.

“Did you know that your left taillight is broken?”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” said Fazio.

“Did you know?” Montalbano asked a moment later.

“Of course I knew. I noticed it this morning. But I couldn’t very well take the time to have it changed, could I?”

The second carabiniere started whispering to the first. Who, for his part, began writing things on the clipboard he had been carrying under his arm until now.

“I’m sure to get a fine this time,” Fazio muttered.

“Do you get reimbursed for your fines?”

“Are you kidding?”

Meanwhile, out of one of the carabinieri’s two cars stepped a marshal, who began to approach.

“Goddammit!” Montalbano exclaimed.

“What is it?”

“Gimme a newspaper, gimme a newspaper!”

“I haven’t got a newspaper!”

“Then a road map, quick!”

Fazio handed him a map, which Montalbano opened up completely, pretending to study it and practically covering his whole face. But then he heard a voice through the car window.

“Excuse me, you!”

He pretended not to have heard.

“I’m talking to you!” the voice repeated.

He had no choice but to lower the map.

“Inspector Montalbano!”

“Marshal Barberito!” replied the inspector, making a considerable effort to feign surprise and smile.

“What a pleasure to see you!”

“The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you,” said Montalbano, getting out of the car and shaking his hand.

He felt, at that moment, that he could be included in the
Guinness Book of World Records
as champion of hypocrisy.

“Headed anywhere interesting?”

“To Fiacca.”

Meanwhile the other two carabinieri had come closer.

“For a case?”

“Yeah.”

“Give the driver back his documents.”

“But . . . ,” said one of the carabinieri, who, upon realizing that the two were from the police, didn’t want to give up his bone.

“No buts,” commanded Marshal Barberito.

“Look, Marshal, if we’re at fault, we have no problem with—” began Guinness champion Montalbano, assuming the air of someone superior to the petty matters of existence.

“You must be joking!” said Barberito, holding out his hand to him.

“Th-thanks,” said Montalbano.

He could barely refrain from exploding with rage.

They drove off. After a long silence, Fazio made the only comment possible:

“They made monkeys out of us.”

Right outside the gates of Fiacca, Fazio’s cell phone rang. “It’s Catarella. What do I do, answer?”

“Answer,” said Montalbano. “And let me hear, too.”

“There’s not going to be another roadblock, is there?”

“I don’t think so. The carabinieri have even less gasoline than we do.”

“Come as close you can.”

The inspector brought his head right up next to Fazio’s. But because of the potholes in the road, every now and then they knocked heads like two rams.

“Hello, Catarella, what is it?”

“Is the chief on the premises poissonally in poisson inside your car?”

“Yes. Go ahead and talk so he can hear you.”

“Ah, I’m so touched! Jesus, I’m rilly, rilly touched!”

“Okay, Cat, try to calm down and talk.”

“Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief Chief!”

“Is this a broken record or something?” asked Fazio, who drove with his left hand while using his right hand to hold the cell phone within range of his ear and the inspector’s.

“If he says ‘Ahh Chief Chief ’ three times it must be something really serious,” said Montalbano, feeling slightly worried.

“You gonna tell us what happened or not?” said Fazio.

“They found Picarella! Found ’im this morning! Passed on to a better life!”

“Shit!” exclaimed Fazio as the car swerved, provoking a pandemonium of screeching tires and horn blasts from cars, motorbikes, and trucks going in both directions.

“Holy fucking shit!” Montalbano hurled back.

Fazio dropped the cell phone to gain better control of the car.

“Pull over and stop,” said Montalbano.

Fazio obeyed. They looked at each other.

“Shit!” said Fazio, reasserting the concept.

“So the kidnapping was for real!” said Montalbano, confused and bewildered. “It wasn’t a put-on!”

“We were wrong about him, poor guy!” said Fazio.

“But why did they kill him without first asking for a ransom?” Montalbano wondered.

“Who knows?” muttered Fazio, who again repeated, in a soft, frightened voice: “Shit!”

“Call up Augello and pass me the phone.”

Fazio picked up the cell phone and dialed the number.

“
The telephone of the person you are trying to reach
. . . ,” began the woman’s recorded voice.

“He’s got it turned off.”

“
Matre santa
,” said Montalbano. “Now if the commissioner kicks our asses and rakes us over the coals he’ll be right!”

“And what am I gonna do with Signora Picarella? This is gonna turn out badly for all of us! The commissioner’ll probably have us out on the street selling chickpeas and pumpkin seeds!” said Fazio, beginning to sweat.

The inspector, too, felt as if he was sweating. The matter was certainly bound to have serious, indeed grave, consequences.

“Call Catarella again and ask him if he knows where Augello is. We have to come up with a plan of common defense immediately.”

Since they weren’t moving, it was easier for Montalbano to listen.

“Hello, Cat? Do you know were Inspector Augello is?”

“Seeing as how Inspector Augello found hisself on the premisses herein at the station when we got the news that the beforementioned Picarella was found, he bestook hisself to the Picarella house wherein to talk . . .” (
He went and faced the just-widowed Signora Picarella?
Montalbano thought.
Mimì’s a brave man!
) “. . . with the same poisson,” Catarella concluded.

Montalbano and Fazio looked at each other, speechless. Had they heard right? Had they really heard what they’d heard? If Picarella was dead, the same person with whom Mimì had gone to talk to could not humanly be Picarella. But Catarella had said “the same poisson.” The question was: What did Catarella mean by “same”?