IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (22 page)

“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 wife 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.

“You can smell it a little, can’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Fazio.

“But I washed!” Morabito protested.

“It takes a while for it to go away, you know.”

They returned to their places.

“You can continue, Mr. Morabito.”

“I smelled something burning, so I opened the door to the stairs and the smoke poured in and I started choking. So I called the firemen and they came right away. Do you know how easily paints can catch fire?”

“What were you doing?”

“I was going to bed. It was past midnight. I’d been watching TV . . .”

“What were you watching?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you remember the channel?”

“No. But . . . ”

“Go on, go on.”

“I’m sorry, Inspector, but I’ve already told the whole story to the local police, the fire chief, the insurance people . . . What’s this got to do with you?”

“I and my colleague Fazio are part of a special new team appointed by the commissioner. Very special. We deal in cases of arson that can be attributed to failure to pay the protection racket.”

The inspector then stood up and started yelling.

“We can’t go on this way! Honest businessmen like yourself must never again be subjected to the Caudine Forks imposed by the Mafia! We’ve waited forty years, and that’s enough!”

He sat down, congratulating himself for both the Caudine Forks and the quotation of Mussolini. Fazio looked at him in admiration.

Costantino Morabito, shaken first by the smelling, then by the yelling, swallowed the lie like fresh water and became much more nervous.

“I . . . I would rule that out.”

“You would rule what out?”

“The f-failure to pay . . .”

“You pay the racket regularly?”

“No . . . it’s got nothing to do with paying or not paying. I am certain that the cause of the fire is not what you think.”

“It’s not? And what do
you
think is the cause?”

“I don’t think it was arson.”

“So what was it, then?”

“Maybe a short circuit.”

“Before summoning you here, I went and had a long talk with Engineer Ragusano of the Fire Brigade. He’s ruled out any short circuits.”

“Why?”

“Because the point where the fire started has been located, and there’s nothing there that has anything to do with electricity.”

“Then it must have been spontaneous combustion.”

“Ragusano rules that out, too, because of the temperature. And he has some questions.”

“He didn’t ask me any.”

“He hasn’t yet, but he will.”

The moment called for a slightly sinister chortle, which the inspector executed to perfection. This elicited another admiring glance from Fazio and a disconcerted stare from Morabito.

“Oh, will he ever!” he continued, following with another Mephistophelian chortle. “Want to hear one?”

“All right, let’s hear one,” said Morabito, wiping the glistening sweat from his brow.

“The fire started in a specific spot, at the foot of the internal staircase. Where there should not have been any inflammable material. But the firemen indeed found some right there. Ragusano told me these materials had been piled up, in fact, as if to form a little pyre. Who put them there?”

“How should I know?” replied Morabito. “When I closed the store, there wasn’t anything at the foot of the stairs.”

“Care to venture a guess?”

“What do you want me to say? They were probably put there by whoever started the fire.”

“Right. But that raises another question: How did the arsonist get in there?”

“How should I know?”

“The store’s two rolling metal shutters had not been forced. The windows were all found closed. How did he get inside?”

The handkerchief with which Morabito was wiping his brow was soaked.

“He might’ve used some kind of timing device,” he said. “Something he left at the foot of the stairs before the store closed.”

“Did you close up the store from the outside?”

“No. Why would I do that? I closed it up the way I’ve always done.”

“Which is?”

“From the inside.”

“And how did you return to your apartment?”

“How else? I went up the inside stairs.”

“In the dark?”

Morabito’s sweat had now soaked through his jacket as well. He had two dark stains under the armpits.

“Whattya mean, in the dark? I turned on the light.”

“Come on! If you turned on the light, you would have to have seen the timing device. Didn’t you see it?”

“Of course I didn’t see it!”

“So I shall make a note that you admit—”

Morabito lurched so severely in his chair that he nearly fell.

“What . . . what do I admit? I haven’t admitted anything!”

“I’m sorry. Let’s proceed in an orderly fashion. At first you maintained that the fire might have been started by a short circuit or spontaneous combustion. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“But if you now come out with this idea that it was a timing device, it means you’re admitting that arson is a possibility, after all. Makes sense, no?”

Morabito didn’t answer. An ever so slight tremor began to run through his body.

“Listen, Morabito, I’ll meet you halfway. I can see you’re having trouble. Shall we set aside this idea of a timing device, since, in any case, no trace of one was ever found?”

Morabito nodded, to say yes. Apparently he was unable to utter a word.