IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (25 page)

He opened his eyes and saw Adelina before him with a cup of coffee, the very aroma of which was restorative.

“D’I do right, signore? Maybe you wannata sleep s’more?”

“What time is it?”

“Almos’ nine.”

He got up, took a shower, got dressed, and went into the kitchen.

“Signore, I wannata tell you thet early this a mornin’ I gotta phone call from the lawyer for my boy Pasquali, who you went a see yesterday in jail. The lawyer tol’ me thet my boy tol’ him to tell me an address thet I’m a sposto tell to you.”

Montalbano felt slightly dizzy trying to follow the meaning of Adelina’s last sentence.

“And what’s this address?”

“Iss Via Palermo 16, in Gallotta.

It must be the address where Peppi Cannizzaro was living. Apparently he’d moved with Zin from Montelusa to Gallotta. But at this point it didn’t matter anymore. The investigation was no longer his concern.

“When are they going to let him go home?”

“Mebbe in a coupla days.”

“Thank him for the address. And gimme another cup of coffee, while we’re at it.”

“Ah Chief Chief! I hadda go all day yisterday witout seein’ yiz!”

“Did you miss me? You’re gonna see so much of me the next few days, you’ll probably get sick of me.”

“I never get sick o’ you, Chief!”

A proper declaration of love. Uttered by anyone else, it would have been, at the very least, embarrassing.

“Who’s here?”

“Everyone’s here, Chief.”

“Send me Augello and Fazio.”

They were in the middle of an intense discussion when they arrived.

“Congratulations,” said Mimì. “Fazio told me your performance with Morabito yesterday was one of your best.”

“In all modesty . . . Listen, Fazio, don’t tell me anything of what Morabito said. There’s only one thing I want to know: why he set fire to his store.”

“It was Ragonese’s fault.”

“The editorialist at TeleVigàta?”

“You bet. The day after the body was found, Ragonese, discussing on TV the murder of the girl with no name—that’s what he calls this investigation, the ‘case of the corpse with no name’—”

“Sounds like the title of a movie,” said Mimì.

“A B movie,” added Montalbano.

“—revealed a detail mentioned by Pasquano.”

“The purpurin?”

“No, sir, Pasquano didn’t talk about the purpurin. But he did mention that the shot had blown away the girl’s upper teeth. And so Morabito thought some of the teeth must be scattered around the spot where he killed her. As soon as he closed up the store, he spent the night looking for them but never found them. The cleaning team was supposed to come the next day, but he invented an excuse and told them not to come. And he continued to look, but to no avail. Finally, nearly out of his mind, he decided to torch his store.”

“He should get off pretty easy,” Montalbano commented.

“I don’t think so,” said Fazio. “The prosecutor was beside himself. Concealment and desecration of a corpse, arson—”

“Did Di Nardo by any chance tell you if he intended to get in touch with me to find out how far we’d got with the case?”

“No, but he couldn’t stop singing your praises to the prosecutor. Aside from that—”

“Good. And you, Mimì, what’d you do with Picarella?”

“What do you think? The guy’s an even better actor than you. I found him lying down, with his wife beside him, comforting him and holding his hand. Dr. Fasulo was also there, having just paid a house call and finding him in a ‘deranged’ mental state. I did manage, however, to ask Picarella a question: Could he please show me his passport?”

“Good for you, Mimì!”

“Thanks. He said the kidnappers had confiscated his passport.”

“Of course! He could never show you the passport with the visits to Cuba stamped on it! He said ‘kidnappers’?”

“Yes. Said there were two of ’em, even though Mrs. Picarella claims she only saw one.”

“Did you talk about the photograph?”

“Of course. Both he and his wife covered me with insults and curses. They didn’t come right out and say that it was a fake made by us, but they came close.”

“So you think it’s going to be a long, drawn-out affair with Picarella.”

“Afraid so. Picarella will hold the line more because of his wife than for our sake. Bear in mind that it’s the wife who has the money; he’s pretty poor on his own. If his wife leaves him, he’ll find himself crazy and broke. But at the moment we haven’t got anything on him, except a highly contestable photograph.”

“What are you going to do next?”

“In the meantime, I’m going to go back there with Fazio this afternoon at three. The prosecutor will also be there for formal questioning. And as concerns those names you gave me—”

“The ones from Benevolence? Forget about it, Mimì. Haven’t you realized yet that we’re out of the loop? Can I suggest a few things that you should ask Picarella in the presence of the prosecutor?”

“Go ahead.”

“The prosecutor, naturally, will try to get details about the kidnapping: where they hid him, how they treated him, that sort of crap. And you can be sure Picarella will be very well prepared for such questions. You, instead, should ask him, first: Do you have any idea why the kidnappers never demanded a ransom? Second: And if you weren’t kidnapped for money, what other reason could there be? Third: Who might have known that you had withdrawn a large sum of money and were keeping it at home for only one night, the very night when you were kidnapped?”

“Those sound like three good questions to me.”

“How many wood warehouses does Picarella have?” he asked Fazio.

“Two.”

“Give me the addresses. Do we have a list of all the people who work at them?”

“Yup.”

“Go get it. But first tell me something: In Picarella’s absence, who kept the warehouses running?”

“Ragioniere Crapanzano.”

“What have you got in mind?” Mimì asked him as Fazio went off to fetch the lists.

“I have an idea.”

“Could I have a little preview?”

“Mimì, Picarella had one or two accomplices, right? Accomplices who ran, and are still running, the risk of prosecution. What I mean is that there are certain things people do out of friendship or for money. Didn’t you and Fazio say that Picarella didn’t have any close friends?”

“That’s right, he’s a lone wolf. He stays in his den and only goes out to hunt women.”

“Which means he probably paid a high price to the accomplice or accomplices he needed to stage the kidnapping. I want to start looking for them among the men who work for him.”

“Here are the lists,” said Fazio, entering.

“Good. Now, I don’t want any journalists talking to Picarella. I mean it. A total press blackout. We’ll meet back up at nightfall.”

“Ragioniere Crapanzano? Inspector Montalbano here.”

“At your service, Inspector.”

“Mr. Crapanzano, no doubt you’re aware of the happy outcome of Mr. Picarella’s kidnapping, for which we must eternally thank the Lord?”

“Of course, of course! We even toasted to celebrate! And we’re considering holding a Mass to give thanks.”

“Good for you! I think we can say, then, that his troubles are over, but somebody else’s have only begun.”

“Somebody else?” asked Crapanzano, concerned.

“Why, the person who kidnapped him, of course. We didn’t make any moves earlier because we were afraid to put Mr. Picarella in danger. Now, however, our hands are no longer tied.”

A great big lie, though plausible.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, Ragioniere, aside from yourself, how many people work at the warehouse in Via Bellini?”

“Five. One clerk and four warehousers.”

“And how many at the warehouse in Via Matteotti?”

“Also five.”

“Good.”

He looked at Fazio’s lists. It tallied.

“In one hour, at the latest, I want to see all the employees together in your warehouse.”

“But it’ll be nearly one o’clock! We need to close for lunch!”

“That’s precisely the point.You reopen at four, no? I need barely an hour, at the most. I won’t make any of you miss lunch. And, that way, you won’t have to keep your warehouses closed beyond the usual hours.”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .”

Fazio’s lists were very fussy: Not limiting himself to first name, last name, address, and telephone number, he also wrote down, for each employee, whether or not he was married, what vices he had, what criminal offenses, if any . . .

If Fazio, thought the inspector, hadn’t been Sicilian but Russian at the time of the KGB, he would have had a brilliant career. Perhaps to the point of becoming prime minister, as had now become the custom there, in times of democracy.

When he arrived at the warehouse, they were all there.

Ragioniere Crapanzano, who looked to be in his sixties, introduced to him the firm’s other
ragioniere
, a young man in his thirties named Filippo Strano, who managed the warehouse in Via Matteotti, as well as the fiftyish Signorina Ernestina Pica, accountant. There were only four chairs, and the inspector and the three clerks sat in them.

The warehousers, on the other hand, took their places on two wooden boards resting on top of other boards. Crapanzano introduced them all, from left to right.

Montalbano began to speak.

“I am sure Ragioniere Crapanzano has already told you who I am and why I wanted to see you all. We can’t lose another minute in our pursuit of the dangerous criminals who kidnapped Mr. Picarella. I beg your pardon for asking you to come here during your break. But I think you’ll understand that the real investigation of the case begins now. Poor Mr. Picarella hasn’t been able to say much yet, given the truly disturbing condition he finds himself in at the moment.”

“Is he unwell?” Crapanzano ventured to ask.

Montalbano answered in masterly mime. He spread his arms, raised his eyes to the heavens, and shook his head several times.

“Very unwell. He can hardly speak.”

“Poor man!” said Signorina Pica, the accountant, wiping away a tear.

“And this,” Montalbano continued, “because he was severely beaten, day and night, during the duration of his confinement. That’s what he told us. Kicked, punched, blud geoned. Abused and humiliated in every way imaginable. And for no reason.”

“Poor, poor man!” the accountant repeated.

“His jailers showed no pity. And such behavior aggravates their position. I believe the public prosecutor plans to charge them with attempted murder. We shall be implacable with them!”

Was it really going to be so easy? No sooner had he begun talking about the abuses to which Picarella was subjected, making them up on the spot, than the third warehouseman from the left, the fortyish Salvatore Spallitta, first made a face of utter befuddlement, then began to look quite afraid.