IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (23 page)
BOOK: IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009)
10.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Very well. Nix the timing device. According to Ragusano,” Montalbano continued, “that little sort of pyre created for the purpose was generously doused in gasoline, after which, all it took was one match . . . You must admit, it’s very strange!”
“What’s very strange?”
“That the firebug didn’t catch fire himself! Ha ha! That’s a good one! Ah, so good! You know, like the Lumière brothers’
l’arroseur arrosé
, or the doctor who gets a taste of his own medicine!”
l’arroseur arrosé
, or the doctor who gets a taste of his own medicine!”
And he laughed, stamping his feet on the floor and slapping the desktop loudly.
Morabito stared at him, frightened and bug-eyed. Perhaps he was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t dealing with an imbecile or a raving lunatic. What the hell was the guy talking about?
“Unless . . .”
Sudden change of expression. Brow furrowed, eyes pensive, mouth slightly twisted.
“Unless?” Morabito asked almost breathlessly.
“Unless the firebug wasn’t already on the stairs. He makes the little pile, goes up the stairs, and throws the lighted match, or whatever it was, down from above, since by now he’s beyond the reach of the flames. But in that case . . .”
Suspense. Pause. Squinty facial expression because an idea was taking form in his brain.
“. . . in that case?” Morabito exhaled.
“In that case, to get out of harm’s way, the firebug had no other choice but to enter your apartment. Did you see him?”
“Who?” asked Morabito, completely at a loss.
“The firebug.”
“How on earth—?!”
“Are you sure?”
“If I say—”
Montalbano raised his hand.
“Stop!”
And he started staring at the upper left-hand corner of the room. Then he whispered to himself:
“Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . .”
He looked back down at Morabito:
“Do you know I’m starting to have an idea?”
“An idea . . . of what?”
“That you not only saw the arsonist, but you even recognized him and you don’t want to tell us.”
“Wh-why wouldn’t . . .”
“Because you’re afraid. And you’re afraid because the arsonist was one of the Stellino brothers, the mafiosi who control your neighborhood.”
Morabito stood straight up, staggered, and had to sit back down.
“For heaven’s sake! For the love of God! The Stellinos had nothing to do with this! I swear it!”
“That’s what you say. And since you say it . . . You know what? I’m starting to have another idea.”
Morabito threw up his hands, resigned.
“Do you have enemies?”
“Enemies, me? No.”
“And yet one would think that somebody wanted to . . . what’s the expression? It’s not coming to me . . . Fazio, help me out.”
“To do him a bad turn?” Fazio offered.
“Yes, that’s it! Or we could even say they wanted to set you up! Don’t you think, Mr. Morabito?”
“I . . . I . . . don’t understand . . .”
“But it’s all so simple! Somebody who wants to harm you sets fire to your store so that the blame will fall on the Stellino brothers.”
“Could be,” said Morabito, grasping at Montalbano’s words.
“Think so? I’m so happy that you agree, you know! Really happy! Because, you see, there’s somebody else who thinks it was arson: Mr. Locascio, the insurance assessor.”
“Well, I’m not surprised! Those people are always looking for excuses not to pay!” said Morabito, a bit revived.
“Locascio, however, doesn’t think it has to do with protection money.”
“No? And what’s he think?”
“You want me to tell you? You really want me to? He thinks it was you yourself who set the fire, so you could collect on the insurance.”
“That goddamn son of a bitch! Why would I need any insurance money? My business is doing great! Go and ask the banks, why don’t you!”
“But my colleague Inspector Di Nardo, who interrogated you, thinks differently.”
“Differently from who?”
“From Locascio, naturally. He firmly believes it was about failure to pay the racket. And that was why he asked us to help out. He wants to pin this fire on the Stellino family, who control the area your store is in. Try to be brave, Mr. Morabito. One word from you, and we can put the Stellinos behind bars!”
“We’re back to the Stellinos? But they’ve got nothing do with this!”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. And anyway, even if they did, one word from me, and they’ll kill me!”
“Especially if they had nothing to do with the fire, as you have repeatedly stated.”
“Listen, Inspector, you keep talking and talking and I don’t understand anything anymore!”
“Are you getting tired? Shall we take a break?”
“Yes.”
“You going to report me?”
“Me, report you? Wh-why would I do that?”
“If I smoke a cigarette, I mean. It’s not allowed in here.”
Morabito shrugged his shoulders.
15
The inspector took his time smoking the cigarette, and since he saw no ashtrays anywhere, he snuffed it out against the heel of one shoe and put the butt in his jacket pocket. After all, he already had a nice hole in it, and one hole more or less wasn’t going to make any difference.
For the whole time of his smoke, nobody said a word. Morabito sat there with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Fazio pretended he was writing down the proceedings. Only after putting out the butt did Montalbano notice.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“I was making notes of the interrogation.”
“What interrogation? We’re having an informal conversation among friends. Otherwise Mr. Morabito would have every right to demand that a lawyer witness the proceedings, and we would have to call one for him. Speaking of which, do you want one?”
“One what?”
“A lawyer.”
“Why would I want a lawyer?”
“You never know. But if you’re so certain about everything that you think you don’t need one, so much the better. Do remember, however, that I made you this offer. Feel a little better now?”
Morabito shrugged again, without even looking at him.
“Then we’ll resume. I believe we came to a full stop—that is, the fact that we have to set aside the Stellinos, at least for this go-round. Do you agree?”
“I agree, I agree.”
“So you’ve always paid your protection money on time?”
Morabito didn’t answer.
“Listen, if you admit paying the racket, the whole matter will remain between the three of us. It’ll never leave this room. But if you deny it, and I later find out that you paid, I might get pissed off. And that would be so much the worse for you, ’cause when I get pissed off . . . well, you tell him, Fazio.”
“You’re better off dead,” Fazio said darkly.
“Got that? So think it over carefully. Let me ask you again. Do you pay your protection money regularly?”
“Y-yes.”
“So you’ve got nothing to worry about, from that angle.”
“Yes.”
“However . . .”
“However?”
“That would no longer be the case if I, say, went and told the Stellino brothers that you had accused them. Don’t you think they would take it badly and immediately come and demand an explanation from you?”
Costantino Morabito leapt so far out of his chair that he nearly fell to the floor.
“B-but wh-why would you go and do something so stupid as that? I thought we agreed that the Stellinos had no part in this!”
“Then start talkin’ and tell me who and what’s got a part in this!” the inspector suddenly yelled, slamming his open hand on the desk and making even Fazio jump.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Morabito yelled in turn.
And he started crying bitterly. All of a sudden. Like a small, frightened child.
Montalbano noticed a packet of paper tissues on the table, pulled one out, and handed it to him. With Morabito’s own handkerchief one could have mopped the floor by this point.
“Mr. Morabito, why are you acting this way? I’m surprised at you! You seem like such a sensible man. Is it my fault? Is it something I said? Fazio, help me out a minute. What did I say?”
“He might’ve got upset ’cause you raised your voice,” said Fazio, poker-faced.
“Ah, I didn’t realize it, I’m so sorry. Sometimes it just happens, I can’t help it.”
Morabito wouldn’t stop crying. Montalbano stood up halfway, leaned towards him, and shouted:
“What’s seven times eight? Six times seven? Eight times six? Answer me quick, for chrissake!”
Morabito, still lost in his tears, was so surprised by the questions that he turned and gawked at the inspector.
“You see? He’s calmed down! I’ve always said it: in moments of crisis, all you gotta do is review your multiplication tables, and it’ll all blow over!”
He sat back down, a satisfied expression on his face.
“Listen, can I get you anything?”
“A little . . . a little water.”
“Let’s get him some water,” the inspector said to Fazio. Then, turning around to Morabito: “We’ll be right back.”
They went out into the corridor.
“One more push and he’ll cave in,” said Montalbano.
“Was it him who set fire to the store?”
“I no longer have any doubt. And he’s scared that the Stellinos will get blamed for it. I almost feel sorry for the guy: He’s like a rat being pursued by two starving cats: the Mafia and the law!”
“But why would he do it?”
“Remember that film I told you about? To hide something that could have really big consequences.”
“Such as?”
“What if he was the one who shot and killed the girl?”
“That’s possible, too. But earlier, you mentioned an empty shell. What if Morabito happened to use a revolver?”
“I’ll ask him straightaway. Go get him his water; we don’t want to leave him any time to think. And don’t forget: Be ready to step in, ’cause I’m about to play my aces.”
Morabito downed the whole glass in one gulp. His throat must have been parched, scorched worse than his store.
“Tell me something. Do you own a firearm?” the inspector resumed.
Morabito, not expecting the sudden change of subject, gave a start. The effort he had to make to reply was plain to see. Montalbano realized he was on the right track.
“Yes.”
“Rifle? Carbine? Pistol? Revolver?”
“Revolver.”
“Registered?”
“Yes.”
“What caliber?”
“I dunno. But it’s big.”
“Where do you keep it?”
“At home. In the drawer of my nightstand.”
“After we’ve finished here, we’re gonna go to your place.”
“Why?”
“I want to see your revolver.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve got to stop this constantly asking why, why, why.”
Morabito’s sweat had soaked through the front of his shirt.
“You feel hot? Want another Kleenex?”
“Yes.”
“Have you used your revolver recently?” asked Fazio, who had suddenly grasped the inspector’s intentions.
“No. Why should I have used it?”
“How should we know? You’re the one’s supposed to tell us. Anyway, we’ll know immediately whether you fired it recently or not.”
The tissue in Morabito’s hands ripped.
“H-how?”
“There are so many ways. Listen, anybody ever try to rob your place?”
“Well, yes. Every now and then, somebody comes into the store—”
“That’s shoplifting, not robbery.”
“I don’t—”
“I was referring to robbery at your home.”
“N-no.”
“Never?” Montalbano cut in, having taken a break.
“Never.”
“Do you keep a lot of money at home?”
“The day’s receipts, which I deposit at the bank the following day.”
“Why not deposit it in a night safe?”
“Because one night two shop owners were assaulted on the way to making a deposit.”
“So you don’t deposit your Friday and Saturday receipts till Monday morning?”
“R-right.”
“Therefore one can assume that on Saturday evenings there’s always a large sum of money in your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you usually keep the money? Do you have a safe?”
“No, I keep it in a desk drawer.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Who does your housekeeping for you?”
“Well . . . you see . . . since I have a cleaning company come do the store, we made an agreement . . .”
The effort of having to talk so much had worn him out. He started panting, as though out of breath.
“Mr. Morabito, I can see that you’re tired, and so I’d like to wrap things up. You can answer my questions with a simple yes or no. So you’ve ruled out arson?”
“Y-yes.”
“Therefore you’ve ruled out any involvement on the part of the Stellinos?”
“Yes.”
“The fire was accidental, in your opinion?”
“Y-yes.”
“Very well. Then there remains only one more thing for me to do.”
“Wh-what’s that?”
“Summon you to appear here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”
“Again? Why?”
“For a confrontation between witnesses.”
“Wha-what witnesses?
“The Stellino brothers. I’m going to have them arrested this very evening.”
Great big tears started rolling down Morabito’s face again. His chin was trembling. The tremor in his body had become so visible that he looked as though he had an electrical current running through him.
“Mr. Morabito, I can see that this fire has been a very trying experience for you. I don’t want to tire you out any further. Very well. I think I’ve finished for this evening. Now we go to your place to have a look at that revolver.”
Other books
The Hunted by Matt De La Peña
The Mothers of Voorhisville by Mary Rickert
Beloved Scoundrel by Clarissa Ross
All That Lives Must Die by Eric Nylund
The Alien's Captive by Ruth Anne Scott
O Caledonia by Elspeth Barker
Julia’s Kitchen by Brenda A. Ferber
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Fractured Earth Saga 1: Apocalypse Orphan by Tim Allen
Blood Moon by Graeme Reynolds