IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (8 page)

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Authors: Andrea Camilleri

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BOOK: IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009)

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In the doorway appeared a short, rotund man of about seventy with a face so red it looked like a ripe tomato, and beady eyes buried in all the fat.

“May I come in?”

“Please do.”

The man entered, and Montalbano gestured to him to sit down.

“Beniamino Graceffa’s the name.”

He sat down on the edge of a chair.

“I’m retired,” he declared right off the bat, without the inspector having yet asked him anything.

“I’m seventy-two,” he added, after a pause.

He sighed.

“And I’ve been a widower for ten years.”

Montalbano let him talk.

“I got no children.”

The inspector cast him a glance of encouragement.

“I’m looked after by Concetta, one of my sister Carmela’s daughters.”

Pause.

“Last night I was watching television.”

Long pause. Montalbano figured it was perhaps his turn now.

“Did you recognize the tattoo?”

“Exactly the same.”

“Where did you see it?”

Beniamino Graceffa’s beady eyes sparkled. He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Where do you think I saw it, Inspector?” He gave a little smile and continued. “Behind a girl’s shoulder.”

“Was it in the same place? Near the left shoulder blade?”

“In the exact same place.”

“And where was the girl when you saw the tattoo?”

“Iss a delicate matter.”

“You’ve already said that, Mr. Graceffa.”

“Lemme explain. About five months ago, my niece Concetta told me she couldn’t come help me anymore for a while, seeing as how she had to go to Catania for a temporary job.”

“And so?”

“And so my sister Carmela, who’s afraid to leave me by myself, seeing as how I’ve had two heart attacks, found me a girl, a . . . how do you call ’em these days?”

“Home care assistant.”

“Right. Actually my sister would have preferred an elderly person, but she didn’t find any. And so she brought this Russian girl named Katya to my house.”

“Very young?”

“Twenty-three years old.”

“Pretty?”

Beniamino Graceffa brought the thumb, forefinger, and middle finger of his right hand to his lips and made the sound of a kiss. That said it all.

“Did she sleep at your place?”

“Of course.” He stopped and looked around himself.

“Don’t worry, there’s just me and you here.”

Graceffa leaned forward, towards the inspector.

“I’m still a man, you know.”

“My compliments. Are you trying to tell me that you had relations with this girl?”

Graceffa made a disconsolate face.

“No way, Inspector! It wasn’t possible!”

“Why not?”

“Inspector, one night when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I went into her room. But there was nothing doing. I couldn’t convince her, not even when I told her I was willing to spend a lot of money.”

“What did you do then?”

“Inspector, I’m an old-fashioned gentleman, you know! What was I supposed to do? I let it drop.”

“So how were you able to see the tattoo?”

“Inspector, can we talk man to man?”

“Of course.”

“I saw that butterfly three or four times when the girl was taking a bath.”

“Let me get this straight: You were with the girl when she was taking a bath?”

“No, Inspector, sir. She was alone in the bathroom, and I was outside.”

“So how did you . . .”

“I was spying on her.”

“From where?”

“Through the hole.”

“The keyhole?”

“No, sir, you couldn’t see anything through the keyhole, ’cause usually the key was in it and blocked the view.”

“And so?”

“One day, when Katya went out shopping, I took my drill and enlarged a hole that was already there in the door.”

Truly an old-fashioned gentleman.

“And the girl didn’t notice?”

“It’s a very old door.”

“And was this girl blond or brunette?”

“Hair was black as ink.”

“Well, the girl who was killed was blond.”

“So much the better. I’m glad it wasn’t her. Because a man can grow fond of a girl like that.”

“How long was she at your place?”

“One month and twenty-four and a half days.”

Surely he’d been counting, down to the minutes.

“Why did she leave?”

Graceffa sighed.

“My niece Concetta came back.”

“Do you know how long the girl had been in Italy?”

“More than a year.”

“What did she do before working for you?”

“She was a dancer in nightclubs in Salerno and Grosseto.”

“Where was she from?”

“You mean the name of the town in Russia? She told me once, but I forget. If it comes back to me, I’ll give you a call.”

“But didn’t she earn more working as a dancer in nightclubs?”

“She told me she earned a pittance as a home assistant.”

“She never told you why she stopped working as a dancer?”

“She told me once that it wasn’t her own choice, and that it was better for her to stay away for a while.”

“Did she speak good Italian?”

“Good enough.”

“Did she receive any visits from anyone during the time she lived with you?”

“Never.”

“Did she get any days off?”

“Thursdays. But she was always back by ten o’clock in the evening.”

“Did she often receive or make phone calls?”

“She had her own cell phone.”

“Did it ring often?”

“During the day, at least ten times. At night I couldn’t say.”

“Man to man, Mr. Graceffa, did you ever happen to get up in the middle of the night and go listen at the girl’s bedroom door?”

“Well, yeah. A few times.”

“Did you hear her talking?”

“Yes, but she was talking too softly for me to understand anything. However . . .”

“Go on.”

“Once, when her phone was discharged, she asked me if she could make a call on mine. I could hear her but I couldn’t understand anything because she was speaking Russian. But she must have been talking to a girl because she kept calling her Sonya.”

“Thank you, Mr. Graceffa. If you remember the name of the girl’s town, give me a ring. I mean it.”

It was already past lunchtime, and still no sign of Catarella.

The inspector decided to go to Enzo’s. It was still raining.

He smoked a cigarette in the doorway, waiting for the water pouring down from the heavens to let up. Then he made a dash to his car, got in, and drove off. Luckily he found a parking spot close to the restaurant entrance.

“Inspector, I should warn you that the sea is really rough today,” said Enzo by way of greeting.

“What the hell do I care? I don’t have to go out on a boat.”

“You’re wrong. You should care, and how!”

“What do you mean?”

“Inspector, if the sea is rough, the fishing boats don’t go out to fish, and therefore tomorrow, instead of fresh fish, you’ll find a plate of frozen fish or a nice piece of
vitella alla milanese
under your nose.”

Montalbano shuddered at the thought of
vitella alla milanese
.

“But is there any fish today?”

“Yes there is. Fresh as can be.”

“So why frighten me in advance?”

Perhaps because he knew there wouldn’t be any fresh fish the next day, he ordered a double serving of mullets.

When he stepped out of the trattoria, it was coming down in buckets. A walk along the jetty was out of the question. All he could do was go back to the station.

Still at the switchboard was Galluzzo.

“Any news of Catarella?”

“None.”

“Anyone call for me?”

“Zito the newsman. Says to call him back.”

“All right, ring him up and put it through to my desk.”

He didn’t have time to finish drying his head before the phone rang.

“Salvo? This is Nicolò. Did you see it?”

“No. See what?”

“I broadcast the photos of the tattoo on the morning edition at ten and on the afternoon edition at one.”

“Thanks. I’ve even spoken with the two people who called you.”

“Did they tell you anything useful?”

“One of them, Graceffa, maybe yes. You should—”

“—keep broadcasting the pictures. I got that. Whatever you say.”

Finally, just a few minutes before four, Catarella returned in glory and triumph.

“Iss all done, Chief! Cicco de Cicco wasted a lotta time, but ’e did a maspertiece!”

He pulled four photographs out of an envelope and set them down on the inspector’s desk.

“Look atta ’riginal, then look atta tree copies ’n’ see how the man you wanted changed is changed!”

Indeed, Di Noto, now with a mustache and glasses and a few white hairs, looked like quite another person.

“Thanks, Cat, and give Cicco de Cicco my compliments. When Inspector Augello and Fazio return, tell them to come into my office.”

Catarella walked out strutting like a peacock. Montalbano paused to think for a minute, then made up his mind and slipped the original and three copies into a drawer.

Fazio and Augello arrived almost simultaneously at around four-fifteen.

“Catarella said you wanted to see us,” said Mimì.

“Yes. Sit down, both of you, and listen to what I have to say.”

He told them what he’d found out from Dr. Pasquano and what Graceffa had said to him.

“What do you think?”

“I’m wondering,” Mimì led off, “if there’s any significance in the fact that two girls of more or less the same age, probably both foreign, had the same tattoo in the same place.”

“But, Mimì, you yourself told me that nowadays girls have tattoos all over their bodies!”

“Of the same moth?”

“What makes you so sure it’s the same?”

“It’s what Graceffa told you.”

“Yes, but bear in mind that Graceffa is over seventy, he was spying on the girl through a hole and from a certain distance, and one can just imagine how closely he was studying her left shoulder blade when the girl was naked in front of him. Then tell me how reliable you think his testimony really is!”

“It’s possible that seeing all that divine grace before his eyes, Graceffa’s vision became more keen,” Augello retorted.

“I, on the other hand, have been thinking about the purpurin,” said Fazio.

“Good for you,” said Montalbano.

“Where is it that people work with purpurin?” Fazio wondered aloud, then answered his own question: “At furniture factories.”

“Do people still make gilded furniture?” Montalbano asked.

“Of course they do!” said Augello. “The other day I went to the wedding of a distant relative of Beba’s. Well, the furniture was all—”