IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (29 page)

“I only use public phones when I talk to her.”

For the moment he had no more questions for her. What he’d learned was more than enough.

“Listen, miss, I am extremely grateful to you for what you’ve told me. If I needed to talk to you again, how—”

“Just call me,” said Don Antonio. “But I have one request, if I may.”

“Go ahead.”

“I want you to send all those crooks from Benevolence to jail. Their presence is a blot on the clean, hard work of thousands of honest volunteers.”

“I will certainly try to do that,” said the inspector, standing up.

Katya and Don Antonio also stood up.

“I wish you a serene and happy life,” Montalbano said to Katya. And he embraced her.

Before leaving the bar he tried calling Livia from the establishment’s phone. Nothing.

Catarella again saw him flash by like a rocket.

“Ahh Chie—”

“I’m not here, I’m not here!”

He didn’t even sit down at his desk. Still standing up, he tried calling Livia again. The usual recording. He became convinced that Livia, after waiting for him in vain, had gone back home to Boccadasse, feeling disconsolate, maybe even desperate. What kind of night was she going to have, all alone in Boccadasse? What kind of shit of a man was Salvo Montalbano, who would leave her in the lurch like that?

He searched through a drawer for a small piece of paper, found it, grabbed the outside line, and dialed a number.

“Punta Raisi Airport Police? Is Inspector Capuano there? Could you put him on? This is Inspector Montalbano.”

“Salvo, what is it?”

“Listen, Capuà, you absolutely have to get me a seat on this evening’s flight to Genoa. You also have to make the ticket for me.”

“Wait.”

Multiplication tables for six. Six curses. Multiplication tables for seven. Seven curses. Multiplication tables for eight. Eight curses.

“Montalbano? There’s room. I’ll have somebody book the flight for you.”

“To say you’re an angel is not saying enough, Capuà.”

No sooner had he set down the receiver than Fazio and Augello came in, out of breath.

“Catarella told us you were back, and so—” Mimì began.

“What time is it?” Montalbano interrupted him.

“Almost four.”

He had one hour, more or less, at his disposal.

“We’ve summoned them all,” said Fazio. “Guglielmo will be here at five on the dot, and the others will arrive after that.”

“Now listen to me very carefully, because as soon as I’ve finished talking, the investigation will be in your hands. Yours, Mimì, and Fazio’s.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to disappear, Mimì. And don’t get any ideas about tracking me down and breaking my balls, because, even if you succeed in finding me, I won’t talk to either of you. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Montalbano then recounted what Katya had told him.

“Evidently,” he concluded, “Cavaliere Piro was in league with Lapis. I don’t know about the others. It’s up to you to find out. It’s also obvious that Lapis was murdered out of revenge. He had forced Zin to go back to thieving, and the girl ended up getting shot by Morabito. So Zin’s boyfriend, who apparently was madly in love with her, killed Lapis in turn.”

“It won’t be easy to put a name on this killer,” said Augello.

“I’ll tell you his name, Mimì. It’s Peppi Cannizzaro. A repeat offender.”

Fazio and Augello looked at him dumbfounded.

“All right, but . . . he won’t be easy to find,” said Augello.

“I’ll even give you his address: Via Palermo 16, in Gallotta. You want me also to tell you what size shoe he wears?”

“Oh no you don’t!” Mimì burst out. “You have to tell us how you managed to—”

“None of your fucking business.”

Mimì stood up, made a bow, and sat back down.

“Your explanations, Professor, never leave any room for doubt.”

The telephone rang.

“Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief Chief!”

Must be something serious.

“What’s happened, Cat?”

“Hizzoner the c’mishner called! From Rome, he called!”

“Why didn’t you put his call through to me?”

“ ’Cause he tol’ me to only tell you how and whereats he assolutely wants you to be assolutely onna premisses at five-fifteen onna dot ’cause he’s gonna call back from Rome.”

“When he rings, put him straight through.”

He looked at Fazio and Augello.

“It was the commissioner, calling from Rome. He’s going to call back at five-fifteen.”

“What’s he want?” asked Mimì.

“He’s going to advise us to handle the matter with extreme caution. It’s explosive stuff. Listen, Fazio, is Gallo here?”

“He’s here.”

“Tell him to fill up the tank on one of the squad cars. I’ll pay for it myself. And to make himself available.”

Fazio stood up and walked out.

“I’m not convinced,” said Mimì.

“By what?”

“The commissioner’s phone call. He’s going to make us pass the baton.”

“Mimì, if that happens, what can you do?”

Augello heaved a deep sigh.

“There are moments when I wish I was Don Quixote.”

“There’s an essential difference, Mimì. Don Quixote thought that windmills were monsters, whereas what we’re dealing with really are monsters, but they pretend they’re windmills.”

Fazio returned.

“All taken care of.”

Nobody felt like talking. At five o’clock Catarella announced that Signor Giro had arrived.

“That must be Piro,” said Fazio. “What should I do?”

“Show him into Mimì’s room. And make him wait, the pig.”

At a quarter past five, the telephone rang.

“Ahh Chief Chief!”

“Put him on,” said Montalbano, turning on the speakerphone.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Commi—”

“Montalbano? Listen to me very carefully, and don’t say a word. I’m in Rome, in the undersecretary’s office, and I haven’t got any time to waste. I’ve been informed of what’s happening down there. Among other things, you didn’t even bother to notify Prosecutor Tommaseo of your impulsive summons of the directors of Benevolence. As of this moment, the case is turned over to the chief of the flying squad, Inspector Filiberto. Is that clear? You are not to concern yourself any longer with this case. In no way, shape, or form. Understood? Good-bye.”

“QED,” commented Augello.

The other telephone rang.

“Who could that be?” the inspector wondered.

“The Pope, to tell you you’ve been excommunicated,” said Mimì.

Montalbano picked up the receiver.

“Yes?” he said, keeping to generalities.

“Montalbano? I don’t think we’ve had a chance to meet yet. I’m Emanuele Filiberto, the new chief of the flying squad. I’m wondering how far you got with your investigation.”

“As far as you like.”

“Namely?”

“For example, would you like me to tell you the name and surname of the girl who was killed?”

“Why not?”

“Would you like me to tell you that Tommaso Lapis was the leader of a band of female thieves?”

“Why not?”

“Would you like me to tell you the name of Lapis’s killer?”

“Why not?”

“Would you like me to tell you what connections there were between Lapis and a benevolent association called, indeed, Benevolence, which has protectors in very, very high places? Or should I stop and not tell you anything more?”

“Why stop at the best part?”

“A few minutes ago the commissioner phoned me from Rome.”

“He phoned me, too.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He said to proceed carefully.”

“And that’s all?”

“And that’s all. I’m particularly interested in the connection with the benevolent association. Have you seen the Free Channel today?”

“No. What did they do?”

“They’re making a really big deal out of all this. Out of the scams of this Piro guy. Just think, in the space of three hours they broadcast two special editions.”

“All right, then, my second-in-command, Inspector Augello, is going to come to your office straightaway. He knows everything.”

“I’ll be waiting for him.”

Montalbano set down the telephone and looked at Fazio and Mimì, who had heard everything.

“Maybe there is still a judge in Berlin,” he said, standing up. “Mimì, bring Cavaliere Piro along with you. He’ll be our token of friendship to Filiberto. So long, boys. See you in a few days.”

Gallo was waiting for him in the corridor.

“Can you make it to Punta Raisi in an hour?”

“Yessir, I can, if I turn on the siren.”

It was worse than at Indianapolis. Gallo had fifty-eight firsts and fourteen seconds.

“Don’t you have any baggage?” asked Capuano.

Montalbano slapped himself hard on the forehead. He’d forgotten his suitcase in the trunk of his own car.

Once he was in the air, a wicked hunger came over him.

“Is there anything to eat?” he begged the stewardess.

She brought him a box of cookies. He made do with them.

Then he began to review the words he would have to say to make Livia forgive him. The third time he repeated them, they sounded so convincing to him, so moving, that he very nearly broke out in tears.