IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) Read Free Page A

Ever so slowly, he extended his right arm and, with a lightning-quick jab—as you might make to grab a poisonous animal that could bite you—he grabbed the folder at the top of the pile. He opened it and his jaw dropped. It was none other than the file on Giulio Piccolo. He felt like falling to his knees and thanking Saint Anthony, who must certainly have worked this miracle. He opened the folder and started reading. Mr. Piccolo’s fabric shop had burned down. The firemen had determined the cause to be arson. Mr. Piccolo declared that the shop was set on fire because he had refused to pay protection money. The police, on the other hand, believed that it was Piccolo himself who had set fire to his shop to collect the insurance.There was, however, something that didn’t make sense. Giulio Piccolo was born in Licata, lived in Licata, and his shop was located on the main street of Licata. So why was this case not being handled by the Licata police instead of Vigàta’s? The answer was simple: Because at Montelusa Central, they had confused Licata with Vigàta.
    The inspector picked up a ballpoint, a sheet of paper with Vigàta Police letterhead, and wrote:
     
    Respected Mr. Commissioner,
    As Vigàta is not Licata, nor Licata Vigàta, there’s been an error of position, sir. What seems to you inaction, on the order you gave, is nothing at all save respect for jurisdiction.
     
    He signed it and stamped it. Bureaucracy had reawakened a long-lost poetical vein in him. True, the lines stumbled a bit, but Bonetti-Alderighi would never notice that he had answered him in rhyme. The inspector called Catarella, gave him the Piccolo file and the letter, telling him to send the lot to the commissioner after properly registering it according to protocol.

2
    Shortly after Catarella went out, Mimì Augello, back from the dump, appeared in the doorway. His nerves looked frayed.
    “Come on in. Did you finish up?”
    “Yes.” He sat down on the edge of the chair.
    “What’s wrong, Mimì?”
    “I have to run home. On my way here Beba rang to tell me she needs me because Salvuzzo’s crying with a tummy ache and she can’t seem to calm him down.”
    “Does he often have this problem?”
    “Often enough to bust my balls.”
    “Your attitude doesn’t seem very fatherly to me.”
    “If you had a son as annoying as mine, you’d have him flying out the window.”
    “But wouldn’t Beba do better to call a doctor instead of you?”
    “Of course. But Beba can’t take a step without having me beside her. She’s incapable of making any sort of decision on her own.”
    “Okay, tell me what you have to tell me, and you can go home.”
    “I managed to talk a little with Pasquano.”
    “Did he tell you anything?”
    “You know what he’s like. He takes every little killing personally. Like some sort of offense, some slight to himself. And it gets worse with each passing year. Jesus, what a nasty disposition!”
    Deep down, Montalbano felt he understood Pasquano perfectly.
    “Maybe he can’t stand cutting up corpses anymore. So, tell me.”
    “Between the curses, I was able to make him tell me that, in his opinion, the girl wasn’t killed where her body was found.”
    “Wait a second. Who was it that found her?”
    “Somebody named Salvatore Aricò.”
    “And what was he doing around there at the crack of dawn?”
    “The guy goes to the dump every day, first thing in the morning, to look for things that can be salvaged, which he then fixes up and resells. He told me that nowadays the stuff he finds is practically brand-new, hardly used at all.”
    “You just now discovering consumerism, Mimì?”
    “As soon as he got there, Aricò saw the body and called us on his cell phone. When I questioned him, I realized he didn’t know any more than he’d already told us, so I had him give me his address and telephone number and let him go, because, among other things, the guy was really upset and kept throwing up.”
    “You were