IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) by Andrea Camilleri

one wore wool scarves. Not in Vigàta and environs, at least. Perhaps the girl had put on a scarf for a special occasion. And on what sort of special occasions does one wear a wool scarf? He couldn’t think of any.
    And then: Where can one dirty one’s hands with purpurin?
    And why was the purpurin under the girl’s fingernails and not on her fingertips, as would have been more logical?
    Before he entered Vigàta, the deluge the fisherman had forecast the previous day came pouring down.
    He got drenched just walking from the parking lot to the main entrance of the police station.
    “Mr. Beniamino Graceffa is here,” Galluzzo informed the inspector as he was shaking the water off of his suit.
    “Give me a minute to dry my hair, and then send him in.”
    In his office he opened up a file cabinet in which he kept a towel. He rubbed his head with this, then combed his hair. The water that had entered between his shirt and his skin bothered him, however. So he took off his shirt and dried his back, but the moment he put the wet shirt back on, it bothered him even more.
    He started cursing the saints. He took his shirt off again and started waving it in the air. At that moment Mimì Augello walked in.
    “You practicing for the bullfights?”
    “Leave me alone. What did Signora Annunziata say?”
    “A load of crap.”
    “Meaning?”
    “She’s afraid they’re gonna kill her daughter Michela, too, who’s eighteen. She showed me a photograph of her, a real jewel, Salvo.”
    “Why’s she afraid her daughter will be killed?”
    “Because Michela’s also got a tattoo of a butterfly.”
    “The same one as the murdered girl?”
    “No. She described it to me, and it’s not the same at all. And hers is tattooed on her left tit.”
    “So what did you say to her?”
    “First, that if the killers murdered all the girls with butterfly tattoos, it would be a catacomb, as Catarella would say. And, second, to bring her daughter here, so I can carefully examine her tattoo.”
    “Have you gone insane?”
    “I was just kidding, Salvo! You know something? You used to have a sense of humor.”
    “Well, with you, the minute there’s a woman involved, one never knows if you’re kidding or not.”
    “You know what I say? It’s better if I leave. Bye, see you after lunch.”

    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