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

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