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

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