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

you keep her as your housekeeper?”
    “She suddenly disappeared!”
    “What do you mean?”
    “One morning I noticed she wasn’t about the house. I asked the cook, but she hadn’t seen her, either. So I went into her room, but she wasn’t there. She never came back. I ended up replacing her with a woman from Zambia.”
    Right, as if she would ever replace her with someone from Bologna or Messina. Every time the inspector called Ingrid’s house, the phone was answered by someone from Tananarive, Palikir, or Lilongwe . . .
    “But her disappearance seemed suspicious to me,” Ingrid continued.
    “Why?”
    “As you know, I’m hardly ever at home, but the few times I spoke to her—”
    “How long did she stay with you?” Montalbano interrupted.
    “A month and a few days. As I was saying, the few times I spoke with her she didn’t make a good impression on me.”
    “Why not?”
    “She was evasive, vague. She didn’t want to tell me anything about herself.”
    “And after you became suspicious, what did you do?”
    “I went to check the places where I kept my jewelry.”
    “You don’t have a safe?”
    “No. I keep them hidden in three different places. I never wear them, but once I did put some on, because I had to accompany my husband to an important dinner, and on that occasion, the girl must have figured out where I kept them.”
    “Did she steal them?”
    “The ones in that particular hiding place, yes.”
    “Were they insured?”
    “You must be kidding!”
    “How much were they worth?”
    “About three, four hundred thousand euros.”
    “Why didn’t you report her?”
    “My husband did report her!”
    “To Montelusa Central?”
    “No, the carabinieri.”
    So that was why he hadn’t heard anything about it. Imagine the carabinieri ever keeping them informed about anything! But didn’t the police, for their part, do the same with the carabinieri?
    “What was her name?”
    “She said it was Irina.”
    “But weren’t you ever able to see any sort of identification papers?”
    “No. Why should I?”
    “Listen, how can you hire housekeepers, cooks, butlers . . . Your house is a revolving door.”
    “I’m not the one who hires them. The ragioniere Curcuraci does.”
    “And who’s he?”
    “He’s the accountant who used to manage my father-in-law’s estate, which is now my husband’s.”
    “Have you got his phone number?”
    “Yes, but it’s on my cell phone, which I left in the car. When we go out now, I’ll get it for you. Listen, if you want, I could . . . though I don’t really like the idea at all . . .”
    “You want to see the body?”
    “If it would help you to identify her . . .”
    “The shot that killed her practically took away her whole face. You wouldn’t be able to recognize her. Unless . . . Listen, this Irina, did she have any distinguishing features you may have noticed?”
    “In what sense?”
    “Moles, scars . . .”
    “On her face and hands, no. On other parts of her body, I couldn’t say. It’s not like I saw her naked or anything.”
    It was a stupid question.
    “Wait,” Ingrid continued . . . Would contact lenses be a distinguishing feature?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “Because Irina wore them. One day, I remember, she lost one, but then we found it.”
    “Could you come with me to my office for five minutes? I want to show you a photograph.”
    “This is the second time,” said Ingrid, standing up.
    “For what?”
    “The second time we’re talking about an unknown person you’re investigating and who I—”
    “Right . . .” Montalbano said hesitantly.
    Ingrid was referring to the time she saw on his desk the photograph of a drowned man who had been her lover, a fact that had enabled the inspector to break up a child-trafficking ring.
    But Montalbano wasn’t fond of remembering that case. It had cost him an injury to his shoulder and, what weighed far more heavily on him, he had even been forced to kill a man.

    “I have no doubts.