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

said Montalbano.
    He turned on the speakerphone.
    “Cat? I would like you to ring up the ragioniere Curcuraci, at the following number—”
    “Whawazzat, Chief? Culucaci?”
    “Curcuraci.”
    “Culculupaci?”
    “Never mind. I’ll call him on the direct line.”

    “Hello, Ragioniere Curcuraci? Inspector Montalbano of Vigàta police here.”
    “Hello, Inspector. What can I do for you?”
    “Ragioniere, I got your number from Signora Ingrid Sjostrom.”
    “I’m at your service.”
    “The lady told me you administer her husband’s holdings and that, among your various responsibilities, you handle the hiring of housekeeping personnel . . .”
    “That’s correct.”
    “Since they’re usually foreigners—”
    “But always perfectly legitimate, Inspector!”
    “I don’t doubt that for a minute. What I want to know is, to whom do you turn for referrals?”
    “Have you ever met Monsignor Pisicchio, by any chance?”
    “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
    “Monsignor Pisicchio is the head of a diocesan organization whose purpose is to help find arrangements for these poor unfortunate people who—”
    “I get it, Ragioniere. So you would be in possession of information concerning a certain Irina—”
    “Ah, her! What a wretch! Who bites the helping hand you hold out for her! Poor Monsignor Pisicchio was so upset about her! Anyway, I put all the information you want in my report to the carabinieri!”
    “Have you got it within reach?”
    “Just one minute, please.”
    Montalbano gestured to Fazio to write things down.
    “Here we are, Irina Ilych, born at Schelkovo on May 15, 1983, passport number—”
    “That’ll be enough right there. Thank you, Ragioniere. If I need you for anything else, I’ll give a call.”

    “Dr. Pasquano? Montalbano here.”
    “What can I do for you, dear friend?”
    The inspector balked. How could this be? What was happening? No obscenities, no insults, no curses?
    “Doctor, are you feeling all right?”
    “I feel excellent, my friend. Why do you ask?”
    “No, nothing. I wanted to ask you something about the girl with the tattoo.”
    “Go right ahead.”
    Montalbano was so flummoxed by Pasquano’s politeness that he had trouble speaking.
    “Did . . . did she wear contact lenses?”
    “No.”
    “Couldn’t they have fallen out when she was shot in the face?”
    “No. That girl had never worn contact lenses. Of that I can assure you.”
    A light came on in Montalbano’s mind.
    “How did it go at the club last night, Doctor?”
    Pasquano’s laughter thundered in the room.
    “You know what? I got the full house you wished me!”
    “Really? So how did things turn out?”
    “I stuck it to all of them! Just think, one of them raised me by . . .”

    Montalbano hung up.
    “Signor Graceffa? Montalbano here.”
    “Inspector, did you know I was just about to call you myself ?”
    “What did you want to tell me?”
    “That I remembered the name of the town that Katya came from. I believe it was called Schickovo, or something like that.”
    “Could it have been Schelkovo?”
    “Yes, that’s it!”
    “Signor Graceffa, I called you for another reason.”
    “I’m happy to help.”
    “After Katya left, did you happen to check and see if she took anything from your home?”
    “What would she have taken?”
    “I dunno, silverware, something that used to belong to your wife . . .”
    “Inspector, Katya was an honest girl!”
    “Okay, but have you checked?”
    “No, I haven’t, but . . .”
    “Go on.”
    “Iss a delicate matter.”
    “You know I’m silent as the tomb.”
    “Are you alone in your office? Is there anyone there who can hear me?”
    “I’m completely alone; you can speak freely.”
    “Well . . . in short . . . that night I told you ’bout . . . when I went to see Katya to . . . you remember?”
    “Perfectly.”
    “Okay . . . I told the girl I would give her my wife’s earrings if she . . . I even showed them to her . . . they’re really