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

something?” said the inspector. “I have the same feeling as you. So let’s finish our check of the furniture makers and afterwards, when we’ve come to the conclusion that we’re on the wrong track, we’ll start looking for another.”
    “Whatever you say, Chief.”

    Since another downpour had broken out and the windshield wipers were having trouble removing the water from the glass, the inspector went crazy trying to find fucking Via Empedocle. When, at last, he turned onto it, he noticed there wasn’t room to park so much as a needle. He managed to park on a nearly parallel little street called Via Platone. Given that he was in a philosophical neighborhood, he decided to take the whole situation philosophically.
    He waited inside his car for the rain to let up, then got out, made a quick dash, and arrived at the apartment a quarter of an hour late. But there were no recriminations.
    “I would like, first of all, to know what your work entails.”
    “The work we do is actually quite simple,” said Cavaliere Guglielmo Piro.
    He was a well-dressed, rather midgetlike man of about sixty, with not a single hair on his head to save his life, and he had a tic: Every three minutes or so he would rapidly slide the index finger of his right hand under his nose. The first of the two small rooms was a kind of reception area with chairs, armchairs, and a sofa; the second room, the one the inspector and the cavaliere were in, had a computer, three file cabinets, two telephones, and two desks.
    “The point is to figure out which of the available girls has the necessary requisites to satisfy the particular needs of the people who come to us. Once we’ve found the right girl, we put her in touch with the applicant. And there you have it.”
    There you have it, my ass , thought Montalbano, who had taken an immediate dislike to the cavaliere for no plausible reason.
    “And what are the particular needs of your clients?”
    The cavaliere slid his finger under his nose three times.
    “I’m sorry, Inspector, but ‘clients’ is not the right word.”
    “Then what is the right word?”
    “I wouldn’t know. But I would like it to be clear that the people who come to us looking for a girl don’t pay a cent. Ours is a social service, not-for-profit, the purpose of which is to rescue and—why not?—to redeem—”
    “Okay, but where does the money come from?”
    Cavaliere Piro’s face looked troubled by the brutality of the question.
    “Providence.”
    “And who’s hidden behind that pseudonym?”
    This time the cavaliere became irritated.
    “We’ve got nothing to hide, you know. We get help from a lot of people, including donations, and then there are the regional and provincial administrations, not to mention town hall, the bishopric, charitable contributions . . .”
    “Not the national government?”
    “Yes, in a small way.”
    “How much?”
    “Eighty euros a day for each guest.”
    Which was a pretty fair contribution, however “small,” as the cavaliere called it.
    “How many girls have you got at the moment?”
    “Twelve. But we’re at our limit.”
    Which came to 960 euros a day. Calculating an average of ten girls a year, that meant 292,000 euros. And that was the least of it? Not bad for a not-for-profit association.
    Montalbano was beginning to smell a rat.

9
    There was, moreover, something in the cavaliere’s attitude that seemed fishy to the inspector. Was he resentful of the way the inspector was asking him questions, or was he afraid he might ask the right question? One that the cavaliere might have trouble answering? And, if so, what was the right question?
    “Have you got a place for the girls to stay while they are awaiting placement?” Montalbano asked, taking a wild stab.
    “Of course. There’s a little villa a bit outside of Montelusa.”
    “Do you own it?”
    “I wish! No, we pay a rather high rent for it.”
    “To whom?”
    “To a company based in Montelusa. It’s called