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

up to driving?”
    “No,” Ingrid replied in slurry voice. “You going to throw me out?”
    “I wouldn’t dream of it. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll drive you home.”
    “I wouldn’t get in a car with you even if you were sober, so I’m certainly not going to get in with you now. Got any more whisky?”
    “I should have another half bottle.”
    “Go get it.”
    They polished it off.
    “I suddenly feel sleepy,” said Ingrid.
    She stood up, staggering a little, bent over, and kissed Montalbano on the forehead.
    “Good night.”
    Montalbano went into the bathroom trying to make as little noise as possible, and when he got into bed, Ingrid, who had put on one of his shirts, was fast asleep.

7
    He woke up later than usual, and with a bit of a headache.
    Ingrid was still dead to the world. She hadn’t moved all night from the position in which she had lain down. The scent of her skin ended up making Montalbano stay in bed a while longer, eyes closed and nostrils open. Then he got up gently and went to look out the window.
    It wasn’t raining, but it was hopeless. The sky was black and uniformly overcast.
    He went into the bathroom, got dressed, made coffee, drank two cups, one after the other, then brought one to Ingrid.
    “Good morning. I have to leave in a few minutes. If you want, you can stay in bed as long as you like.”
    “Wait for me. I’ll take a quick shower and be ready in a jiffy. And I’d like another coffee, but I want to drink it with you.”
    He went into the kitchen to prepare another pot for four.
    There was nothing in the house for breakfast, which he never ate. Sometimes there were little tubs of butter and jam in the refrigerator, but that was when Livia, who was in the habit of stealing them from hotels, would bring them with her during her stays at Marinella.
    Montalbano set the small table in the kitchen as best he could, with a couple of small paper napkins, two demitasses, and a sugar bowl.
    When Ingrid came in, the coffee had just finished bubbling up. They sat down and the inspector filled her cup.
    For once, Montalbano felt a little awkward with her.
    Maybe he shouldn’t have opened up so much to Ingrid the previous evening; maybe he shouldn’t have confided so much in her. She was Swedish, after all. Emotional reserve is a matter of religion for them. He probably made her feel embarrassed.
    And if he had overstepped some boundary by telling her what had happened with Adriana, what right did he have to tell her of Livia’s affair with Gianni? That was Livia’s business and, at most, his, and it should have remained between them. On the other hand, with whom else besides Ingrid could he have talked about the situation?
    You know why you happened to spill the beans with Ingrid? Because you’re old and you can’t handle mixing wine and whisky anymore, said Montalbano One.
    Wine, whisky, and old age have nothing to do with it, Montalbano Two butted in. How can you avoid bleeding from an open wound?
    Ingrid, however, didn’t bring the previous evening’s subject back up. It was clear she sensed Montalbano’s uneasiness.
    “What are you working on these days?”
    “The local TV stations haven’t been talking about anything else these last few days.”
    “I never watch the local TV stations. Or the national ones, for that matter.”
    “A dead girl was found in an illegal dump, murdered. We’re having a very hard time identifying her. She was naked, without clothes or documents. Just a small tattoo.”
    “What kind of tattoo?”
    “A moth.”
    “Where?” asked Ingrid, suddenly attentive.
    “Right near her left shoulder blade.”
    “Oh my God!” said Ingrid, turning pale.
    “What is it?”
    “Until about three months ago I had a Russian housekeeper who had a tattoo just like that . . . How old was the girl who was killed?”
    “Twenty-five, at the most.”
    “It fits. My girl was twenty-four. Oh my God!”
    “Not so fast. It might not be her. Listen, why didn’t