The Fourth Secret (8 page)

“What for?”

“Assault, theft, breaking and entering.”

“You’re a thief and yet Mr. Corso trusts you to guard his site? How’s that?”

“What can you steal from a construction site?”

“Well, if you wanted, there’s a lot.”

“Did Mr. Corso call you guys?”

“No. I’m here about the Albanian who died.”

Angelo Piluso looked at him, surprised.

“Really? Wasn’t the marshal investigating that?”

“Yes, but …”

“Then I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

Montalbano, putting his hand on his chest, shoved him against the cot. The guard fell on it.

“What the fuck …”

Montalbano opened the drawer, pushed the gun aside, and picked up the stack of pictures: naked boys and girls in obscene poses. He closed the drawer, walked over to the VCR, and pushed the tape inside.

“And now let’s take a look at this movie.”

“No! No!” the guard squealed.

“Do you have a permit for the gun?”

“Yes.”

“Put a jacket on and come with me to the station.”

“But I told you, I have a permit for it!”

“I’m not taking you in for the gun, but for the pictures and the tape. Do you know what a pedophile is?”

The man kneeled.

“Sir, please! I only look! Look! Never, I’ve never been with a boy or girl! I swear it!”

“We’ll see.”

“Sir, you’ll ruin me! As soon as Mr. Corso hears about this, he’ll fire me!”

“Don’t worry. Don’t you know they’ll take care of you in jail?”

The man started to cry, covering his face with his hands. Montalbano remembered how Catarina Corso had done the same thing, and that filled him with anger. He jumped in front of him, pushed his hands away, and punched him twice, hard and maliciously, once on each cheek. The man remained still, stunned. Then he got up and sat on the bed, with his head down.

“What do you want to know?” he mumbled.

“Why did you say that at a certain point you felt a need to keep a weapon?”

“Because there are too many foreigners on this construction site. Albanians, Turks, blacks … Those people are capable of anything. We need to watch our backs.”

He was lying, the inspector was certain of it. He preferred to let it go.

“You told the marshal that Puka would sometimes get here before everyone else.”

“Yes, that’s true. It happened three or four times.”

“How early?”

“Well … About half an hour before the others.”

“And what would he do?”

“I don’t know what he did. I’d open the big shack for him, he would walk in, and I would come back here.”

“And how do you explain the fact that the day of the accident, instead of staying in the shack, he walked all the way up the scaffolding?”

“How am I supposed to explain that? But I had seen him do it once before.”

“And what was he doing?”

“He was making a phone call. He told me that he couldn’t get any reception down in the shack.”

The explanation was good enough. It was true that there was no reception down there. But the cell phone could help explain many things.

“Who took his cell phone?”

“
Bo
… I didn’t see it next to his body. Maybe the marshal took it.”

“Listen, the morning of the accident, when Puka fell, where were you?”

“In here, Inspector. I hadn’t slept a wink the night before. I had a toothache that …”

“And you didn’t here any screams?”

“No.”

“Not even the sound of the fall?”

“Not a thing.”

He was still lying, that slimy bastard. Montalbano could barely restrain from kicking him in the face. That man inspired in him such a desire for physical violence that it scared him. Better to leave the shack as soon as possible.

“When you saw him on the scaffolding on the phone, what was he wearing? His work clothes?”

“I think he had changed. … Yes, now that I think about it, I’m sure of it. He was wearing his work clothes.”

“Good,” the inspector said walking to the door.

“So, you’re not going to arrest me?”

“Not today.”

The man got up immediately, walked over to Montalbano, knelt, took his hand, started to kiss it, covering the back of it in saliva. Disgusted, the iraised his knee and struck the man’s chin as hard as he could. The guard fell back, twitching in pain. Montalbano walked over him and out into the fresh air.

As he was driving up that damn hill, what the guard had just told him started to spin in his head. There was at least one strange thing, provided that was the truth. Why would Puka climb to the top of the scaffolding in order to make a call? The guard said that there was no reception in the shack, which is fine. But why did he have to call precisely at that moment and from that place? Couldn’t he have called before getting to the construction site? He could have made it from home or from anywhere on the road between Montelusa and Tonnarello, which he took on his motorcycle. In the meantime, he had reached the top of the hill and turned toward the construction site. He understood in flash why Puka, in spite of the fact that he had to act cautiously to avoid the suspicion of his coworkers, had taken such an apparently unnecessary risk. He had been forced, the poor man; he didn’t have a choice.

It was seven thirty. He desperately rushed toward Montelusa, but when he pulled in front of the building where Alfredo Corso’s office was, he found it was locked. He rang the bell, but no one responded. He started cursing. He didn’t even have Corso’s phone number and, in any case, he couldn’t have called, since the builder could have intercepted it, back from his short trip. What should he do? He needed that information like he needed air. He was stuck in front of the gate, when the door opened and Catarina Corso appeared.

“Inspector!”

Montalbano almost hugged and kissed her.

“How good to see you!” he couldn’t help himself.

Catarina, after all, was still a woman. And so her face lit up with a smile.

“Where you looking for me?”

“Yes. Please excuse me, but I realized I can’t do without you.”

Catarina’s smile increased in voltage.

“Believe me, I really need to ask you some more questions. I know you’re on your way home, but …”

Catarina’s smile turned off immediately, like a burned-out bulb. She stepped aside.

“Don’t worry about it; please come in.”

In the elevator, she said: “My husband called.”

“Did you tell him about Puka?”

“There was no need. He implied he already knew. He only said a few things. I think he was calling from abroad.”

On the landing, as she was searching for the right key, she added that she had told him about her plan to take their son to Rome, to his grandparents.

“And what did he say?”

“He said he agrees. The difficult part will be telling my dad. He will suffer being away from his grandson.”

Once they entered the office, she sat behind the desk and turned on her computer.

“What sort of information do you need?”

Montalbano told her.

“Give me ten minutes. Then I’ll copy it to a disk so you can take your time looking at it on your computer.”

Disk?! Computer?! The inspector was overwhelmed with panic. He was about to ask her to print it all, but he realized he would just be wasting more of her time and she had already been so kind to him. Then the thought that Catarella could have solved the problem put his mind at ease. But Catarella’s name reminded him of the appointment they had to see the old lady to fix his shoulder. But since he was distracted by the current events, it made its presence known with four stabbing pains, one after the other. He sighed and looked at Catarina. The woman hadn’t heard him since she was focused on her task. And at that point, the inspector couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She was truly beautiful, no question about it. Beautiful and translucent. Looking at her, he felt like he was out at sea, breathing clean air. As he was looking at her, something else happened that jolted his system. Catarina, lost in her research, placed the tip of her tongue on her upper lip.

Gurglegurglegurgle
, his blood ran swiftly through his veins.

At a certain point, Catarina sensed she was being observed. She took her eyes off the computer and looked at the inspector. Her look lasted a millionth of a second longer than it should have.

“If you want to smoke,” Catarina said, handing him an ashtray.

“No, thanks,” Montalbano said. “I’d rather enjoy the sea breeze.”

Catarina looked at him again. Her eyes asked: What sea breeze?

Yours, Montalbano’s eyes answered.

She blushed.

Once finished, she slid the disk into an envelope and handed it to the inspector. They both got up.

“Thanks. When are you leaving?”

“In three days, I hope.”

“Will you be gone long?”

“No. I’ll fly to Rome in the morning and be back that evening.”

They didn’t say a word in the elevator. Montalbano walked her to her car. They said good-bye. The handshake lasted a millionth of a second longer than it should have.

“Carabinieri of Tonnarello. With whom am I speaking?”

“This is Salvino Montaperto. Is Marshal Verruso in?”

“I’ll patch you through.”

After thirty seconds of silence, Verruso’s voice: “Inspector? Go ahead.”

He was a real cop, no question about it; he got it right away.

“How are you?”

“Better now, but I had to stay home all afternoon.”

“Any news?”

“Not on my end. How about you?”

“Yes, quite a bit. I’m getting an idea. I need to see you tomorrow morning, wherever and whenever it’s convenient for you.”

The marshal thought about it awhile.

“You remember that phone booth where we first met? Would nine thirty work?”

Catarella was the only one at the station.

“Sir, we have to wait fifteen minutes for Galluzzo to come and relieve me.”

“Fine. Let’s do this.”

He took the disk out of his pocket.

“While we’re waiting for Galluzzo, print this, but don’t let anyone see you. Got it? I’m going to grab a coffee and I’ll wait for you in the car.”

Catarella showed up after Montalbano had already smoked three cigarettes and was starting to get nervous.

“I demand your pardon, sir, but as a practical matter, Galluzzo got in late.”

He handed him a pile of papers.

“I printed everything.”

“So, where does this old lady live?” Montalbano asked, starting the car.

“Sir, head toward Marinella,” Catarella said, letting out a sigh and making a happy face.

“What’s with you?”

“
Matre santa
, sir, how felicitated I am! Now you, sir, have shared two secrets with me, personally, in person!”

“Two?”

“Yes, sir. The old lady and the papers I just printed. Isn’t that two?”

With the help of Catarella, he managed to apply the old lady’s herbal ointment and wrap a bandage around his shoulder. He had to pay for it as if it were the rarest of medicines. The hardest part was sending Catarella back to his place: he had threatened to sleep on his couch.

“That way, sir, if at night, night time comes, and you are in need of needing, I’m here ready to give you a hand.”

When he was finally alone, he realized he was hungry, but the fridge was almost empty: aged caciocavallo, green and black olives. Better than nothing. Adelina, the maid whom you could call a housekeeper if you were feeling very generous, hadn’t been culinarily inspired for the past week; the fact was that both her sons were criminals and had been arrested once again, leaving her in charge of the grandchildren.

He decided to eat while he was working. He brought the caciocavallo, the black and green olives, and some wine to the table, placing them next to the papers Catarella had printed for him. He also took out five blank sheets of paper and a pencil out of a drawer. After two hours of work, the five sheets of paper were covered in writing, showing that his intuition had been confirmed. He was surprised how, in the end, everything had been rather easy: one only needed to think about it. Getting the right idea, that was a lot more difficult. Proving how important the things he found out were, wasn’t his job; it was the marshal’s. At the very most, he could lend him a hand.

Before going to bed, he called Livia. He was nice, affectionate, understanding. At a certain point, Livia couldn’t help herself: “I’m getting on a plane Friday and coming there to see you.”

Lying in bed, he read a few pages from
Heart of Darkness
by Conrad, which he picked up from time to time. He finally felt sleepy; he turned off the light. The last image that flashed before his eyes was that of Catarina Corso. And then he understood why he had been so cowardly and love-dovey with Livia. His coals were wet. He cursed himself.

The next morning, he took off the bandage and the pain was completely gone. He could move his shoulder freely. It was a clear and serene morning. Before going to Montelusa, to his appointment with the
marshal, he stopped by the station. Catarella jumped toward him, grabbed him by the arm, dragged the inspector’s ear down to his mouth, and whispered: “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About the thing we did last night together, sir,” he said vaguely and with a happy grin.

He was lucky nobody was around, or else they would have thought that he and Catarella had done crazy things the previous night.

“All good.”

“Did it go away?”

“Completely.”

Catarella neighed with happiness. As soon as he walked into his office, Fazio showed up, looking mortified.

“Sir, I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“For the way I behaved. Augello talked to me and made me realize I was wrong.”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore. Any news?”

“Yes. Late last night and early this morning, there were two serious robberies. The first in …”

“Tell Augello, and the two of you take care of it,” Montalbano interrupted. “I have to finish something.”

Fazio looked at him. And Montalbano understood that Fazio understood that what he had to do, whatever it was, had to with the carabinieri.