The Fourth Secret Page 7

  “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?”

  8

  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.

  “As you wish,” Fazio said, throwing his arms up.

  Verruso, dressed in plain clothes, was already waiting next to the phone booth. His face looked yellow because of his condition.

  “How are you, Marshal?”

  “So, so. Listen, why don’t we go to a bar nearby? They’re friends; I go there often; we can talk there without any problems.”

  As they were walking, the marshal said: “This morning, I received a strange phone call from headquarters. They told me that the Prefettura will handle everything concerning Puka’s body and that I have to stop talking to the Albanian authorities. I don’t understand why.”

  “Because Puka, or whatever his name was, wasn’t a construction worker, and that much we knew, but rather one of us.”

  “One of us?” Verruso said, stopping so suddenly that a man behind them bumped into them.

  “DIGOS, anti-Mafia, ROS, I don’t know. They sent him because they suspected that a few murders had been hidden among those accidents. He managed to infiltrate, but he must have made some mistakes. And they killed him.”

  “When did you find out that Puka was …”

  “Yesterday afternoon. And the person who told me is above suspicion.”

  And with that, it was clear that the marshal would have never found out the name of that person.

  In the backroom of the bar, there was barely enough space for two tables. It didn’t even have a window. Before closing the door, the marshal told the cashier he didn’t want to be disturbed.

  “Can I bring you anything?” the man asked.

  “Nothing for me,” Montalbano said.

  “No,” Verruso followed.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” Montalbano started, “I paid a visit to the construction site’s guard, Angelo Peluso.”

  “A disgusting individual,” the marshal commented.

  “Agreed. He told me that Puka would sometimes show up half an hour before his colleagues.”

  “And what was he doing?”

  “Peluso said he saw him at least twice standing on top of the scaffolding.”

  “And what was he doing?” Verruso repeated.

  “Talking on his cell phone.”

  “But why did he have to …”

  “That’s what I was wondering. The answer was that there was no reception on the ground, but Puka was only pretending to be on the phone. In reality, he was inspecting, checking the scaffolding to see if at night they had set up fake accidents. At the same time, from that vantage point, he could see which of the workers came in first. He must have had some suspicions. And he was on alert. But he made a big mistake.”

  “What?”

  “He believed that if they were to do something to him, they would have done it during work hours, in front of everyone, to make it look like an accident. This time, instead, first they killed him, and then staged a faked accident. We would have all believed it if it wasn’t for the anonymous letter.”

  “Who could have sent it?”

  “I think I have an idea, but I’ll tell you in a minute. As I was leaving the site, I guessed how Puka must have conducted his investigation. So I went to Corso’s office and asked for the names of the workers they employed on the three construction sites where the accidents had happened.”

  “Three?” Verruso said, surprised.

  “Three. The first happened four months ago and was caused by a railing that gave in, making the worker a permanent invalid. Corso thinks the bolts fastening the railing had been loosened on purpose.”

  “I didn’t know anything about this,” the marshal said.

  “It was outside your jurisdiction. It happened in Gibilrossa. The second accident was a little over a month ago. A metal beam fell from a crane and hit a worker.”

  “I knew about that one. Marshal Cosimato, the one in charge of the investigation, told me about it. He had no doubts: it was an accident.”

  “And he had no reason to think otherwise. The third accident was Puka’s.”

  “But what’s the point, dear God?”

  “To force Corso to sell his company for a song. How does that sound for motive? And I should add that I already know of another contractor who gave up his company after the first accident at his construction site. He got the gist of it, as they say. There’s a deliberate plan, hatched by someone who, hiding behind corrupt politicians, wants to monopolize the construction business.”

  ’U zu Cecè, Marshal Verruso whispered to himself.

  “Let me ask you something,” the inspector said, “has there ever been an accident on the construction sites belonging to ’u zu Cecè?”

  “Never, as far as I know.”

  “I knew it. He’s like someone who, after robbing a bank, drives slowly so as not to be pulled over. Let’s go back to the lists.”

  From his pocket, he took out the sheets of paper he wrote the night before. He looked at them briefly.

  “Amadeo Cavaleri and Stefano Dimora were working at the construction site where the first incident took place. Cavaleri, Dimora, and Gaetano Miccichè were on the job when the second accident took place. And the same Cavaleri, Dimora, and Miccichè worked with Puka. Actually, in his case, they were the ones who discovered the body. All the other workers at these three sites changed.”

  The marshal was absorbed in his thoughts.

  “Well, that doesn’t really prove much,” he said.

  “Right. But I also found out that the guard of the three different sites was always the same: Angelo Peluso. For the whole thing to work, they needed an accomplice to open the gates at night without asking any questions. Peluso is the weak link.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I got the impression that Peluso was dragged into all this against his will. The murderers found out he was a pedophile and blackmailed him. And, when he realized they were planning Puka’s murder, he tried to stop it.”

  “How?”

  “With the anonymous letter.”

  “Him!?”

  “I’m sure of it. It’s happened before.”

  They fell silent.

  “Well,” Verruso said, snapping out of it, “I’ll alert my superiors and …”

  “And you’ll make a huge mistake,” Montalbano finished.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because before giving you the authorization to proceed, they’ll waste precious time. And that’s precisely what you don’t have, right?”

  “And what should I do?”

  “How many men do you have in Tonnarello?”

  “Three.”

  “How many cars?”

  “One.”

  “That’s not a lot,” Montalbano said. “But they’ll do. Tonight, five minutes before quitting time at the construction site, you’ll drive out there, sirens blaring and as fast as you can. You have to make as much noise as possible. Put one of your men at the entrance, letting everyone know that nobody’s leaving. Then go to the guard’s shack and lock yourself in there with him. Put another man in front of the shack door. In short, it has to look like you’ve cracked the case and you’re conducting your last interrogation. You have to really scare the three murderers. If all else fails, handcuff Peluso and pretend you’re taking him in. Theater, my dear marshal.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t like the theater? You’re wrong. Theater is …”

  “I didn’t mean the theater. I don’t like what you’re suggesting.”

  Then Montalbano played his la
st card.

  “You want to know something? Tomorrow, you’ll receive another call from your superiors. They’ll take the case away from you. And you’ll be left empty-handed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You can count on it. The case will go straight to Puka’s superiors.”

  The marshal put his forehead in his hands and remained that way for a while. Then he let out a deep sigh.

  “Fine. But if I arrest Peluso, what should I charge him with?”

  “How should I know? Of selling expired soda.”

  “And then?”

  “You’ll see that something will happen. Tell your men to keep their eyes peeled. They are dangerous people. They know that Peluso is the weak link. You’ll see they’ll do something; they’ll make a mistake.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Listen, Marshal, will you let me know how it goes? I’ll be at the station waiting for the news,” Montalbano said, getting up.

  “Absolutely,” the marshal replied.

  And the way he said it told the inspector that Verruso had finally made up his mind. They said their good-byes at the door to the bar.

  Montalbano opened the car door, and his eyes landed on the phone booth. He couldn’t help himself.

  “It’s Montalbano.”

  “What a pleasure to hear from you.”

  Pause.

  “Is there any news?” Catarina asked.

  “Yes. Can you talk? Are you alone at the office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you already tell your father you’re planning on …”

  “No. I didn’t have the heart.”

  “Don’t say anything.”

  “Why?”

  “I think there won’t be any need for you and the boy to leave.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  “Can you give me any details?”

  “It’s better to wait until tomorrow.”

  Another pause. This time, a bit longer.

  “We could meet,” Catarina said.

  “Whenever and wherever you want.”

  “Tomorrow night for dinner?”

  “Agreed.”

  “In any case, give me a call tomorrow morning.”

  “Of course.”

  This time, the pause was very long. Neither of them felt like hanging up. Then Catarina made a decision.