The Fourth Secret Page 8

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Montalbano said.

  And he felt like complete idiot.

  Happy and unhappy. Happy because he was more convinced that the road they had chosen was the right one, that it was taking them where they were supposed to go; unhappy because someone else was going to walk down that road and not him. Oh well. Sometimes in life you can’t be the one to finish things, but rather you have to disguise yourself, hide behind someone else. The important thing is that you reach your goal. Too little consolation? Agreed, but at least it’s some consolation. With these good intentions in mind, Montalbano stayed in Montelusa instead of returning to Vigata, and went to an art gallery, where, the day before, they had inaugurated an exhibition of works by Bruno Caruso. He was enchanted by a woman’s portrait, asked the gallerist the price, kept counting in his head how much he had in the bank. And in the end, he came to the conclusion that if he didn’t buy the expensive coat he liked, he could buy that engraving. He spoke to the gallerist and finally left for Vigata.

  His happiness culminated at the Trattoria San Calogero, in front of a plate of crispy fragaglia, mullet smaller than a child’s pinky finger, fried and meant to be consumed whole using your hands. His unhappiness, instead, suddenly ambushed him while he was sitting on his usual rock at the end of the pier, and it came in the form of a precise thought: What if the marshal couldn’t come through? He only had two men and there were three murderers, capable of anything. If he didn’t manage to throw them in jail, maybe even for just one day, that guard would never decide to talk, to confess. And the more he thought about it, the darker his mood became, so much so that it ruined his digestion and he got serious heartburn.

  That’s why in the two hours he spent at the station he managed to pick a fight with Mimì Augello, yell at Fazio, argue with Gallo, and provoke Galluzzo. When Catarella, who was hiding in his closet, heard the inspector call his name, he thought it was finally his turn and felt his uniform drenched in sweat.

  “You’re coming with me in five minutes. Find someone else to man the phones.”

  He was leaving! The inspector was getting out of their hair, and he was going to fuck off somewhere else. Even the station’s furniture seemed like it was breathing easier.

  9

  In the car, Catarella didn’t even open his mouth; he was convinced, and he was right, that whatever he said, his superior would have taken it the wrong way.

  “Do you have the cell?”

  Catarella was startled; he wasn’t expecting his boss to say anything.

  “No, sir, I didn’t call for the cell.”

  “Who were you supposed to call?”

  “The headquarters in Montelusa, sir. It is them who they are in charge of cells.”

  Montalbano squeezed the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

  “I wasn’t talking about prison cells, Catarè. I meant the cell phone.”

  “Oh, that, it’s always with me personally. What it is? You need it?”

  “Not now. Just making sure we have one.”

  When they took the road to Tonnarello, Montalbano spoke again.

  “Catarè, what we’re doing has to remain a secret between me and you; nobody’s to know about it.”

  Catarella nodded yes and started to sniffle.

  The inspector looked at him. Two large tears fell down his face toward his mouth.

  “What are you doing . . . crying?”

  “It’s commotional, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Sir, can’t you think of it? Three secrets we now share in common. Three! Just like those of Our Lady of Fatima! Actually, sir, since we’re properly inside this third secret, could you explain its consistency?”

  “We’re going to check on something the carabinieri are doing. I hope they’re arresting someone.”

  Catarella looked confused.

  “Excuse me, sir, but, with all respect, what’s the care to us what the carabinieri are doing?”

  “If I tell you, what kind of a secret is it?”

  “That’s true,” Catarella said, instantly convinced.

  He didn’t stop right on top of the hill but continued on a bit further, until he found a few trees to conceal them from sight. He opened the glove compartment and took out his binoculars. They were a small pair, used for the theater, carved out of mother-of-pearl. He’d had them forever, but he never knew how they wound up at his house. For what he needed to do, they were more than enough. The construction site was completely in view, although from a different angle; now the door to the guard’s shack was right in front of him. The construction workers were still at it. He looked at the time. It was five fifteen. He lit a cigarette, offered one to Catarella, lit it for him, and went back to looking at the construction site. Next to him, there was a sudden explosion. He turned immediately. It was Catarella, who had turned purple and was desperately trying to breathe. He was literally dying of asphyxiation. Worried, Montalbano slapped him on the back a few times. Catarella finally seemed better.

  “The smoke . . . smoke . . . smoke.”

  “You don’t smoke?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why did you light the cigarette?”

  “Duty, sir.”

  At 5:25 p.m., there wasn’t a single worker on the scaffolding; they were all in the big shack changing their clothes. As Montalbano felt more and more nervous, the carabinieri’s car arrived at full speed; it flew down the hill with its sirens blasting. The workers, some changed, some not, come out of the big shack. The guard also came out, just in time to find the marshal at his doorstep and to be pushed back inside by him; the marshal followed him and closed the door. In the meantime, one of the carabinieri, he could see from his gestures, was telling the workers to go back inside the shack and stay there. When they were all inside, he closed the door and placed his colleague in front of it. It was a smart improvement on Montalbano’s plan. Having only two men, Verruso couldn’t do any better. Half an hour went by. Through the silence, the inspector heard voices coming from the big shack. However, he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He saw that the two carabinieri had drawn their weapons.

  “Can you hear them?”

  “Yes, sir.

  “What are they saying?”

  “The workers want to came out, sir.”

  At that moment, the door to the big shack opened and a worker appeared. He was gesturing like a madman; behind him, there was another. Calmly, one of the two carabinieri raised his arm and shot in the air. The two workers rushed back inside the shack. They even closed the door behind them. The marshal came out of the smaller shack and went to talk with his men. It was a brief exchange, then the marshal went back, disappearing in the shack, and reappearing with the guard. He looked about and handcuffed the guard to one of the scaffolding’s iron pipes. Montalbano approved of Verruso’s strategy: he had chosen the best place, every worker exiting the shack had to look right at him. Then he stood in front of the big shack, while one carabiniere went under the same window through which the inspector had entered in order to avoid any surprises. The other carabiniere opened the door to the shack and stood next to it. The marshal had some papers in his hand. The inspector realized Verruso had asked Corso’s firm for the names of all those who were working that day. The first worker came out holding his documents in his hand; Verruso checked them. A minute later, the same worker, who had been cleared to leave, got on a scooter and fled the site. The same happened with the second, third, and fourth man. Things changed with the fifth. As soon as Verruso saw his documents, he gave a sign: the carabineire who was next to the door sprung into action, grabbed the worker by the shoulder, and shoved him forward, leading him over to where the guard was and handcuffed him to the same iron pipe. Another worker came out and they let him go. The seventh instead was taken and handcuffed. There was only one left, but he didn’t come out. The only ones left at the construction site were the marshal, the three handcuffed men, and th
e two carabinieri, who started looking everywhere for the third worker, even climbing over the scaffolding. Nothing anywhere. So Verruso ran to the car and got on the phone. A few minutes later, another car arrived. The marshal took the guard, and the other car took the remaining two men. Everyone left. There was one car still parked outside the fence, the car the three murderers used to get to work.

  In the meanwhile, it had grown dark.

  “Sir, they all left and they aren’t coming back. What should we do now?” Catarella asked timidly.

  “We’ll pretend we’re bums,” Montalbano answered, in the mood for a joke, to pull his leg.

  “And what do bums do, sir?”

  “They scratch their bellies and twiddle their thumbs.”

  This old joke had popped in his mind; his grandma used to tell him that all the time when he was little. But why would Grandma want him to be like a bum, scratching his belly and twiddling his thumbs? He could never figure it out. Catarella was speechless.

  “Really, sir, will we be bums?”

  “Really.”

  And while Catarella was contemplating his newly adopted lifestyle, Montalbano lit a cigarette, his eyes fixed on the construction site. After fifteen minutes, the site became slightly less dark than its surroundings in the moonless night.

  “Give me the cell phone.”

  Catarella passed it to him, and the inspector dialed the carabinieri station in Tonnarello. Verruso answered right away.

  “Marshal, it’s Montalbano.”

  “I just called you, but they told me you were out and I didn’t know how to reach you.”

  “Yes, I had to go to …”

  “Do you want more information that what you already know?”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t know anything if you don’t tell me …”

  “Come on, Inspector. I got there when the sun was setting and your binoculars reflected a flash of light. Do you want me to tell you exactly where you parked your car?”

  “No. Congratulations. Tell me.”

  “Dimora, the one who actually carried out the murders, managed to get away.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I believe he must have fled as soon as he heard our sirens. In fact, we found his street clothes in the shack. He didn’t even change; he kept on his work clothes . He must be far gone by now.”

  “What are his little friends saying?”

  “Right now, they’re not saying much at all. The one who is doing most of the talking is the guard. And I think this time ’u zu Cecè will find himself in deep trouble.”

  “Marshal, could you do me a favor?”

  “Of course, Inspector.”

  “Could you repeat that sentence slightly differently?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Could you say these words exactly: I believe that this time ’u zu Cecè is finally fucked?”

  “As you wish,” the marshal said in a resigned tone.

  And he repeated the sentence with the new words, but then he added: “Can you tell me why you asked me to do that?”

  “Dear Marshal Verruso, in my opinion, words carry weight. And the heaviest ones are curse words. That’s all. And I apologize if I made you speak in a manner that made you uncomfortable. Can you tell me one last thing?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you tell me Dimora’s license plate number?”

  “Why do you need that?”

  He could have said his binoculars weren’t powerful enough. Instead he just said: “Just in case.”

  The marshal told him. Then he asked: “Do you have my home number?”

  “No. Why do you want me to have it?”

  “Just in case.”

  They said their good-byes, and Montalbano handed the phone to Catarella.

  “You turn it off, I can never figure it out. Now we can go.”

  He reached for the keys and, all of a sudden, his instincts took over. He didn’t know how else to describe that phenomenon: his instincts told him not to leave that place and they did so through some form of somatization, making certain movements impossible or very difficult. His hands went soft; his feet felt like they were made of ricotta cheese, completely incapable of pressing the pedals. He managed, sweating profusely, to turn the keys but the force wasn’t enough; the engine purred shortly like a cat and turned itself off.

  “What is it? It’s not starting?” Catarella asked, alarmed at the prospect of spending the night in that car.

  “It’s me who can’t start,” Montalbano said.

  Catarella was struck by that answer.

  “You want me to go and call for help?”

  “And who are you going to call?”

  “Well, I don’t know, a mechanic, a doctor, whatever you prefer.”

  “Listen, Catarè, let’s get to work. I’m going to get out of the car with my binoculars, and I’ll start watching the construction site.”

  “But you, at night, when it’s really night-night, can you see?”

  “No. But if the man the carabinieri didn’t find is still hiding inside the construction site, he’ll need to turn on a light to see where he’s going. And then I’ll see him. I’ll take watch for a half hour and then you’ll take over. We’ll take turns.”

  After twenty minutes or so, his eyes started going pitter patter. Quick flashes of light started appearing everywhere; he felt as if it was the night of San Lorenzo when they say there are plenty of shooting stars. (He hadn’t seen one for years and years.) Finally, his shift was over. He got back in the car since it was getting chilly and lit a cigarette, taking all the precautions to hide the lighter’s flame and the red embers of the cherry. He must have dozed off a bit when Catarella came to wake him up.

  “It’s your turn again, sir.”

  Then it was Catarella’s turn again. And then, his again. When he got back in the car, the cold had penetrated his bones: he lit another cigarette, worried at seeing he had only two left. He had just put it out in the ashtray when he heard Catarella calling him softly. He rushed out.

  “What did you see?”

  “Sir, it was only a second, but someone turned something on for a second.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Cross my heart, sir. You want the binoculars?”

  “No, you keep at it; my eyes are tired.”

  “Again, sir,” Catarella said at one point. “He did it again, he turned it on and off. If I’m not mistaken, he’s heading toward the main gate of the construction site.”

  And Montalbano figured it out. Catarella wasn’t mistaken, as he put it. Dimora was making a break for his car, the only one left at the site.

  As if to confirm his thoughts, he saw the car’s taillights brighten. They could clearly hear the car’s engine start.

  “Sir, he’s getting away.”

  “Let’s cut him off.”

  They ran to the car; Montalbano started it and left with the headlights off. He stopped after a few yards. Dimora wasn’t driving up the road but was slowly making his way through the countryside, headed in the opposite direction. And every now and then, he was forced to turn on his headlights to avoid running into boulders, ditches, and trees.

  “If he keeps up at that speed, it will take him twenty minutes to get out of the valley. What’s on the other side?”

  “There’s Gallotta,” Catarella replied. “It’s a practice of matter that he must go through Gallotta.”

  “Then let’s go wait for him there.”

  It took him less than twenty minutes to reach Gallotta, a small village with fewer than a thousand souls. In order to get on the road, the one that would have allowed him to get out of there quickly, Dimora had to go through the village. Montalbano backed the car away from the street, hiding in an alley between two houses. They waited with the engine running, their nerves tense. They waited and waited. Three trucks went by, then a Porsche, then an Ape. There was no trace of Dimora’s car.

  “Could it be that he hitched a ride?” Catare
lla offered timidly.

  “I don’t think so. If he’s not coming to us, let’s go to him.”

  They drove cautiously through the streets of Gallotta; the car looked like a giant cockroach, an evil beast. Then they reached a completely deserted street. Of the ten lamps that were supposed to light it, at least five were out. There were three cars parked along the sidewalk. The last, Montalbano was sure after he had looked at the license plate number, was Dimora’s. But it looked empty. Could Dimora have left it to hide in some friendly house?

  “Listen, Catarè, you get out and approach the car from behind. Maybe Dimora’s not there; maybe he’s gone. Or maybe he’s hiding inside. Be careful, chances are he’s armed. I got your back.”

  Catarella got out, unfastening his holster. He approached the car from behind, and got on the sidewalk. Now he was walking along the wall of an abandoned house, with black holes instead of windows. And at this point, what the inspector saw skipped slightly, as when a frame is missing on film reel. It was the dream! Jesus Christ, it was the dream! There were some differences between reality and the images he had dreamed, but the substance was the same. He quickly opened the glove box, took out his gun, put a bullet in the chamber, opened the door, and got out. Dimora’s car door also opened, a man, his arm outstretched, jumped out of it. Catarella froze.

  “Dimora!” Montalbano shouted.

  The man turned and shot. Montalbano had pulled the trigger as well, the two shouts made one bang. Half of Dimora’s face flew off and landed—bones, flesh and brains—on the wall of the house. The inspector ran toward the man, who had fallen on his back on the sidewalk. Just looking at him, you could tell he was dead. Then he turned to Catarella. He wasn’t moving; his eyes were wide open. He reached him and grabbed the cell phone from his pocket.

  “Get in the car.”

  Catarella didn’t move. Montalbano nudged him from behind and he finally moved. A robot. He dialed the number.

  “It’s Montalbano. I’m sorry to call you at this hour, but …”

  “I was expecting your call.”

  Expecting it?!