The Fourth Secret (9 page)

“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 last 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.

“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.

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.