“And what would that be?”
“Stealing the money from the safe.”
“Think so?”
“I’m convinced.”
“How did it go, in your opinion?”
“Well, the two guys break into the house, surprising everyone in their sleep, and while one guy keeps his gun trained on the old man and Inge, the other forces Nicotra to go down into the garage basement, get the money, and put it in three or four large sacks. Then—”
“Too risky,” Fazio interrupted him.
“How so?” asked Augello.
“Just two men, for an operation like that, don’t seem like enough to me.”
“Especially,” said the inspector, “since Jannaccone said they found the footprints of the same two as in the house, but no tracks from any bare feet, as there should have been if Nicotra had gone down there. Anyway, who, in the meantime, was going to keep an eye on Inge and the so-called uncle?”
“Couldn’t they have tied them up together and gagged them before going to the garage?”
“That’s always possible. But at this point,” said Montalbano, “we must ask ourselves the question: Who exactly were these thieves?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I doubt they were common thieves of the sort that burgle homes or stage holdups. This was a big deal. They were there to steal a sum of money greater than you would find in all the banks of Vigàta put together. They went there with absolute certainty, because they knew about the hidden safe. So, how many people knew this secret? Certainly fewer than you can count on two hands.”
“And what does this mean?”
“It means it might have been a commissioned robbery. The thieves weren’t professional, but they were acting on behalf of a third party. The victims of the theft will discover sooner or later who sent them. So somebody gets killed. Shall we change the subject?”
And, turning to Fazio:
“Got any news for me?”
Fazio dug a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and read it.
“Chief, there are six construction sites that have been shut down by the regional administration, and these six are owned by Rosaspina, Albachiara, Soledoro, Lo Schiavo, Spampinato, and Farullo, respectively.”
“Gimme the piece of paper.”
Fazio gave it to him, and the inspector sat there a moment perusing it. Then he asked:
“The firm that started the work on the water main is called Primavera, right?”
“Yes.”
“But Primavera, Rosaspina, and the others—are these surnames or just made-up names?”
“Just made-up names, Chief. Whereas Lo Schiavo, Spam—”
“Are surnames, yeah, I got that.”
He was suddenly overcome with a desire to see one of these dormant construction sites.
“Aside from the Rosaspina site, which is the closest one to us?”
“The Albachiara site. It’s in Riguccio.”
“Now I need you to do another search. I want to know who the heads of these six firms are.”
“I’ve got the names for Rosaspina and have already told you them. For the others I’m going to need a few days.”
“Okay, but don’t take too long.”
He adjourned the meeting.
He left the office an hour earlier than usual, because he wanted to go and see the shut-down site of the Albachiara firm, which, as the journalist Gambardella had told him, had won the contract to build an administrative building.
On his way to the Riguccio district, he wondered where this strong urge had come from and realized that he’d been unable to get out of his head the hunch he’d had the previous night—that is, that by going and dying inside the tunnel, Nicotra was trying to say something.
When he’d woken up that morning, he’d noticed that it promised to be another day of bad weather. The sky was darkening. And now it was raining hard.
Arriving at the worksite, he pulled up but stayed inside the car. It was raining too hard to get out. He would have got soaked.
The site consisted of three earthmovers parked in a huge, empty open space at the foot of a hill, much of which had slid down to the bottom, owing to the heavy rain that had been falling.
But there was something else Montalbano couldn’t understand, since his windshield wipers didn’t work very well. Off to the left side of the open space stood a structure, made perhaps of concrete, all in one block. It was about fifty feet high and looked like a pyramid.
What could be the purpose of that?
He put the car in gear and drove up to it, opening the door to get a better look.
Then he understood.
They’d moved all the mud out of the open area and made a mound of it, but much of the still-liquid mud had slid down to the ground, leaving a pyramidal form that had eventually dried.
The inspector gazed at it, spellbound.
A pyramid of mud.
The perfect representation, at once concrete and symbolic, of everything that, little by little, was becoming clearer in his head.
And he wondered whether it wasn’t Nicotra who, like the solitary cyclist, had led him to that place.
By the time he got to the trattoria the rain had turned into a proper thunderstorm. His visit to the construction site and the day’s weather had taken away his appetite.
He went in and found only two regular clients and the television turned on.
Nicolò Zito, the Free Channel newsman and Montalbano’s friend, was on the screen, talking.
He said that with the almost simultaneous closing of six construction sites in Montelusa province, a very serious situation had developed. That day, a delegation of unpaid construction workers in danger of losing their jobs had been received by the prefect, who had promised to intervene at once on their behalf with the regional administration in the hopes of ending the work stoppage as soon as the firms in question brought themselves up to code.
Enzo came out to take his order. But he wasn’t his usual self and looked troubled.
“Anything wrong?” the inspector asked him.
“I’m worried about my brother-in-law, ’Ntonio, who’s got three kids and is worried about losing his job.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a surveyor with Farullo Construction, which had to shut down their worksite in Sicudiana.”
Montalbano pricked up his ears.
Enzo continued.
“They’ve started talking about reducing personnel if this rain keeps up much longer.”
“Do you know why the regional inspector—”
“That’s just it,” Enzo interrupted him.
“What do you mean?”
“My brother-in-law swears to God that no inspector ever came to his worksite. The firm’s bosses say they had to stop work by order of the inspectors, but they’re lying. Anyway, ’Ntonio says everything’s up to code at his site.”
“So how do you explain it?”
“There is no explanation.”
“I’d like to talk to your brother-in-law. If it’s not too much trouble for him, think he could come to my office around three?”
“I’ll call him right now and ask.”
Enzo returned five minutes later.
“He says okay, he’ll be there at three. So, what can I get you?”
The inspector ate hardly anything, to Enzo’s great displeasure.
When he left the restaurant he got soaked. The water was coming down like gangbusters, and a powerful, angry wind made it almost impossible to walk. The sewage drains were barfing up liquid and the sidewalks were underwater.
’Ntonio Garzullo was a slender, bespectacled man of about forty, rather shabbily dressed and quite nervous.
“Inspector, it was really stupid as hel
l for Enzo to go and tell you about what I said when I was just lettin’ off steam in the bosom of the family,” he began, drying his head with a handkerchief.
“Enzo knew perfectly well he wasn’t talking to a police inspector, but to a friend. And you should know it, too. Now the two of us are going to have a nice little private chat, and nobody will ever know anything about it.”
’Ntonio seemed somewhat reassured. And was keen to explain why he’d spoken as he had.
“Because, you see, if even a hint of what I said reaches the ears of the Farullo bosses, I’m finished.”
“Nothing will reach their ears, I assure you.”
“Tell me what you wanted to know.”
“First of all, are you absolutely sure that the regional inspectors never came?”
“Yessir, I am. As sure as death. I was always at the site from morning to evening. They never set foot in it. And they never came to any of the offices, either.”
“But then how did you find out that the order to stop work came from the regional administration?”
“Engineer Gangitano, the site manager, told us himself. He brought us all together to give us the news.”
“Do you remember his exact words?”
“He said the inspectors had found some stuff that didn’t correspond to the allocation contract.”
“Was it a big job?”
“Yes. Constructing a low-income housing complex.”
“Do you have any explanation for it?”
“No, sir. But I do know something strange.”
“And what’s that?”
“That the exact same thing happened at the Spampinato worksite in Montereale.”
“So the inspectors never came to Montereale, either, and the site was shut down just the same?”
“That’s exactly right. An’ so I got curious and asked around a little. You want to know what I found?”
“Of course.”
“The inspectors went to only two construction sites, the Rosaspina site and the Lo Schiavo one. They never showed their faces at the others.”
“I was told, by a well-informed person, that they also went to the Albachiara site.”
“No, sir, they didn’t, I assure you. They want people to think that, but it’s not true.”
All at once a sort of lightbulb came on inside the inspector’s head and went out again just as fast.
“Were all the people working at your Farullo site legitimate?”
’Ntonio Garzullo suddenly went from being calm to squirming uncomfortably in his chair.
“What do you mean?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
The thunderclaps were making such a loud, constant rumble that they had to raise their voices to speak.
’Ntonio answered reluctantly, through clenched teeth.
“Let’s just say . . . ’bout sixty percent. The others don’t got their papers in order. They’re illegals, with no visas, no nothin’ . . . But, Jesus, Inspector, please . . .”
“You needn’t worry.”
“Anyway . . . They’re not the only ones like that . . . It’s the same at all the other worksites as well.”
“Are the illegal workers paid under the table?”
“Yessir.”
“And how are those with their papers in order paid?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Are they paid by check? Wire transfer to a bank account? Cash?”
“They’re paid in cash. Nobody makes it to a thousand euros a week anyway.”
The lightbulb flashed on and off again inside the inspector’s brain.
He asked himself a precise question: And what if everyone, papers or not, was paid under the table?
Wouldn’t that be a brilliant way to recycle dirty money?
He smiled at ’Ntonio, thanked him, and said good-bye.
As soon as he was alone, he rang Pasqualino, Adelina’s son, who was a thief that the inspector had personally arrested in the past. Still, when he could, Pasqualino would do him a favor or two.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“Are you busy right now?”
“Nah.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’m in the neighborhood. I’ll be right over.”
He showed up about ten minutes later, took off his dripping raincoat, and sat down.
“I need some information,” the inspector began.
“Here I am.”
“Have you by any chance heard any talk about a really big heist that occurred a few days ago?”
“Wha’ was robbed?”
“Money. Which had been kept in a safe.”
“A bank safe?”
“No, a private one.”
“Here in Vigàta?”
“Yes. In the Pizzutello district.”
“Where that young guy got killed?”
“Exactly.”
Pasqualino shook his head negative.
“That’s nothing to do with us. And I don’t think it was anyone from the outside, either, or we woulda heard about it.”
And this was confirmation that the robbery hadn’t involved common thieves, as Mimì had maintained.
As soon as Pasqualino went out, Augello came in.
“I’ve been racking my brains trying to remember where I saw that tattoo of the sun . . . Didn’t this Pitrineddru give you any other details?”
“Everything he said to me I’ve already told you.”
“If he could just tell me whether the guy was bald, or what color his hair was, or if he saw any scars . . .”
“I don’t think he remembers. Aside from the fact that he’s a big ape with the brains of a little kid, he must have been pretty upset by the scene he was witnessing.”
“Think if I went and talked to him he’d start slugging me?”
“He might. But if you were able to identify this man, it would be a giant step forward for us.”
“I know. That’s why I’ve been tormenting myself.”
“We could go there together. Me, he trusts. But I would have to tell him some kind of lie, like that Ingrid called and asked about him, and I don’t feel like doing that. I feel sorry for the guy.”
“Listen, I have an idea. What if I went to see him alone and told him I was a friend of Inge’s who’s just arrived from Germany and has greetings for him from her?”
“That might work.”
“Then tell me how I should go about it.”
“But do you want to go out there in this weather?”
“If I don’t, I won’t get any sleep tonight.”
Montalbano even went so far as to make him a sketch of the road and the footpath that led behind Pitrineddru’s house, advising him strongly to avoid the old lady and to go at nightfall.
At around half past five he got a call from Gambardella, who sounded pleased.
“My dear Inspector, so sorry to trouble you.”
“No trouble at all.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said. It sounds like Niagara Falls outside.”
“I said, ‘No trouble at all.’”
“I wanted to tell you that Asciolla called me. Apparently my little trick of the lost letter worked.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He said that he was called in this morning by Engineer Riggio, the works manager, the guy he’d argued with, who informed him that if he wanted to come back to work at Albachiara after the stoppage was lifted, there wouldn’t be any problems.”
“And what did Asciolla say?”
“He thanked him, pretended he was touched, and accepted the offer. He feels more reassured now and will call me back in a few days. What do you think?”
If the jou
rnalist was expecting the inspector to congratulate him, he was disappointed.
“Be very careful,” said Montalbano.
“Careful about what?”
“This overnight change of heart on the part of Albachiara . . . rings false to me.”
“Well, I’m convinced they’ve taken the bait. And that in so doing, they expect to secure Asciolla’s silence.”
“Whatever the case, I advise caution.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” Gambardella said defensively.
“And do me a favor. If you should meet with Asciolla, let me know in advance the time and place of the meeting.”
He’d just set down the receiver when all the lights at the station went out.
The storm was at its peak, the wind was rattling the windowpanes, and the continual thunderbolts lit everything up like daylight. Then a sort of comical interlude occurred.
Catarella appeared in the doorway with a candle in his hand and a saucer in the other. But both of his hands were shaking.
“I brung yiz a can’le.”
“Why are you trembling?”
“’Cuz I’m ascared o’ lightnings.”
He tried to set the saucer down on the desktop, but he was trembling so badly that it slipped out of his hands and fell to the floor.
When Catarella bent down to pick it up, he set the candle down on all the papers still waiting to be signed, setting them immediately on fire.
Cursing the saints, Montalbano swatted at the pile, and the burning pages fell partly on the floor, and partly on Catarella, who was getting back up.
“Halp! Halp! I’m on fire!” Catarella yelled, running out of the room.
Bedlam broke out. Two officers rushed into the room and stamped out the fire with their shoes.
“Go and see where Catarella’s gone off to,” the inspector ordered them.
At that moment the light returned, and Catarella with it. He was completely drenched, but proud.
“Ya know, Chief, soon as I catched fire, I tought it were best if I ran ousside inna rain to put ou’ the fire. Wuz I right?”
The Pyramid of Mud Page 13
