“Are you sure I can’t get you anything? A coffee, something to drink?” Montalbano asked, trying to shake him from his immobility.
“No, thanks.”
At least this time the thank-you had come right after the no. Montalbano got straight to the point: “What kind of hand were you dealt?”
“Not much. Pashko Puka lived in Montelusa in a four-story building that is miraculously still standing. A rathole. Albanians, Kurds, Arabs, Kosovars. At least four to a room.”
“Are they squatting?”
“Not even close! The house is owned by a local official, Quarantino, Francesco, who is on the right and opposes immigration. But since he’s a generous man, as he keeps saying every chance he gets, he gave that house to those poor devils, until they get kicked out. Three hundred thousand liras a month per bed. Puka, however, paid one and half million for his room, which he didn’t share with anyone and also had his own bathroom, with a sort of rudimentary shower. And that’s very odd, he would indulge in luxuries that his salary wouldn’t permit.”
“Well, that’s not the only luxury. A regular pedicure would be another example.”
The marshal was absorbed in thought.
“Right. I was able to see the corpse. Very clean. The part of the body that wasn’t exposed to the sun was very white, and so were the areas of the chest and shoulders, covered by his shirt. I had a strange impression.”
He seemed confused and didn’t continue.
“You can tell me.”
“You see, Inspector, I don’t trust impressions.”
I do, Montalbano thought.
“You can tell me,” he repeated.
“I don’t know, I thought the corpse looked like it was made of pieces belonging to two different men.”
“Well, maybe there were two different men.”
The marshal understood immediately what he meant.
“You think that Puka wasn’t the person he seemed to be.”
“Exactly. What do his papers say?”
“We didn’t find any. Nothing in his room, nor in the clothes he was wearing the day he was killed.”
“Which means someone took them. They didn’t want us to identify him.”
“But we did!”
“Half of him. The construction worker. Speaking of which, are you sure that was really his name?”
“The only sure thing is death.”
He couldn’t help himself. He smiled, mostly to himself. A smile with no lips, a crack across the face. He continued.
“The owner of the construction company he worked for, who by the way has no priors and has the reputation for being a good man, noted down the information on his visa and work permit. He remembers the day Puka first came to work: he showed him his passport.”
“How many immigrants come to this country with a passport? There must be only a few of them.”
“Right. Puka was one of the few.”
“Did you question anyone who knew him?”
“I questioned and questioned, but no one seems to have talked to him apart from the simple hello and good-bye. He was a private man. It’s not like he was rude or arrogant, quite the opposite. That’s the way he was. But there was something in his room that didn’t square with me. Or rather, something that wasn’t there.”
“What do you mean?”
“There weren’t any letters from his country. There wasn’t a single picture. Could it be that he didn’t have anyone in Albania?”
“Did he have a woman here?”
“Nobody’s ever seen him with a woman in his room, neither during the day nor at night.”
“Maybe he was a homosexual?”
“Maybe, but everyone we spoke with didn’t seem to think he was.”
The question didn’t come from this head, but straight from his lips, almost unconsciously.
“How did he speak? Could his housemates tell what part of Albania he came from?”
The marshal looked at him in admiration.
“From the documents he showed his employer, he seems to be from Valona. I asked the same question to the other Albanians who knew him, and nobody could tell me anything about his accent. After all, Puka himself, one of the few times he spoke with his countrymen, told them that in the past, under Communist rule, he had spent a lot of time in Italy.”
“If I remember correctly, at that time, Albania didn’t grant anyone permission to come and go.”
“I remember that, too. Unless this Puka wasn’t a diplomat, used to a cushy life, then he falls onto hard times and is forced to go abroad to earn his keep. And that would explain why I found two suits in his bedroom, and a pair of brand-name shoes and good-quality underwear.”
“But how did he earn his money?”
“Not by working construction, that’s for sure.”
“We’re at a dead end.”
“I notified the consulate and the embassy of Puka’s death in case there are any relatives in Albania. They sent me a fax just this morning. They are doing some checking, and they’ll let me know. Maybe that’ll lead somewhere.”
“Let’s hope so. Did they tell you how the accident happened?”
“There were no witnesses.”
“How’s that?!”
“The supervisor, the architect Manfredi, told me that a six-man crew was on duty that morning. When three of them, and to be exact …”
He took a piece of paper out of his pocket.
“When Amadeo Cavaleri, Stefano Dimora, and Gaetano Micciché arrived at work, the first thing they saw was Puka’s body, who clearly must have gotten there early, which was confirmed by the security guard.”
“Did the security guard see anything else?”
“Nothing. He went to bed, because a toothache had kept him up the night before.”
“How did the Albanian get there?”
“On his scooter, which we found at the scene: the other three workers, instead, got there in one car, owned by Dimora.”
“There are still two people missing.”
“Exactly. A Romanian, Anton Ştefănescu, and an Algerian, Ahmad bin Idris, showed up five minutes later, riding the same scooter.”
“Who called it in?”
“Dimora. He drove his car to the station to tell us.”
“How do the other workers explain Puka’s death? If the plank he was walking on broke, then how is that Puka didn’t fall inside the scaffolding, that is to say on the level just below, which would have caused him no great harm.
“I thought the same thing, but they told me that Puka, likely, at that moment, was reaching for the crane, his stomach pressing against the rail. Feeling the plank give in, he must have instinctively leaned forward, thus losing his balance and falling off the scaffolding. Also, his hard hat must have been unfastened, since it came off as he was falling. And that’s a plausible explanation.”
Montalbano noticed that the marshal’s forehead had become strangely shiny. He had started to sweat, but he wouldn’t budge, he wouldn’t move a muscle.
“Do the other workers in his crew have any priors?”
“No. But that, my dear inspector, doesn’t really mean anything.”
“I know. I see that the owner of the construction company … What was his name?”
“Alfredo Corso .”
“This Alfredo Corso hires a lot of immigrants. In this particular instance, three out of six are foreigners.”
“They are all legal. He is a charitable and scrupulous man. He told me that he was an immigrant once, in Germany, and so he understands where these people come from.”
He suddenly got up. Now his face was drenched in sweat.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
Montalbano got up, too.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, thank you. Listen, the best thing is for me not show my face here anymore, and I don’t think it’s wise for you to come to my office. Call me, even as early as tomorrow, and we’ll schedule an appoin
tment. Thank you for everything.”
He held out his hand, and the inspector shook it. But as soon as he took a step toward the door, he swerved and lost his balance. Montalbano jumped and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“You are in no shape to drive. I’ll take you.”
“No, thanks,” Verruso said firmly, “just walk me to the car.”
He leaned on the inspector’s arm. They walked out of the office, across the hallway, and headed toward the front door. Catarella, seeing them walk in front of him, opened his mouth and his eyes, dropping the telephone he was holding. He looked like that statuette from the Nativity scene, the shepherd with his arms raised in surprise, standing in front of the cave where the baby Jesus had been born. Montalbano waited for the marshal to get in his car and leave. Then he walked back inside. Catarella was still stuck in the same position, a pillar of salt.
6
It was time to go eat, and Fazio still hadn’t shown up. Since the door to his office remained open, he yelled his name. Fazio ran over but stopped at the threshold, poked his head into the office of his superior, and looked around carefully, as if the marshal was hiding and about to suddenly reappear. Montalbano thought he should say the famous punch line by the De Rege brothers: “Come inside, you idiot!”
But he resisted the urge, there was no need to top it all off and make Fazio’s mood even worse.
“So? Are you done yet?”
“Yes, sir, I finished half an hour ago.”
“Then why didn’t you come see me?”
“I was afraid of whom I might run into.”
What should he do? Insult him? Or pretend he didn’t hear and wait for another chance? He chose the second option, carrying on as if the other hadn’t said anything. In the meantime, Fazio had placed the piece of paper he had given him on his desk.
“Take a look.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sir, generally speaking, take a look means take a look. This case is no exception.”
Fazio was in a rotten mood. But the inspector reacted this time.
“If you don’t apologize in five seconds, I’m going to kick you in the ass and I don’t give a fuck if you sue me, the chief, the union, the president of the Republic, and the pope.”
He said it in a low voice, and Fazio realized he had crossed the line.
“I apologize.”
“Come on, out with it, don’t waste my time.”
“There is a link between two of the six tragedies. The man who was squashed by the iron beam and the Albanian worked for the same construction company, Santa Maria, the one belonging to Alfredo Corso .”
“Did they both have the same foreman?”
“No.”
And he didn’t say anything else. He was ice cold, Fazio.
After a while, he asked: “Is there anything else I can do?”
“No. I just wanted to let you know that we’re not investigating the death of the Albanian anymore. It was the marshal’s case, and we were wrong to interfere. Agreed?”
“As you wish. And what should I do with this piece of paper?” he asked, picking it up off the desk.
“Wipe your ass with it. I’m going to eat.”
Catarella ran after him, stopped him at the front door, and spoke in a conspiratorial manner.
“What is it, sir, is he one of your personal relatives?”
“Who?”
“The marshal.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Then, I beg your pardon, why was he putting his personal arm on your own personal one?”
“Catarè, this morning, getting out of the car, didn’t I lean on you?”
“That’s true.”
“Does that mean the two of us are relatives?”
“Matre santa! That’s true! Sir, nobody in the world explains things as well as you know how to explain them!”
But he immediately had a doubt.
“But, sir, the marishallo wasn’t getting out of his own personal car! This is something else!”
He was getting up from the table, full and satisfied, when he saw Mimì appear in front of him.
“I didn’t see you the whole morning.”
“Last night, there was a breaking and entering. But there was no breaking nor entering.”
“Then what was it?”
“An attempt to deceive the insurance company.”
“You came here to tell me that?”
“No, I came to eat. But I can kill two birds with one stone.”
“Then speak, I feel like a breath of fresh sea air.”
“I stopped by the station.”
“I see. Fazio told you about the marshal.”
“Yes.”
“Mimì, I tried to explain the situation to him, but he doesn’t want to hear it. This Marshal Verruso came to see me; Dr. Pasquano had told him I was investigating the Albanian. I tried to sell him the story that I was investigating some thefts and that he had something to do with them, but he didn’t buy it. So I told him the truth, the anonymous letter, everything. He didn’t say much, didn’t get offended, didn’t make any threats; he only kindly asked me not to interfere. I promised I wouldn’t. That’s all. And we’re lucky, because he could have fucked us good. We were the ones in the wrong, Mimì, and he didn’t want to take advantage of it. Try to get that hard head Fazio to understand that.”
As he began his meditative and digestive walk toward the lighthouse, he thought that he was now alone in that investigation, since he hid it from Mimì and Fazio. He couldn’t risk betraying what Verruso had told him in confidence. He spent half an hour sitting on the rock, thinking. Then he went back to the station, looked up a number in the phone book, and made a call. Someone told him that Mr. Corso was in the office and could only spare fifteen minutes, if he went there immediately, since he had an appointment in Fiacca and had to run.
Alfredo Corso was seventy-year-old man, fat, with a red face, without a single wrinkle. He had blue eyes and must have been a moody person. Montalbano must have rubbed him the wrong way for he attacked him as soon as he stepped in.
“What do you want from me? I don’t have any time to waste.”
“Me, neither,” the inspector said. “I’m here about that Albanian who died on your construction site.”
“And where’s the border patrol? Where are the park rangers?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Weren’t the carabinieri investigating that tragedy? Now the police are involved?”
“No, look, I’m not here because of the tragedy, but because this Pashko Puka is a suspect in a theft.”
Alfredo Corso looked at him and started to laugh.
“Do you find this funny?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You might not want to believe it … but why don’t you believe it?”
“Because I, my dear sir, understand people as soon as I lay eyes on them. All it takes is one look and I even know what they’re thinking. And Puka, the poor devil, wasn’t the type to go out and steal.”
“Has your intuition ever failed you?”
“Never. Those who work with me, I choose them personally, every last one of them. I’ve never gotten it wrong.”
“Even when they’re foreigners?”
“Foreigners, my dear sir, whether they have black skin or yellow skin, they’re still men, just like me and you. There’s no difference.”
“Speaking of which, you employ many foreigners and …”
Corso’s face turned red as a match.
“Should they starve to death?”
“No, Mr. Corso, I …”
“You want to force them to steal? To deal drugs?”
“Listen, Mr. Corso …”
“To live off of prostitutes?”
Montalbano kept silent. He realized there was no other way; he had to let him get it all out of his system.
“To sell their children? You tell me.”
“Are you religious?”
<
br /> The inspector’s question took Corso by surprise.
“What the fuck does it matter if I’m religious or not? No. I’m not religious. But it was enough for me to live as an emigrant for almost thirty years, first in Belgium and then in Germany, to understand these people who leave their country out of desperation.”
“How do you hire these foreigners?”
“Their names are brought to my attention.”
Montalbano noticed a slight hesitation.
“By whom?”
“Well, by the local branch of Caritas or organizations like that, by the Prefettura …”
“And who, in particular, brought Puka’s name to your attention?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Make an effort.”
“Catarina!”
The door to the next room opened immediately and a thirty-year-old woman, tall, beautiful, elegant, emerged. She was one hell of a secretary.
“Catarina, who gave us Puka’s name?”
“I’ll look it up on the computer.”
She disappeared and reappeared immediately.
“The police.”
Corso caught fire; he started yelling.
“The police! Did you hear that, Inspector? The police! And here you are giving me all this bullshit!”
Then the secretary did something she shouldn’t have done in front of strangers. She walked behind the desk, hugged Corso from behind, and kissed him on his bald head.
“Don’t get worked up; you’ll raise your blood pressure.”
Then she walked back to her office. They weren’t hiding their relationship at all.
“You are …” Montalbano started to say.
He was about to say “a widower,” but he stopped right away. Something in the eyes of the man made him realize the truth.
“What were you going to ask me?” Corso said, now almost completely calm.
“Nothing. That’s your daughter, right?”
“Yes, I had her late. So, my dear sir, as you can see, it’s very unlikely that the police suggested I hire a thief, don’t you think?”
Montalbano raised his arms. He had to find a way to talk to the secretary-daughter alone. The look she gave him as she was getting up after kissing her father, had been as clear as words: We need to talk.
The Fourth Secret Page 5
