The Fourth Secret (5 page)

“Yes, but what are you going to do with that information?”

“I want to see if they have anything in common.”

“There is one thing,” Fazio said.

“What?”

“Death.”

The door to his office was opened violently, but instead of slamming against the wall, it hit a pile of papers that needed signing, which Fazio had put there; the door had bounced back with the same exact violence, trying to shut itself, but it couldn’t, since it found on obstacle in its path: Catarella’s face. The man produced some sort of high-pitched neigh, covering his face with his hands.

“
Vergine Maria
! It smashed my nose!”

Was that a police station? No way! It was a research lab for movie gags that would be the envy of Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton. Montalbano waited with all the patience he could muster for Catarella to stuff a napkin up his smashed nose.

“Sir, I demand your pardon. But there is a carabinieri marshal who wants to speak to you personally in person. He says his name is Verruso.”

Verruso? Wasn’t that the name of the
marshal in charge of the investigation of Puka’s death? What they fuck did he want?”

“Tell him I’m not in.”

He regretted it immediately.

“No, Catarè, let him through.”

The
marshal, in uniform, his military hat under his left arm, appeared in the doorway with his right arm outstretched.

“Ah, it’s you!”

The inspector, who was getting up, remained stuck halfway, his right arm outstretched, for the was the same exact person who had lectured him in Montelusa about that telephone business. And he was the same person—but Verruso couldn’t know that—who had appeared in his dreams, waking him up as he was making love to Livia.

Then someone pressed the PLAY button, Montalbano walked around his desk, the marshal took four steps forward, and their two hands finally shook. Both of them were wearing a smile as fake as a Rolex made in Naples.

They sat down.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

And a good ten seconds went by before he added: “Thanks.”

Madonna Santa
, what a boring man he was! Montalbano decided not to ask any questions, let him be the one to get the ball rolling.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you investigating Pashko Puka?”

“Who?”

He patted himself on the back; he had nailed that surprise. But maybe it was a mistake because the marshal looked at him and moved to a direct attack.

“Inspector, sir, please. I spoke to Dr. Pasquano, who duly informed me you went to visit him, asking for the results of his autopsy, and told him that Puka had been implicated in some thefts.”

Montalbano lost all hope. That great son-of-a-bitch Pasquano betrayed him. And now what was he going to tell the marshal?

“You see, we heard rumors, but just rumors mind you, that the Albanian man, together with other known members of the local crime syndicate, participated …”

“I see,” Verruso interrupted dryly.

Montalbano felt a sour taste in his mouth, as if he had eaten some unripe fruit. It was clear that the marshal
was growing angry; he didn’t believe him.

“Just rumors?”

“Yes, Marshal
,
only vague rumors.”

“And no letters?”

If he had shot him in the head, Montalbano would have been less surprised. What did he mean by that question? Where was he headed? In any case, Verruso was proving to be extremely dangerous. As he was racking his brain to find an answer, Verruso had opened his jacket pocket, taken out a letter, and had placed it on the table. Montalbano looked at it and felt a cold shiver: it was exactly like the one he had received.

“What is that?” he asked, pretending to be surprised, but this time his performance was rather poor.

The marshal, however, clearly didn’t feel like wasting time.

“You should know. You received a copy yourself.”

“Excuse me, but who told you? Do you have a mole in my station?” Montalbano said, raising his voice.

“I suggest you read the letter.”

“I don’t need to if, as you say, I received a copy myself,” the inspector replied, trying to make his words sound sarcastic.

“This one has a postscript.”

There was, and this is how it read:

I WARN YOU: I SENT THE SAME LETTER TO INSPECTOR MONTALBANO IN CASE YOU GET ANY IDEAS.

The room fell silent.

“So?” Verruso asked.

The inspector weighed the pros and cons. There was no doubt that he was in the wrong; it was his duty to turn in the letter to the carabinieri and get out of their way. However, if he admitted to receiving it, chances were that the marshal would report him to the chief, and it would have caused a big stink. And Chief Bonetti-Alderighi wouldn’t have wasted the opportunity to destroy him and have him kicked off the force. He had committed a crime; there was no doubt about it. Fine, if he had to pay, he would pay.

“I received it,” he said in such a low voice that he almost didn’t hear it himself.

The marshal, instead, heard him just fine.

“You should have sent it to my superiors immediately, you know?”

He had taken the same unbearable tone he had used to chastise him about the telephone. The same he had use in his dream to stop him from finishing making love to Livia. It was that particular memory that made his blood boil.

“I know. I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

He opened a drawer, picked up the letter, and threw it on top of Verruso’s.

“Take it and get out of my face.”

Verruso didn’t move and didn’t even seem offended.

“And that’s it?”

“What else is there?”

“Forgive me, sir, but I’m not convinced.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because it wouldn’t be consistent with your way of doing things. I’ve heard a lot about you, about the way you act and the way you think. And so I’m convinced that you, as soon as you received the letter, didn’t just throw it in a drawer. Actually, while we’re at it …”

He stopped, leaned forward, picked up the envelope addressed to Montalbano, and handed it to him.

“Make it disappear. It’s better my superiors don’t know about this whole thing.”

And that meant that Verruso wanted to put all his cards on the table, without any tricks or traps. The man deserved trust and respect.

“Thank you,” he said.

He picked up the envelope and put it back in the drawer.

“Why don’t you tell me what you found at the construction site?” the marshal said pointedly.

Montalbano looked at him in admiration.

“How did you know I went to the construction site?”

“I was there, too,” Verruso said.

The first thing Montalbano felt when hearing those words was embarrassment, or even shame. Not because he had been caught doing something illegal, but because if he had seen all the mess he had caused, falling head first in the mud. Certainly, the marshal must have laughed his ass off behind his back. Montalbano looked Verruso
in the eyes, but he didn’t see mockery or amusement. The second thing he felt was a sort of somatization, and his shoulder was pierced three times by an acute pain.

“Did you tail me?”

“I wouldn’t dare. The thing is that I wanted to take a good look at the construction site, but then I saw your car and …”

“How did you know it was my car?”

“Because I had already seen it in Montelusa, when we had that … well, discussion. And I never forget a license plate.”

He was quite the cop; that much was certain.

“How come I didn’t see you?”

“I parked my car outside the fence, on the other end of the construction site. I saw you climb into the shack through the window, and so I hid.”

“Excuse, but why? You could have come forward, like you did last night, and …”

“Me?! Last night?!” Verruso said, completely taken by surprise.

Montalbano recovered immediately.

“No, I’m sorry, I meant this morning, not last night.”

“Because I didn’t want to disturb you. I didn’t want to distract you. At one point, I climbed on the hood of your car and looked inside the shack. Pardon the comparison, but you really looked like a dog, a hound following fresh tracks.”

Somebody knocked on the door. Fazio walked in and stopped at the threshold, speechless. He didn’t know Verruso was there.

“Good morning,” he said coldly.

“Good morning,” the marshal replied without enthusiasm.

“I’ll come back later,” Fazio said.

“Wait,” Montalbano said. “Bring me that plastic bag I gave you the other day. I want to show it to the marshal.”

Fazio turned pale as if he had been mortally offended, opened his mouth, closed it, turned around, and disappeared. The inspector told Verruso what needed to be told. It took him ten minutes and Fazio hadn’t returned. Then, finally, they heard a knock at the door, and Fazio appeared with a mortified look on his face. He opened his arms theatrically and shook his head.

“I can’t find it,” he said. “I looked for it everywhere.”

And then, turning to the marshal, said: “I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” Verruso said.

Montalbano stood up.

“Let’s go to the other room. I’ll help you look for it. Excuse me, Marshal.”

As soon as they were outside the office, he grabbed Fazio’s arm, almost lifted him off the ground, pushing him forward.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked in a low voice.

“Sir, I’m not going to give it to him. The bag is ours!”

“You have five minutes, just so Verruso thinks we’re really looking for it. I’m going for a smoke out front.”

He was furious with Fazio. But then again, if the marshal hadn’t been a real man, wouldn’t he have reacted the same way, even denying he had received the anonymous letter?

“Here it is,” Fazio said, and went back to his office wearing a long face.

Montalbano finished his cigarette and went back to the
marshal. He took the bag the inspector handed him, and put it in his pocket without even looking at it, as if it wasn’t important at all.

“Look, Marshal, if it turns out that the blood is Puka’s, it can only mean that …”

“Don’t worry, Inspector. I’ll have it analyzed with the rest.”

“The rest?”

“You see, Inspector,” Verruso continued to explain, “when you left the construction site, I called in two of my men. They closely examined the toilet, and on the back of the bowl, we found more bloodstains that had escaped the assassins’ attention. Yes, because Puka was killed by more than one man, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Agreed,” Montalbano conceded flatly.

This Marshal Verruso wanted to play cat and mouse with him. But was Verruso certain he was the cat? Where was he with his investigation? What advantage, how far ahead was he? Advantage, far ahead? What was it, a race between the police and carabinieri? Let them deal with it; let them fucking sort this one out!

“Very well,” Montalbano said, washing his hands of the whole thing. “I told you everything and I gave you the evidence. Now, if I may, I have a lot of …”

He stood up and extended his hand. The other looked at it as if he had never seen a hand in his whole life and remained seated.

“Maybe you didn’t understand,” he said.

“What was there to understand?”

“That I’m here to tell you … to ask you if you feel like helping me out … not officially, naturally.”

Montalbano couldn’t help but laugh sardonically. How clever he was, that marshal! He was going to solve the case and the merit would go to him.

“And why should I?”

“Because I’m dying.”

Just like that, simply.

“You’re joking, right?”

“No. I have a cancer that’s eating me alive. I’m alone. My wife died three years ago. We never had any children. My only reason for living is my work, sending to prison those who deserve it.”

“Do your superiors know about this?”

“No. But the doctors tell me that I don’t have much time, one or two weeks, then I have to check into the hospital and undergo … Well, I’m afraid I don’t have enough time to see this one through. But if you … In any case, whatever your decision is, please don’t tell anyone about my illness.”

“Do you have a particular interest in this case?”

“Absolutely not. But I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”

Admiration. No, much more: respect. For the serene courage, the quiet determination of that man. Once he had read a verse that more or less said that it is the thought of death that helps us to live. Well, maybe the thought, but the certainty of death, its daily presence, its quotidian manifestation, its atrocious ticking—yes, because in that case, death is like an alarm clock that would sound not the awakening but the eternal slumber—all of that wouldn’t have caused in him, Montalbano, an unbearable, unspeakable terror? What was that man made of? No, he thought, he’s made of flesh, just like me. For, once we come to the end, all men find a surprising and merciful strength.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

He sat back down.

“Thank you,” Marshal Verruso said.

He stood back up immediately.

“Excuse me a moment.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he had felt a knot in his throat. If he had stayed a bit longer, he might have started to shed tears. He went to the bathroom, drank a sip of water, and washed his face. On his way back, he stopped by Fazio’s office.

“How’s the research coming?”

“I’m on it,” Fazio answered rudely, still wearing his long face.

He couldn’t swallow that plastic bag thing.

And you don’t even know what’s yet to come, the inspector thought, amused. He sat at his desk. Verruso, since he first walked in, had sat in the same position, his shoes one next to the other, perfectly aligned.

“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.”