The Fourth Secret Read Free

it. The letter arrived late; it took three days to travel less than a mile, for that was the distance between the post office and the station. And they call it priority mail! On the envelope, in all caps, was the address of the sender: ATTILIO SIRACUSA, VIA MADONNA DEL ROSARIO 38 . He called Niccolò Zito on the phone. He wasn’t in his office, the secretary told him. He called his house, talked to Zito’s wife, Taninè, who told him that fortunately her husband had left at the crack of dawn.”
    “Why ‘fortunately’?”
    “Because his tooth hurts and he kept the whole house awake. It was like Christmas Eve,” Taninè explained.
    “Then why doesn’t he go to the dentist?”
    “Because he’s scared, Salvo. He could get a heart attack and die as soon as he sees the drill.”
    He said good-bye and hung up. He called Catarella and sent him to buy the local paper. He quickly found the article:
    DEADLY ACCIDENT IN THE WORKPLACE
    Yesterday morning around seven thirty, an Albanian construction worker, age 38, Pashko Puka, a legal resident with a work permit, hired by the Santa Maria construction company owned by Alfredo Corso, fell from a scaffold that had been erected during the construction of an apartment building in Tonnarello, between Vigata and Montelusa. His coworkers, who immediately rushed to his aid, unfortunately discovered he had died. The local magistrate has opened an investigation.
    Thank you and come again. Nine lines, including the title, at the bottom of the last column on the right. The page exuded complete indifference toward that unfortunate death, overshadowed by the news of the political crisis in Fela’s town hall and the political crisis in Poggio’s town hall; the announcement that the aqueduct would be shut down for five days at a time instead of the usual four; the preparations in Gibilrossa for the Sant’Isidoro festival. Niccolò Zito did the right thing the previous night when he showed those graphic images of people who died in the workplace. But how many viewers kept looking and how many instead changed the channel, washing those images away with a dancer’s ass or filling their ears with the empty words of the representatives of the new government?
    Mimì Augello hadn’t arrived yet. He called Fazio and handed him the paper, pointing at the article. Fazio read it.
    “Poor devil!” he said.
    Without saying a word, Montalbano handed him the anonymous letter. Fazio read it.
    “Fuck!” he said.
    Then he had the same thought as the inspector.
    “When did we get this?” he asked gloomily.
    “Yesterday morning. And I didn’t open it right away. But even if I had, it wouldn’t have changed a thing. It had already happened.”
    “What should we do now?” Fazio asked.
    “For now, just tell me one thing. Tonnarello is closer to Montelusa than us. We didn’t here about this tragedy, or whatever it is, so I want to know who is investigating it.”
    “Inspector, there’s a carabinieri station near there. The man in charge is Maresciallo Verruso. A good man. I’m sure that’s who they called in.”
    “Can you check?”
    “Two minutes, I’ll make a phone call.”
    Just to pass the time, since he was sure that the sender’s name on the envelope was fake, he picked up the phonebook.
    There was only one Attilio Siracusa, but he lived in Via Carducci. He dialed the number.
    “I wonder who the fuck it is that’s fucking calling this fucking number?”
    Clearly, Mr. Siracusa’s vocabulary was rather limited, but quiet expressive.
    “This is Inspector Montalbano.”
    “And who fucking cares!”
    Montalbano decided to fight fire with fire.
    “Listen, Siracusa, stop breaking my balls and answer my questions, or else I’ll come over there and kick your ass.”
    Mr. Siracusa’s voice suddenly turned kind, submissive, and slightly pleased by the honor.
    “Oh, Inspector, it’s you! Please excuse me. I just got home a few hours ago. I was up all night, flying on a damn plane on its