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,
“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,
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