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?”
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
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?”
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
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