Free The Fourth Secret by Andrea Camilleri

closed and the door was opened simultaneously.
    “Come in.”
    The first thing he saw was a single bed, a rusty cot with just a mattress on top, covered in stains of different colors. No trace of the woman. The shack didn’t have a bathroom, nor any closets.
    “Where’s the woman?”
    “What woman?”
    “The one you were fucking.”
    “Sir, me? Fucking? I wish! Not even whores want to fuck me! It was a movie!”
    And he pointed to the TV and VCR with a tape sticking out of its mouth. In spite of the open window, the stench was unbearable. How long had that man gone without a shower? He was sixty years old, toothless, his left hand had only three fingers, and a huge scar ran across his face. Every inch of the walls was covered in asses, tits, and pussies belonging to various “actresses.” The man kept his eyes on the inspector.
    “Are you going to put down that gun or not?”
    The guard looked at the weapon he was still holding in his hand.
    “I forgot about it.”
    He opened the table drawer, put the gun in it, and closed it quickly. But the inspector could see that it also contained a stack of pictures.
    “Do you always grab your gun before opening the door?”
    “Before, no; now, yes.”
    “What do you mean?”
    The man answered with another question.
    “What do you want from me?”
    If you want to play twenty questions, I’ll play along, the inspector thought.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Angelo Piluso.”
    “How many times have you been in jail?”
    He couldn’t go wrong.
    The man raised his left hand, showing the three fingers he had left.
    “What for?”
    “Assault, theft, breaking and entering.”
    “You’re a thief and yet Mr. Corso trusts you to guard his site? How’s that?”
    “What can you steal from a construction site?”
    “Well, if you wanted, there’s a lot.”
    “Did Mr. Corso call you guys?”
    “No. I’m here about the Albanian who died.”
    Angelo Piluso looked at him, surprised.
    “Really? Wasn’t the marshal investigating that?”
    “Yes, but …”
    “Then I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
    Montalbano, putting his hand on his chest, shoved him against the cot. The guard fell on it.
    “What the fuck …”
    Montalbano opened the drawer, pushed the gun aside, and picked up the stack of pictures: naked boys and girls in obscene poses. He closed the drawer, walked over to the VCR, and pushed the tape inside.
    “And now let’s take a look at this movie.”
    “No! No!” the guard squealed.
    “Do you have a permit for the gun?”
    “Yes.”
    “Put a jacket on and come with me to the station.”
    “But I told you, I have a permit for it!”
    “I’m not taking you in for the gun, but for the pictures and the tape. Do you know what a pedophile is?”
    The man kneeled.
    “Sir, please! I only look! Look! Never, I’ve never been with a boy or girl! I swear it!”
    “We’ll see.”
    “Sir, you’ll ruin me! As soon as Mr. Corso hears about this, he’ll fire me!”
    “Don’t worry. Don’t you know they’ll take care of you in jail?”
    The man started to cry, covering his face with his hands. Montalbano remembered how Catarina Corso had done the same thing, and that filled him with anger. He jumped in front of him, pushed his hands away, and punched him twice, hard and maliciously, once on each cheek. The man remained still, stunned. Then he got up and sat on the bed, with his head down.
    “What do you want to know?” he mumbled.
    “Why did you say that at a certain point you felt a need to keep a weapon?”
    “Because there are too many foreigners on this construction site. Albanians, Turks, blacks … Those people are capable of anything. We need to watch our backs.”
    He was lying, the inspector was certain of it. He preferred to let it go.
    “You told the marshal that Puka would sometimes get here before everyone else.”
    “Yes, that’s true. It happened three or four times.”
    “How early?”
    “Well … About half an hour before the