The Fourth Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

the end, he took out the plastic bag from his pocket and handed it to Fazio. The blood had turned into powder, an almost invisible dark layer at the bottom of the bag.
    “You hold on to it, Fazio. It’s important. If this belongs, as I think it does, to Puka, then it’s a crucial piece of evidence.”
    “Evidence of what?”
    “Evidence of how the Albanian was killed. You see, I think that Puka was ambushed and struck by the murderer while he was in the toilet pissing. Puka was already wearing his work clothes, but not his hard hat. He leaves the door open. The murderer hits him hard on the head with a steel pipe. But as he’s hitting him, he shuts the door behind him.”
    “Why?”
    “Because the toilet is visible from the front door, and somebody could be walking by. It is a necessary precaution. Puka falls dead on the toilet bowl, and the murderer drags him out for the staging. There must have been at least one accomplice. Before sounding the alarm for the fake accident, they clean the toilet bowl, but they don’t see the stains on the door because it’s open the whole time.”
    “But how did the blood end up there?”
    “Keep in mind that I found it only by chance, because my eye had been caught by a strange reflection. The murderer hits him a first time, then raises the steel pipe to strike him again. However, there isn’t much room. The pipe hits the closed door, leaving a dent shaped like a crescent; at the same time, the blood that is on the pipe splashes on the door. However, there’s no need for a second blow; Puka’s head is split in two.”
    The door opened and Augello walked in.
    “Fazio told me you went to the construction site. What did you find?”
    Montalbano got up.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
    And left.

4
    Six dead in the workplace in one month just in the province of Montelusa is quite a number. If that was any indication, then how many accidents happen in the whole country? Was anyone keeping track? Yes, every now and then, somebody did, and then the contrite face of a newscaster would announce to the entire world how that was certainly a high number, however, it was within the average of the European Union. And now on to sports. Thank you and come again. But what was the European Union average? Could they please tell us? No, sir, they would never say, because this story of the “European Union average” had become not only a good alibi, but also a source of great consolation. Unemployment had climbed four percent? Nothing to worry about, it was only slightly higher than the E.U. average. Have no fear; the government would find a solution. And, in fact, there was a minister who was thinking about increasing the speed limit to at least eighty miles an hour in order to make Italy more competitive in respect to the other countries of this beautiful Europe designed only to please the banks. But come to think of it, why did he call them accidents? No, Niccolò Zito was right: they were murders and they should be considered as such. These thoughts went through his mind as he was polishing off a plate of tender baby octopus Adelina had prepared for him, but his appetite little by little disappeared. He got up, cleared the table, and drank some coffee to remove that bitter taste from his mouth. Then he played the tape Niccolò’s secretary had sent him, laying on the couch.
    The first death was a poor devil who fell into a septic tank. The second was a father of three who was burned alive. The third had been caused by a cable that held a steel beam, which snapped and crushed the man underneath it. The fourth was something less elaborate, that is to say, the usual, trivial fall from a scaffold. The fifth was definitely more creative: a construction worker buried in cement poured by a coworker who hadn’t seen him. What was the title of that novel by that Italian-American writer, Pietro Di Donato, in which there was a story similar to this one? Oh, yes,
Christ in Concrete
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