The Fourth Secret by Andrea Camilleri Page A

through the countryside, headed in the opposite direction. And every now and then, he was forced to turn on his headlights to avoid running into boulders, ditches, and trees.
    “If he keeps up at that speed, it will take him twenty minutes to get out of the valley. What’s on the other side?”
    “There’s Gallotta,” Catarella replied. “It’s a practice of matter that he must go through Gallotta.”
    “Then let’s go wait for him there.”
    It took him less than twenty minutes to reach Gallotta, a small village with fewer than a thousand souls. In order to get on the road, the one that would have allowed him to get out of there quickly, Dimora had to go through the village. Montalbano backed the car away from the street, hiding in an alley between two houses. They waited with the engine running, their nerves tense. They waited and waited. Three trucks went by, then a Porsche, then an Ape. There was no trace of Dimora’s car.
    “Could it be that he hitched a ride?” Catarella offered timidly.
    “I don’t think so. If he’s not coming to us, let’s go to him.”
    They drove cautiously through the streets of Gallotta; the car looked like a giant cockroach, an evil beast. Then they reached a completely deserted street. Of the ten lamps that were supposed to light it, at least five were out. There were three cars parked along the sidewalk. The last, Montalbano was sure after he had looked at the license plate number, was Dimora’s. But it looked empty. Could Dimora have left it to hide in some friendly house?
    “Listen, Catarè, you get out and approach the car from behind. Maybe Dimora’s not there; maybe he’s gone. Or maybe he’s hiding inside. Be careful, chances are he’s armed. I got your back.”
    Catarella got out, unfastening his holster. He approached the car from behind, and got on the sidewalk. Now he was walking along the wall of an abandoned house, with black holes instead of windows. And at this point, what the inspector saw skipped slightly, as when a frame is missing on film reel. It was the dream! Jesus Christ, it was the dream! There were some differences between reality and the images he had dreamed, but the substance was the same. He quickly opened the glove box, took out his gun, put a bullet in the chamber, opened the door, and got out. Dimora’s car door also opened, a man, his arm outstretched, jumped out of it. Catarella froze.
    “Dimora!” Montalbano shouted.
    The man turned and shot. Montalbano had pulled the trigger as well, the two shouts made one bang. Half of Dimora’s face flew off and landed—bones, flesh and brains—on the wall of the house. The inspector ran toward the man, who had fallen on his back on the sidewalk. Just looking at him, you could tell he was dead. Then he turned to Catarella. He wasn’t moving; his eyes were wide open. He reached him and grabbed the cell phone from his pocket.
    “Get in the car.”
    Catarella didn’t move. Montalbano nudged him from behind and he finally moved. A robot. He dialed the number.
    “It’s Montalbano. I’m sorry to call you at this hour, but …”
    “I was expecting your call.”
    Expecting it?!
    “Did you get him? I was certain he was hiding somewhere in the construction site. I didn’t tow his car so as to use it as bait. I was sure he would have taken it, and that you would have been there to reel him in.”
    For a moment, the inspector had a blasphemous thought: what a team they would have made, that carabinieri marshall and himself!
    “I had to shoot him.”
    “Did you kill him?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where are you exactly?”
    The inspector explained.
    “Did anyone see you?”
    “I don’t think so. None of the windows opened. Everyone preferred to go back to sleep.”
    “Better that way. Don’t move. I’ll be in Gallotta in fifteen minutes.”
    He got in the car, too. Now Catarella was shaking.
    “I’m cold, so cold, sir.”
    Montalbano put his arm over his shoulder.
    “Lean on me.”
    Catarella