'I didn't do anything different from what my colleagues do every day, Commissioner.'
'I don't doubt it. But this particular arrest, when it comes to be known, will cause quite a stir.'
'So theres no hope? Come on, don't be childish.'
The inspector felt like a tuna caught in the net, the chamber of death. He began to feel short of breath, mouth opening and closing on emptiness. Then he tried a desperate suggestion:
'Couldn't we blame Fazio?'
'Blame?'
'I'm sorry, I meant couldn't we give him the credit?'
'See you later, Montalbano.'
Augello, who was lurking behind the door, made a questioning face.
'What'd the commissioner say?'
'We spoke about the situation.'
'Oh, right! You should see the look on your face!'
'What look?'
'Like youv'e been to a funeral.'
'I had trouble digesting what I ate last night.'
'Anything interesting?'
'Three pounds of mostaccioli.'
Augello looked at him in dismay. Montalbano, sensing that he was about to ask him the name of the arrested fugitive, used the opportunity to change the subject and put him on another track.
'Did you guys ever find the night watchman?'
'The one in the supermarket? Yeah, I found him myself. The thieves bashed him in the head, then bound and gagged him and threw him in a great big freezer.'
'Is he dead?'
'No, but I don't think hes feeling very alive either. When we pulled him out, he looked like a giant frozen stockfish.'
'Any idea which way they went?'
'I've got half an idea myself and the carabinieri lieutenant has another. But one thing is certain: to haul all that stuff, they had to use a heavy truck. And there must have been a team of at least six people to load it, under the command of some professional.'
'Listen, Mim, I have to run home and change my clothes. I'll be right back.'
...
Near Marinella he noticed that the reserve light for the gas tank was flashing. He stopped at the same filling station where there'd been a drive-by shooting a while back, when he'd had to bring in the attendant to get him to talk. Upon seeing the inspector, the attendant, who bore him no grudge, greeted him in his usual high-pitched voice, which made Montalbano shudder. After filling the tank, the attendant counted the money and eyed the inspector.
'What's wrong? Didn't I give you enough?'
'No sir. There's enough money here, all right. I just wanted to tell you something.'
'Let's have it,' Montalbano said impatiently. If the guy went on talking, even a little, his nerves would give out.
'Look at that truck over there.'
And he pointed at a large tractor-trailer parked in the lot behind the filling station, tarps pulled down tight to hide the cargo.
'It was already here early this morning,' he continued, 'when I opened up. Now it's been four hours and still nobody's come to get it.'
'Did you look to see if anyone's sleeping in the cab?'
'Yessir, I looked, there's nobody. And another weird thing: the keys are still in the ignition. The first soul to come along could start it up and drive it away.'
'Show me,' said Montalbano, suddenly interested.
4
A tiny man with rat-tail mustaches, an unpleasant smile, gold-framed eyeglasses, brown shoes, brown socks, brown suit, brown shirt, brown tie, a veritable nightmare in brown, Carmelo Ingrassia, owner of the supermarket, pressed the crease in his trousers with his fingers, right leg crossed over the left, and repeated his succinct interpretation of events for the third time.
'It was a joke, Inspector, a practical joke that somebody, I guess, wanted to play on me.'
Montalbano was lost in contemplation of the ballpoint pen he held in his hand. Concentrating his attention on the cap, he removed it, examined it inside and out as though he had never seen so strange a gizmo, blew into it as
