The Terra-Cotta Dog

that belonged to him. The meanders of the labyrinth the inspector had willingly entered led him straight into a wall. But perhaps the labyrinth was being kind to him by preventing him from going any further, stopping him in front of the most logical, most natural solution.

Supper was light, yet cooked, in every regard, with a touch the Lord grants only very rarely to the Chosen. But Montalbano did not thank the commissioner's wife; he merely looked at her with the eyes of a stray dog awarded a caress.The two men then retired to the study to chat. For Montalbano the commissioner's dinner invitation had been like a life preserver thrown to a man drowning not in a stormy sea, but in the flat, unrippled calm of boredom.

The first thing they discussed was Catania, and they concurred that informing the Catania police of their investigation of Brancato had led, as its first result, to the elimination of the very same Brancato.

'We're like a sieve,' the commissioner said bitterly. 'We can't take one step without our enemies knowing about it. Brancato had Ingrassia killed because he was getting too nervous, but when the people pulling the strings learned that we had Brancato in our sights, they took care of him as well. And so the trail we were so painstakingly following was conveniently obliterated.'

He was gloomy. The idea that moles were planted everywhere offended him; it embittered him more than a betrayal by a family member.

Then, after a long pause during which Montalbano did not open his mouth, the commissioner asked:

'How's your investigation of the Crasticeddru murders coming along?'

From the commissioners tone of voice, Montalbano could tell that his superior viewed this investigation as mere recreation for the inspector, a pastime he was being allowed to pursue before he returned to more serious matters.

'I've managed to find out the mans name, too,' he said, feeling vindicated in the eyes of the commissioner, who gave a start, astonished and now interested.

'You are extraordinary! Tell me how.'

Montalbano told him everything, even mentioning the theatrics he'd performed for De Dominicis, and the commissioner was quite amused. The inspector concluded with an admission of failure of sorts. 'It made no sense to continue the search,' he said, 'since, among other things, nobody could prove that Lillo Rizzitano wasn't dead.'

'All the same,' the commissioner said after a moments reflection, 'if somebody really wants to disappear, it can be done. How many cases have we seen where people apparently vanish into thin air and then, suddenly, there they are? I don't want to cite Pirandello, but let's take Sciascia at least. Have you read the little book about the disappearance of Majorana, the physicist?'

'Of course.'

'I am convinced, as was Sciascia himself, that in the end Majorana wanted to disappear, and succeeded. He did not commit suicide. He was too religious.'

'I agree.'

'And what about that very recent case of the Roman university professor who stepped out of his home one day and was never seen again? Everybody looked for him, police, carabinieri, even his students, who loved him. It was a planned disappearance, and he also succeeded.'

'True,' Montalbano concurred. Then he thought about what they were saying and looked at his superior. 'It sounds to me as if you're encouraging me to continue the investigation, though on an another occasion you reproached me for getting too involved in this case.'

'So what?'

'Now you're convalescing, whereas the other time you were on the job. '

'There's quite a difference, I think,' the commissioner replied.

...

He returned home and paced from room to room. After his meeting with the surveyor, he had decided to screw the whole investigation, convinced that Rizzitano was good and dead. Now the commissioner had gone and resurrected him, so to speak. Didn't the early Christians use the word dormitio to mean death? It was quite possible Rizzitano had put himself in sleep, as the Freemasons used to say. Fine, but if that was the case, Montalbano would have to find a way to bring him out of the deep well in which he was hiding. That would require something big, something that would make a lot of noise, something the newspapers and television stations all over Italy would talk about. He had to unleash a bombshell. But what? He needed to forget about logic and dream up something fantastic.

It was eleven oclock, too early to turn in. He lay down on the bed, fully dressed, and read Pylon.

At midnight last night the search for the body of Roger Shumann, racing pilot who plunged into the lake on Saturday p.m., was finally abandoned by a three-place bi-plane of about eighty horsepower which managed to fly out over the water and return without falling to pieces and dropping a wreath of flowers into the water approximately three quarters of a mile away from the spot where Shumanns body is generally supposed to be....

There were only a few lines left until the end of the novel, but the inspector sat up in bed with a wild look in his eyes.

'It's insane,' he said, 'but I'm going to do it.'

...

'Is Signora Ingrid there? I know it's late, but I need to speak to her.'

'Signora no home. You say, I write.'

The Cardamone's specialized in finding housekeepers in places where not even Tristan da Cunha would have dared set foot.