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quite intelligent.
    “Captain Zurlo, how far from the mouth of the port did the people on the
Vanna
say they were when they spotted the dinghy?”
    “A little more than an Italian mile.”
    “Why do you say ‘Italian’ mile? Aren’t all nautical miles the same?”
    “Theoretically speaking, a nautical mile, being one sixty-sixth of one degree of a meridian, should correspond to 1.852 meters. But in fact, in Italy it is equal to 1.851 meters and 85 centimeters; in England it’s 1.853 meters and 18 centimeters; in the U.S. it’s—”
    “Why these differences?”
    “To make life complicated for us.”
    “I know exactly what you mean. Therefore we can say that the dinghy with the corpse inside was very close to the port.”
    “Quite so.”
    “Could you explain for us why the
Vanna
, after taking the dinghy and corpse on board, took so many hours to enter the port? Was it because of the storm?”
    The captain smiled.
    “It wasn’t actually a sea storm, far from it.”
    “No? Then what was it?”
    “Technically speaking, it’s called a strong gale, corresponding to winds of force 9 on the Beaufort scale.”
    “In plain language?”
    “It means that the wind is approaching forty-five knots and waves can reach a height of twenty feet. The
Vanna
was in danger of crashing against the eastern cape. Since the auxiliary engine wasn’t working very well, they had to go back out to the open sea and find a more favorable tack.”
    “How come the dinghy hadn’t capsized?”
    “Chance, or maybe it was caught between two conflicting currents.”
    “Here comes the most important question. In your opinion, with your many years of experience, was the dinghy being carried away from the port by the currents, or was it heading towards the port, also on the currents?”
    Montalbano pricked up his ears.
    “It’s sort of hard to say with any certainty. You see, there’s always a current flowing out of the port, but it’s also true that, given the weather conditions, this permanent current was nullified, so to speak, by the stronger currents coming in from the southeast.”
    “But what’s your personal opinion?”
    “I wouldn’t want to be held to this in an official report, but I’d say the dinghy was probably being carried by the outward current.”
    “So it had come from inside the harbor?”
    “What do you mean by ‘inside’?”
    “The central wharf, for example.”
    “No, if the dinghy had started there, it would have ended up against the eastern cape.”
    “So where did it come from, in your opinion?”
    “Probably from a point much closer to the mouth of the harbor.”
    “Thank you very much, Captain.”

    As the inspector lay down in bed, something was troubling him. But this did not prevent him from getting a good night’s sleep.
    When he got to Vigàta just before nine o’clock the next morning, he didn’t go straight to the station but pulled up in front of the Harbor Office.
    “Can I help you?” asked the usual guard.
    “I’d like to speak with Lieutenant Garrufo.”
    “Please ask at the information desk.”
    The officer at the counter looked as if he hadn’t moved since the day before. He was in the exact same position, holding the same issue of the
Settimana Enigmistica
in his hand. Maybe he never went home to sleep. Maybe in the evening a sailor came in and covered him with an oilcloth, turned off the light, and closed the door behind him. The following morning, the cleaning crew would wash the oilcloth, dust the man off, and the officer would go back to work.
    “I’m looking for Lieutenant Garrufo.”
    “He’s not in.”
    “Is there anyone here in his place?”
    “Of course. Lieutenant Belladonna.”
    “I’d like to—”
    “Just a minute. You, if I remember correctly, are Inspector Montalbano.”
    The man picked up the telephone, dialed a number, said a few words, and hung up.
    “The lieutenant is waiting for you. Second floor, second door on the right.”
    The door was open