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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.
    â€œIt 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 if to cleanse it of some invisible speck of dust, looked at it again, remained unsatisfied, blew into it again, put it down on the desk, unscrewed the pen’s metal tip, thought about this for a moment, set it down alongside the cap, carefully considered the piece remaining in his hand, lined this up near the other two pieces, and sighed deeply. This allowed him to calm down and check the impulse—which for a second had nearly overwhelmed him—to get up, go over to Ingrassia, punch him in the face, and ask: “Now tell me truthfully: in your opinion, am I joking or am I serious?”
    Tortorella, who was present for the interview and knew his chief’s reactions well, visibly relaxed.
    â€œLet me try and understand,” said Montalbano, in full control of himself.
    â€œWhat’s to understand, Inspector? It’s all clear as day. The stolen goods were all in the truck that you found. Not one toothpick was missing, not a single lollipop. So, if they didn’t do it to rob me, they musta done it as a joke, for fun.”
    â€œYou’ll have to be patient with me, Mr. Ingrassia, I’m a little slow in the head. So: eight days ago, from a depot in Catania—that is, on the other side of the island—two people steal a truck with a trailer belonging to the Sferlazza company. At that moment the truck is empty. For eight days they keep this truck out of sight, hiding it somewhere between Catania and Vigàta, since it wasn’t seen in circulation. Logically speaking, therefore, the only reason that truck was stolen and hidden was to take it out of circulation, when the time was right, to play a joke on you. Let me continue. Last night the truck rematerializes and around one A.M., when there’s almost nobody on the streets, it stops in front of your supermarket. The night watchman thinks it’s there to bring in new stocks, even at that odd hour. We don’t know exactly how things went, the watchman still can’t talk, but we do know that they put him out of commission, took his keys, and went inside. One of the thieves stripped the watchman and put on his uniform. This, I must say, was a brilliant move. The next brilliant move was that the others turned on the lights and got down to work in plain sight, taking no precautions—in broad daylight, one might say, if it wasn’t night. Ingenious, no doubt about it. Because a stranger passing through the neighborhood, noticing the watchman in uniform overseeing a few people loading a truck, would never dream that he was actually witnessing a robbery. This is the reconstruction of events offered by my colleague Augello; it was confirmed by the testimony of Cavaliere Misuraca, who was on his way home at the time.”
    At the mention of that name, Ingrassia, who had seemed to be losing interest as the inspector went on, sat up in his chair as if stung by a wasp.
    â€œMisuraca?!”
    â€œYes, the one who used to work at the Records Office.”
    â€œBut he’s a Fascist!”
    â€œI don’t see what the cavaliere’s political beliefs have to do with the case we’re discussing.”
    â€œThey have everything to do with it! Because when I used to be involved in politics, he was my enemy.”
    â€œYou’re no longer involved in politics?”
    â€œWhat’s to be involved in