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out. But then, out of the blue, Zito started talking about the bizarre robbery at the Ingrassia supermarket and the inexplicable rediscovery of the truck with all the stolen merchandise. The common opinion, reported Zito, was that the vehicle must have been abandoned following an argument between the robbers over how to divide up the loot. Zito, however, did not agree. In his opinion, things had gone differently; the real explanation was surely far more complicated.
    â€œAnd so I appeal directly to you, Inspector Montalbano. Is it not true that there must be more to this story than meets the eye?” the newsman asked, closing his report.
    Hearing himself personally addressed and seeing Zito’s eyes looking out at him from the screen as he was eating, Montalbano let the wine he was drinking go down the wrong way and started coughing and cursing.
    After finishing his meal, he put on his bathing suit and dived into the sea. It was freezing cold, but the swim brought him back to life.
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“Now tell me exactly how it all happened,” said the commissioner.
    After admitting the inspector into his office, he had stood up and gone right over to him, embracing him warmly.
    One thing about Montalbano was that he was incapable of deceiving or stringing along people he knew were honest or who inspired his admiration. With crooks and people he didn’t like, he could spin out the flimflam with the straightest of faces and was capable of swearing he’d seen the moon trimmed in lace. The fact that he not only admired his superior, but had actually at times spoken to him as to a father, now put him, after the other’s command, in a state of agitation: he blushed, began to sweat, kept squirming in his chair as if he were under cross-examination. The commissioner noticed his uneasiness but attributed it to the discomfort that Montalbano genuinely felt whenever he had to talk about a particularly successful operation. The commissioner had not forgotten that at the last press conference, in front of the TV cameras, the inspector had expressed himself—if you could call it that—in long, painful stammerings at times devoid of common meaning, eyes bulging, pupils dancing as if he were drunk.
    â€œI’d like some advice, before I begin.”
    â€œAt your service.”
    â€œWhat should I write in the report?”
    â€œWhat kind of question is that? Have you never written a report before? In reports you write down what happened,” the commissioner replied curtly, a bit astonished. And since Montalbano hadn’t yet made up his mind to speak, he continued. “In other words, you say you were able to take advantage of a chance encounter and turn it into a successful police operation, skillfully, courageously, it’s true, but—”
    â€œLook, I just wanted to say—”
    â€œLet me finish. I can’t help but notice that you took a big risk, and exposed your men to grave danger—you should have asked for substantial reinforcements, taken due precaution. Luckily, it all went well. But it was a gamble. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, in all sincerity. Now let’s hear your side.”
    Montalbano studied the fingers on his left hand as if they had just sprouted spontaneously and he didn’t know what they were there for.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” the commissioner asked.
    â€œWhat’s wrong is that it’s all untrue!” Montalbano burst out. “There wasn’t any chance encounter. I went to talk with Tano because he had asked to see me. And at that meeting we made an agreement.”
    The commissioner ran his hand over his eyes.
    â€œAn agreement?”
    â€œYes, on everything.”
    And while he was at it, he told him the whole story, from Gegè’s phone call to the farce of the arrest.
    â€œIs there anything else?” the commissioner asked when it was over.
    â€œYes. Things being what they are, in no way