At last he spotted Ingrid, who was waving her arms as she called him. He headed towards her.

“Inspector Montalbano; the master of the house, Baron Piscopo di San Militello.”

A tall, thin man, the baron was dressed exactly like someone the inspector had seen leading a fox hunt in a movie. Except that the actor in the movie was wearing a red jacket, while the baron’s was green.

“Welcome, Inspector,” said the baron, extending his hand.

“Thank you,” said Montalbano, shaking it.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Inspector?”

“Quite.”

“I’m glad.”

The baron looked at him, smiling, then clapped his hands loudly.The inspector felt confused.What was he supposed to do? Should he clap his hands, too? Maybe it was a sign these people used on such occasions to express happiness. So he clapped his hands loudly. The baron gave him a puzzled look, and Ingrid started laughing. At that moment a servant in livery handed the baron a coiled horn. So that was why the baron clapped his hands! To call the manservant! As Montalbano was blushing for making a fool of himself, the baron brought the horn to his lips and blew. The blast was so loud that it sounded like the “charge” signal for the cavalry. As his head was about three inches away from the horn, it left Montalbano’s ears ringing.

All fell suddenly silent.The baron passed the horn back to the manservant and took the microphone the other was handing to him.

“Mesdames et messieurs! A moment of attention, please! I hereby inform you that the betting booth will close in ten minutes, after which it will no longer be possible to make any wagers!”

“Please excuse us, Barone,” said Ingrid, grabbing Montalbano by the hand and dragging him behind her.

“Where are we going?”

“To place our bets.”

“But I don’t even know who’s racing!”

“Look, there are two favorites. Benedetta di Santo Stefano and Rachele, even though she’s not racing her own horse.”

“What’s this Benedetta like?”

“She’s a midget with a mustache. You want to be kissed by her? Now don’t be silly; you must bet on Rachele, like me.”

“And what is Beatrice della Bicocca like?”

Ingrid stopped dead in her tracks, in disbelief.

“Do you know her?”

“No. I only wanted to know—”

“She’s a slut. At this very moment she’s probably fucking some stableboy. She always does, before she races.”

“Why?”

“Because she says she can feel the horse better afterwards. You know how Formula 1 drivers feel with their buttocks how well the car is performing? Beatrice can feel how well the horse is performing with her—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.”

They filled out their checks at a small, unoccupied table.

“You wait for me here,” said Ingrid.

“No, please. I’ll go,” said Montalbano.

“Look, there’s a queue. If I go, they’ll let me cut in front of the others.”

Not knowing what to do, he approached one of the buffet tables. All that there had been to eat had been dispatched. Nobles, perhaps, but famished as a tribe from Burundi after a drought.

“Would you like something?” a waiter asked him.

“Yes, a J&B, neat.”

“There’s no more whisky, sir.”

He absolutely had to drink something if he was ever going to revive.

“Then a Cognac.”

“The Cognac’s finished, too.”

“Have you any alcohol left?”

“No, sir. All that’s left is orangeade and Coca-Cola.”

“An orangeade,” he said, sinking into depression before he’d even had a sip.

Ingrid came running up with two receipts in her hand, as the baron sounded the second cavalry charge.

“Come, let’s go. The baron is calling us all to the hippodrome.”

And she handed him his receipt.

The hippodrome was small and rather simple. It consisted of a large, circular track surrounded on either side by a low fence of interwoven branches.

There were also two wooden turrets with nobody in them yet.The starting gates, of which there were six, stood in a row behind the track, still empty. Guests were allowed to stand around the track.

“Let’s stay here,” said Ingrid. “We’re near the finishing post.”

They leaned against the fence. A short distance away, there was a white stripe on the ground, which must have been the finish line. Just above it, on the inside of the track, stood one of the turrets, probably reserved for the judges of the race.

Atop the other turret, the Baron Piscopo suddenly appeared, microphone in hand.

“Your attention, please! The line judges, Conte Emanuele della Tenaglia, Colonel Rolando Romeres, and the Marchese Severino di San Severino, are invited to take their places in the turret!”

Easier said than done. One reached the platform of the turret by way of a small, rather cramped wooden staircase. Considering that the youngest of the three, the marchese, weighed at least two hundred and seventy pounds, that the colonel was about eighty and had the shakes, and that the count had a stiff left leg, the fifteen minutes it took them to get to the top must have been some kind of record.

“Once it took them forty-five minutes to get up there,” said Ingrid.

“Is it always the same three?”

“Yes. By tradition.”

“Your attention, please! Will the competing ladies please go with their horses to their assigned starting cages!”

“How are the cages assigned?” asked Montalbano.

“They draw lots.”

“How come there’s no sign of Lo Duca?”

“He’s probably with Rachele. The horse she’s racing today is one of his.”

“Do you know which cage she’s got?”

“The first one, the one closest to the inside track.”

“And it could not have been otherwise!” commented a guy who had overheard their conversation, as he was standing just to the left of Montalbano.

The inspector turned to face him.The man was about fifty and sweaty, and had a head so bald and shiny that it hurt the eyes to look at it.

“What do you mean to say?”

“Exactly what I said. With Guido Costa in charge of it, they have the gall to call it a lottery!” said the sweaty man, indignant, before walking away.

“Have you any idea what he was talking about?” he asked Ingrid.

“Of course! The usual nasty gossip! Since Guido is in charge of the lots, the man was claiming that the lottery was rigged in Rachele’s favor.”

“So this Guido would be—”

“Yes.”

So, in that social circle, it was well known that there was something between the two.

“How many laps do they run?”

“Five.”

“Your attention, please! As of this moment, the starter may give the starting signal whenever he sees fit.”

Less than a minute passed before a pistol shot rang out.

“And they’re off !”

Montalbano was expecting the baron to act as the announcer and narrate the race, but Piscopo di Militello fell silent, set down the microphone, and picked up a pair of binoculars.

At the end of the first lap, Rachele was in third place.

“Who are the two in the lead?”

“Benedetta and Beatrice.”

“Think Rachele will make it?”

“It’s hard to say.With a horse she doesn’t know . . .”

Then they heard a great roar, and on the far side of the track there was a great commotion and a lot of people running.

“Beatrice has fallen,” said Ingrid. Then she added, maliciously, “Maybe she didn’t put herself in the right condition to feel the horse properly.”

“Mesdames et messieurs! I inform you that rider Beatrice della Bicocca has fallen from her horse, but luckily with no untoward consequences whatsoever.”

After the second lap, Benedetta was still in the lead, though followed closely by a rider the inspector didn’t recognize.

“Who’s she?” he asked.

“Veronica del Bosco, who shouldn’t be any problem for Rachele.”

“But why hasn’t Rachele taken advantage of the fall?”

“No idea.”

As they began the final lap, Rachele moved up into second place. For about fifty yards she engaged in a tight, rousing head-to-head dash with Benedetta, as the crowd seemed to go completely mad with shouting. Even Montalbano found himself yelling:

“Come on, Rachele! Come on!”

Then, about thirty yards from the finish line, Benedetta’s horse seemed to grow ten extra legs, and there wasn’t much Rachele could do about it.

“Too bad!” said Ingrid. “If she’d had her own horse, she would surely have won. Are you sorry?”

“Well, a little.”

“Mostly because you won’t be kissed by Rachele, right?”

“So what do we do now?”

“Now the baron is going to read the results.”

“What results? We already know who won.”

“Just wait.They’re interesting.”

Montalbano torched a cigarette. Three or four people who were standing near him stepped away, staring at him with annoyance.

“Mesdames et messieurs!” the baron called out from his turret. “It is my pleasure to announce to you that the sum total of the bets amounts to over six hundred thousand euros! I am truly grateful to all of you.”

Figuring there were about three hundred people present, and most were either blue bloods or businessmen or landowners, you couldn’t exactly say they had opened their wallets.

“The rider who received the highest number of bets was Signora Rachele Esterman!”

The crowd applauded. Rachele had lost the race, but raised the most money.

“I ask our distinguished guests please not to linger on the lawn, where we shall need to set up the tables for dinner, but to gather in the salons inside the villa.”

When Montalbano and Ingrid turned their backs on the track, the last thing they saw were two manservants who, having picked up Colonel Romeres, were lowering him from the turret.

“I’m going to go change,” said Ingrid, slipping away. “See you in about an hour, in the salon of the ancestors.”

Montalbano went into the salon, found a mysteriously unoccupied armchair, and sat down. He had to get through an hour without thinking about what he had realized as he was watching the race, which had put him on edge. He had noticed that he couldn’t see very well.There was no denying it. Each time the horses were running on the far side of the track from where he stood, he could no longer make out the different colors of the riders’ silks. Everything became muddled, the outlines blurred. If not for Ingrid he would not even have realized that it was Beatrice della Bicocca who had fallen.

“Well, what’s so unusual about that?” asked Montalbano One. “It’s old age. Mimì Augello was right.”

“That’s bullshit!” Montalbano Two rebelled. “Mimì Augello says you hold things at arm’s length in order to read.That’s presbyopia, which is typical of aging.Whereas what we have here is myopia, which has nothing to do with age!”

The discussion was interrupted by a man who planted himself directly in front of the armchair.

“Inspector Montalbano! Rachele had told me you were here, but I couldn’t find you.”

It was Lo Duca.About fifty, tall, most distinguished, most tanned from solar lamps, most glistening smile, salt-and-pepper hair groomed to perfection. One could only use superlatives to describe him. Montalbano stood up, and they shook hands. He was most fragrant as well.

“Why don’t we go outside?” Lo Duca suggested. “It’s stifling in here.”

“But the baron said . . .”

“Never mind the baron. Come with me.”

They passed back through the salon of armor, went out one of the French doors, but instead of taking the broad lane, Lo Duca immediately turned left. On this side there was a very well tended garden with three gazebos.Two had people in them, but the third was free. It was starting to get dark, but one of the gazebos had its light on.

“You want me to turn on the light?” asked Lo Duca. “But take my word for it, it’s better if we don’t. We’d be eaten alive by mosquitoes.Which will happen anyway during dinner.”

There were two comfortable wicker easy chairs and a little table with a vase of flowers and an ashtray on it. Lo Duca took out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to the inspector.

“Thanks, but I prefer my own.”

They lit their cigarettes.

“Excuse me for getting straight to the point,” said Lo Duca. “Perhaps you don’t feel like talking about work at the moment, but—”

“Not at all, go right ahead.”

“Thank you,” Lo Duca began. “Rachele told me she went to the Vigàta police to report the disappearance of her horse, but then didn’t file the report after you told her it had been killed.”

“Right.”

“Rachele was probably too upset when you told her the horse had been destroyed in a particularly brutal manner ; in fact she was unable to be more specific—”

“Right.”

“But how did you find out?”

“It was pure chance. The horse came and died right outside my window.”

“But is it true that, a bit later, somebody came and removed the carcass?”

“Right.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“No. Do you?”

“Perhaps, yes.”

“Tell me, if you would.”

“Of course I’ll tell you. If and when the body of Rudy, my horse, is found, it probably will have been killed in the same manner.This is a vendetta, Inspector.”

“And did you present this hypothesis of yours to my colleagues in Montelusa?”

“No. Just as you, from what I’ve heard, haven’t yet told your colleagues in Montelusa that you found Rachele’s horse.”

Touché. Lo Duca certainly knew how to fence.

The inspector had to proceed carefully.

“A vendetta, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Could you be a little more precise?”

“Yes.Three years ago I had a heated argument with one of the men who used to tend my horses, and in a fit of anger, I struck him in the head with an iron rod. I didn’t think I had hurt him too badly, but it left him disabled. Naturally I took care of all the medical expenses, but I also give him a monthly stipend equal to the pay he used to receive.”

“But, if that’s the way it is, why would this man want—”

“Well, it’s been three months since his wife has had any news of him. He was no longer right in the head. One day he left muttering threats against me and hasn’t been seen since.There are rumors he has taken up with criminals.”

“Mafiosi?”

“No, just common criminals.”

“But why didn’t this man limit himself to stealing and killing your horse? Why did he also take Signora Esterman’s horse?”

“I don’t think he knew that the horse wasn’t mine, when he was stealing it. He probably realized it afterwards.”

“And you didn’t mention this to my colleagues in Montelusa, either?”

“No. And I don’t think I will.”

“Why not?”

“Because I feel it would be hounding an unlucky wretch whose mental infirmity I am responsible for.”

“So why did you bring it up with me?”

“Because I’ve been told that when you want to get to the bottom of something, you do.”

“Well, since I’m someone who gets to the bottom of things, as you say, could you tell me this person’s name?”

“Gerlando Gurreri. But could I have your word that you will not mention this name to anyone?”

“No need to worry. However, you’ve given me the motive, but you haven’t told me why they removed the horse’s carcass.”

“As I said, I believe that when Gurreri stole the two horses, he believed they were both mine. Then one of his accomplices must have pointed out to him that one of them belonged to Rachele. So they killed it and then removed the carcass, leaving me to stew in my doubts.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Inspector, how can you be so sure that the horse you found dead on the beach was Rachele’s and not mine? When they took away the remains, they made it impossible to identify the animal. So, by leaving me in a state of uncertainty, they are making me suffer even more. Because I was very attached to my Rudy.”

The argument made a certain sense.

“Tell me something, Mr. Lo Duca. Who was it that informed Signora Esterman that her horse had been stolen?”

“I thought I did. But apparently someone beat me to it.”

“Who?”

“I dunno, maybe one of the two men who tend the horses. Rachele, morever, had given the watchman the telephone numbers where she could be reached.The watchman kept that piece of paper with the telephone numbers pinned inside the front door of his house. It’s still there, in fact. Is that of any importance?”

“Yes, it’s very important.”

“How so?”

“You see, Mr. Lo Duca, if nobody from the stable called Signora Esterman, it means that it was Gerlando Gurreri.”

“And why would he do it?”

“Maybe because he thought that you would wait as long as possible before informing Signora Esterman of the theft of her horse, in the hopes of recovering it quickly, perhaps by paying a big ransom.”

“In other words, to make me lose face and embarrass me in the eyes of everyone?”

“It’s a possibility, don’t you think? But if you tell me that Gurreri, who you say is a bit off his rocker, is not in any condition to reason so subtly, then my hypothesis crumbles.”

Lo Duca paused to think about this.

“Well,” he said after a brief moment.“I suppose it’s possible that it wasn’t Gerlando who cooked up the scheme of the telephone call, but one of the crooks he’s fallen in with.”

“That, too, is quite likely.”

“Salvo? Where are you?”

Ingrid was calling him.