Montalbano weighed his options and decided not to tell the clerk anything.

“No, I don’t. I just saw the dead body out my window.”

“So you didn’t see it die.”

“Obviously.”

“Okay, we’ll take your word for it,” said the clerk, who then started humming “Tu che a Dio spiegasti l’ali.”

A funeral lament for the horse? A kind homage from City Hall, as a way to take part in the mourning?

“Well?” said Montalbano.

“I was thinking,” said the clerk.

“What’s there to think about?”

“I have to figure out whose job it is to remove the carcass.”

“Isn’t it yours?”

“It would be ours if it’s an Article 11, but if, on the other hand, it’s an Article 23, it’s the job of the provincial Office of Hygiene.”

“Listen, given the fact that you’ve taken my word for everything thus far, I advise you to keep doing so. Because I assure you that either you come within fifteen minutes and haul it away, or I’m going to—”

“And who are you, may I ask?”

“I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

The clerk’s tone immediately changed.

“It’s definitely an Article 11, Inspector, I’m sure of it.”

Montalbano felt like screwing around.

“So it’s up to you to remove it?”

“It certainly is.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

The clerk became worried.

“Why are you asking me—”

“I wouldn’t want the people at the Office of Hygiene to take it the wrong way. You know how prickly these questions of jurisdiction can be . . . I say this for your sake. I wouldn’t want—”

“No need to worry, Inspector. It’s an Article 11. Somebody will be there in half an hour. No trouble at all. My respects, sir.”

* * *

Montalbano and Fazio drank coffee in the kitchen while waiting for Gallo and Galluzzo to return.The inspector then took a shower, shaved, and got dressed, changing his shirt and trousers, which had got soiled.When he went back into the dining room he saw Fazio on the veranda, talking to two men dressed like astronauts who had just stepped out of a space shuttle.