On the beach was a little Fiat Fiorino van with its rear doors closed.The horse was no longer visible; apparently it had been loaded inside.

“Hey, Chief, can you come here a minute?” asked Fazio.

“Here I am. Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Good morning,” said one of the two astronauts.

The other gave him a dirty look over the top of his mask.

“They can’t find the carcass,” said Fazio, flummoxed.

“What do you mean they can’t . . . ?” said Montalbano, upset. “But it was right here!”

“We’ve looked everywhere and haven’t seen anything,” said the more sociable of the two.

“What is this, some kind of practical joke? You wanna play games or something?” the other said menacingly.

“Nobody’s joking here,” Fazio snapped back at the man, who was beginning to get on his nerves. “And watch your tongue.”

The other was about to reply, but thought better of it.

Montalbano stepped down from the veranda and went to examine the spot where the carcass had been.The others followed him.

In the sand were the footprints of five or six different shoes and two parallel tracks from the wheels of a cart.

Meanwhile the two astronauts got back into their van and drove off without saying goodbye.

“They stole it while we were having coffee,” said the inspector. “They loaded it onto a hand-drawn cart.”

“About two miles from here, over near Montereale, there’s about ten shacks with illegal immigrants living in them,” said Fazio. “They’re gonna have a feast tonight. They’re gonna eat horsemeat.”

At that moment they saw their car returning.

“We took everything we could find,” said Galluzzo.