The Paper Moon by Andrea Camilleri

natural thing in the world, whereas eating in the presence of others was considered immoral because it was such an intimate thing. A question came into his head and almost made him laugh. Want to bet that before long, because of age, he would be content to take his pleasure from women merely by sitting at the same table and eating with them?
    “So where do we go now to talk?” asked Montalbano.
    “Do you have things to do?”
    “Not immediately.”
    “I’ve got another idea. Let’s go to my place, I’ll make you some coffee. Emilio’s in Montelusa, as I think I already told you. Did you bring your car?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then just follow me, so you can leave whenever you like.”
    Keeping up with the missile was not easy. At a certain point Montalbano decided to forget it. He knew the way, after all. In fact, when he arrived, Elena was waiting for him at the front door, a gym bag hanging from her shoulder.
    “That’s a very nice car you’ve got,” said Montalbano as they were going up in the elevator.
    “Angelo bought it for me,” the girl said almost indifferently while opening the door, as though she were talking about a pack of cigarettes or something of no importance.
    This girl’s trying to pull the rug out from under me, thought Montalbano, feeling angry either because he’d thought of a cliché or because the cliché corresponded exactly with the truth.
    “It must have cost him a lot of money.”
    “I’d say so. I need to sell it as soon as possible.”
    She led him into the living room.
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s too expensive for my budget. It consumes almost as much gas as an airplane. You know, when Angelo gave it to me, I accepted it on one condition: that every month he would reimburse me for the cost of fuel and the garage. He’d already paid for the insurance.”
    “And did he do as you asked?”
    “Yes.”
    “Tell me something. How did he reimburse you? By check?”
    “No, cash.”
    Damn. A lost opportunity to find out if Angelo had any other bank accounts.
    “Listen, Inspector, I’m going to go make coffee and change clothes. In the meantime, if you want to freshen up…”
    She led him into a small guest bathroom right beside the dining room.
    He took his time, removing his jacket and shirt and sticking his head under the faucet. When he returned to the living room, she still wasn’t back. She arrived five minutes later with the coffee. She’d taken a quick shower and put on a big sort of housecoat that came halfway down her thigh. And nothing else. She was barefoot. Stretching out from under the red housecoat, her legs, which were naturally long, looked endless. They were sinewy, lively legs, like a dancer’s or an athlete’s. And the best of it—as was immediately clear to Montalbano—was that there was no intent, no attempt to seduce him on Elena’s part. She saw nothing improper in appearing this way in front of a man she barely knew. As though reading his mind, Elena said:
    “I feel comfortable with you. At ease. Even though that shouldn’t be the case.”
    “Right,” said the inspector.
    He felt comfortable himself. Too comfortable. Which wasn’t good. Again it was Elena who came back to the matter at hand.
    “So, about those questions…”
    “Aside from the car, did Angelo give you any other gifts?”
    “Yes, and rather expensive ones, too. Jewelry. If you want, I can go get them and show them to you.”
    “There’s no need, thanks. Did your husband know?”
    “About the gifts? Yes. Anyway, something like a ring I could easily hide, but a car like that—”
    “Why?”
    She understood at once. She was dangerously intelligent.
    “You’ve never given presents to a lady friend?”
    Montalbano felt annoyed. Livia was never, not even by accident, supposed to enter into the tawdry, sordid stories he investigated.
    “You’re leaving out one detail.”
    “What?”
    He deliberately wanted to be offensive.
    “That those presents were a way of paying you