“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 cliche or because the cliche 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 for your services.”
He was prepared for every possible reaction on Elena’s part, except for her to start laughing.
“Maybe Angelo overestimated my ‘services,’ as you call them. I assure you I’m hardly in a class of my own.”
“Then let me ask you again: Why?”
“Inspector, the explanation is very simple. Angelo gave me these gifts over the last three months, starting with the car. I think I’ve already told you that he had lately been overcome by…well,in short,he’d fallen in love with me. He didn’t want to lose me.”
“And how did you feel about it?”
“I think I already told you. The more possessive he became, the more I grew distant. I can’t stand being harnessed, among other things.”
Wasn’t there an ancient Greek poet who wrote a love poem to a young Thracian filly that couldn’t stand being harnessed? But this wasn’t the time for poetry.
Almost against his will, the inspector slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and extracted the three letters he’d brought with him. He set them down on the table.
Elena looked at them, recognized them, and didn’t seem the least bit troubled. She left them right where they were.
