The Paper Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

Greek at the liceo classico of Montelusa, which probably meant he got in his car every morning and drove to school. Thus when the inspector knocked at the door of Apartment 6, Via Autonomia Siciliana 18, at 8:40, he was reasonably certain that Signora Elena, the professor’s wife and the late Angelo Pardo’s mistress, would be at home alone. But in reality when he knocked, there was no answer. The inspector tried again. Nothing. He started to worry. Maybe the woman had asked her husband for a lift and gone into Montelusa. He knocked a third time. Still nothing. He turned around, cursing, and was about to descend the stairs when he heard a woman’s voice call from inside the apartment.
    “Who is it?”
    This question is not always so easy to answer. First of all, because it may happen that the person who’s supposed to reply is caught at a moment of identity loss and, second, because saying who one is doesn’t always facilitate things.
    “Administration,” he said.
    In so-called civilized societies, there is always an administrator administrating you, thought Montalbano. It might be the condominium administrator or a legal administrator, but it really makes no difference, since what matters is that he’s there, and stays there, and that he administrates you more or less carefully, or even secretly, ready to make you pay for mistakes you perhaps don’t even know you’ve made. Joseph K. knew a thing or two about this.
    The door opened, and an attractive, thirtyish blonde appeared, dressed in an absurd kimono, with pouty lips a fire red without even a trace of lipstick, and sleepy blue eyes. She’d got out of bed to answer the door and still bore a strong smell of sleep. The inspector felt vaguely uneasy, mostly because, though barefoot, she was taller than him.
    “What do you want?”
    The tone of her question made it clear she had no intention of wasting any time and indeed was in a hurry to go back to bed.
    “Police. I’m Inspector Montalbano. Good morning. Are you Elena Sclafani?”
    She turned pale and took a step backwards.
    “Oh my God, has something happened to my husband?”
    Montalbano balked. He wasn’t expecting this.
    “To your husband? No. Why do you ask?”
    “Because every morning when he gets in his car to drive to Montelusa, I…well, he doesn’t know how to drive…Since we got married four years ago, he’s had about ten minor accidents, and so…”
    “Signora, I didn’t come to talk to you about your husband, but about another man. And I have many things to ask you. Perhaps it’s better if we go inside.”
    She stepped aside and took Montalbano into a small but rather elegant living room.
    “Please sit down, I’ll be right back.”
    She took ten minutes to get dressed. She returned in a blouse and skirt slightly above the knee, high heels, and with her hair in a bun. She sat down in an armchair in front of the inspector. She showed neither curiosity nor the slightest bit of concern.
    “Would you like some coffee?”
    “If it’s already made…”
    “No, but I’ll go make it. I need some myself. If I don’t drink a cup of coffee first thing in the morning, I don’t connect.”
    “I know exactly what you mean.”
    She went into the kitchen and started rummaging around. The telephone rang, and she answered. She returned with the coffee. They each put sugar in their demitasses, and neither spoke until they’d finished drinking.
    “That was my husband, just now, on the phone. He was calling to let me know he was about to start class. He does that every day, just to reassure me he got there all right.”
    “May I smoke?” Montalbano asked.
    “Of course. I smoke, too. So…” said Elena, leaning back into the armchair, a lighted cigarette between her fingers. “What’s Angelo done this time?”
    Montalbano looked at her bewildered, mouth hanging open. For the past half hour, he’d been trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the woman’s lover, and she comes out