Read Online The Paper Moon by Andrea Camilleri - Free Book Online Page B

loose, formless dressing gown, which a large, slack knot turned into a kind of prison smock, and pair of slippers. She kept her dangerous eyes lowered. What sins or evil intentions was her body guilty of, for her to punish it by hiding it that way?
    She led him into the living room. Finely crafted old furniture, certainly heirlooms handed down from father to son.
    “Forgive me for receiving you in these clothes, but since I’m constantly having to look after Mama…”
    “Not at all! How is your mother doing?”
    “Luckily, she’s resting at the moment. It’s the effect of the sedatives. The doctor says it’s best this way. But her sleep is agitated, as if she were having nightmares. She moans.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Montalbano, who never knew what to say in these instances and therefore stuck to generalities.
    She broached the question first. Directly.
    “Did you find anything at Angelo’s place?”
    “What do you mean by ‘anything’?”
    “Anything that might help you to understand who it was that—”
    “No, nothing yet.”
    “You made me a promise.”
    Montalbano immediately understood.
    “I phoned Montelusa. They’re going to need at least three more days before they can get authorization to return the body. But don’t worry, I’ll keep you informed.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You just asked me if we found anything in your brother’s apartment and I said no. But we haven’t even found what was supposed to be there.”
    He’d cast the baited hook. But she didn’t bite. She just stood there a bit shocked, which was understandable.
    “Such as?” she asked.
    “Did your brother earn a good living?”
    “Good enough. But don’t get the wrong idea, Inspector. Perhaps it’s better to say enough for his needs and ours.”
    “Where did he keep his money?”
    Michela looked at him—fortunately just for a second—surprised by the question.
    “He kept it in the bank.”
    “Then how can you explain that we haven’t found any checkbook, bank statement, nothing?”
    Unexpectedly, Michela smiled and stood up.
    “I’ll be right back,” she said.
    She reappeared carrying a big portfolio, which she set down on the coffee table. Opening it up, she pulled out a checkbook for the Banca dell’Isola, searched a bit more, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed the checkbook and paper to the inspector.
    “Angelo has an account with this bank, and that’s the most recent statement.”
    Montalbano looked at the figure corresponding to the credit column: ninety-one thousand euros.
    He handed the two things back to Michela, who put them back in the portfolio.
    “That money’s not all from Angelo’s earnings. About fifty thousand euros of it are mine, an inheritance left me by an uncle who was particularly fond of me. As you can see, my brother and I pooled our resources. In fact, the bank account is in both our names.”
    “How is it that you have all the books?”
    “Well, Angelo was often out of town on business trips and had trouble meeting certain deadlines. So I took care of things and gave him the receipts. Did you find them?”
    “Yes, that I did. Did he also have a garage to go with the apartment and the room on the terrace?”
    “Of course. There are three garages behind the building. His is the first on the left.”
    See, dear Montalbano, you are getting senile!
    “Why do you say Angelo couldn’t make his payments on time because he was out of town? Weren’t most of his trips rather brief and limited to this province?”
    “Not exactly. He used to go abroad at least once every three months.”
    “Where to?”
    “I don’t know, Germany, Switzerland, France…The countries where the big pharmaceutical firms are located. They would summon him there.”
    “I see. Would he stay away a long time?”
    “It varied. From three days to a week. No more than that.”
    “Among your brother’s keys we found one that was rather unusual.”
    He took out the key in his pocket and handed it to