Free The Paper Moon by Andrea Camilleri

her.
    “Do you recognize it?”
    She looked at it with curiosity.
    “I’d say no, I don’t really recognize it. But I must have seen one rather like it amongst his other keys.”
    “Did you never ask him what it was for?”
    “No.”
    “This key opens a portable strongbox.”
    “Really?”
    She looked at him. Bright, inviting eyes, to all appearances. In no way perilous. But careful, Montalbano. Underneath, hidden, there are probably tangles of giant algae you’ll never extricate your feet from.
    “I never knew that Angelo had a strongbox. He never told me he did, and I never saw it in his apartment.”
    Montalbano stared hard at the tip of his left shoe.
    “Did you find it?” she continued.
    “No. We found the keys but not the box. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
    “Quite strange.”
    “And that’s another one of those things that should definitely have been in the apartment but weren’t.”
    Michela gave a sign that she understood what Montalbano was getting at. She leaned her head back—she had a beautiful, Modiglianiesque neck—and looked at him through—luckily—half-closed eyes.
    “You’re not thinking I took it?”
    “Well, you see, I made a mistake.”
    “What?”
    “I left you alone at your brother’s place that first night. I shouldn’t have. You therefore would have had all the time in the world to—”
    “To remove things? Why would I do that?”
    “Because you know a lot more about Angelo than we do.”
    “Of course I do! Some discovery! We grew up together. We’re brother and sister.”
    “And therefore you’re inclined to cover for him, even unconsciously. You told me that at one point your brother decided to stop practicing medicine. But that’s not really how things went. Your brother had his license revoked.”
    “Who told you that?”
    “Elena Sclafani. I spoke to her this morning, before coming here.”
    “Did she tell you why?”
    “No. Because she didn’t know. Angelo’d only made vague mention of it to her, but since she wasn’t interested in the matter, she didn’t ask any more questions.”
    “Ah, the poor little angel! She wasn’t interested in the matter, but she was certainly in a rush to cast suspicion on it. She attacks, then looks the other way.”
    She said this in a voice unfamiliar to the inspector, a voice that seemed produced not by vocal cords but by two sheets of sandpaper rubbed forcefully together.
    “Well, why don’t you tell me the reason?”
    “Abortion.”
    “Tell me more.”
    “Angelo got an underage girl pregnant; what’s more, she was a patient of his. The girl, who was from a certain kind of family, didn’t dare say a thing at home and couldn’t turn to any public institution either. That left clandestine abortion as the only option. Except that the girl, once she got home, suffered a violent hemorrhage. Her father accompanied her to the hospital and learned the whole story. Angelo assumed full responsibility.”
    “What do you mean, he ‘assumed full responsibility’? It seems clear to me he was fully responsible!”
    “No, not fully. He had asked a colleague of his, a friend from his university days, to perform the abortion. The friend didn’t want to, but Angelo managed to persuade him. When the whole story came out, my brother claimed that he had done the abortion. And so he was condemned and barred from practicing medicine.”
    “Tell me the girl’s name and surname.”
    “But, Inspector, that was more than ten years ago! I know the girl got married and no longer lives in Vigàta…Why do you want—”
    “I’m not saying I want to interrogate her, but if it proves necessary, I’ll do so with the utmost discretion, I promise.”
    “Teresa Cacciatore. She married a contractor named Mario Sciacca. They live in Palermo and have a little boy.”
    “Signora Sclafani told me that she and your brother always met at his place.”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    “How is it you never crossed paths with