Free Treasure Hunt by Andrea Camilleri Page B

mocking you. On the contrary. I admire you. Sincerely.”
    “You used to ask fewer questions.”
    “I guess I’m just becoming more and more Italian and nosey about others. Tell me, does it take a lot out of you?”
    “Does what take a lot out of me?”
    “Resisting temptation.”
    “Sometimes, yes. But lately less and less. It must be my age.”
    Ingrid looked at him and then started laughing with gusto.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “This business about age. You’re totally wrong, you know. Age has very little to do with these things. I can tell you from personal experience. There are thirty-year-olds who seem like they’re seventy, in this respect, and vice versa.”
    The grilled fish arrived, along with another bottle. When they were done, Montalbano asked her if she wanted a whisky.
    “Yes, I do. But at your place.”

    As soon as Ingrid turned up the driveway to his house, she asked:
    “Were you expecting someone?”
    “No.”
    He too had noticed the strange car parked outside the front door.
    When they pulled up beside it, out of the other car emerged a girl of about twenty, nearly six feet tall and gorgeous, blond, wearing a miniskirt up to her pubis and a little too much makeup. They got out of their car too.
    “Montalbano?”
    “Yes?”
    “I ring doorbell but nobody answer. So I think you out but come back later.”
    Montalbano was flummoxed. Who was this? What did she want?
    “Listen . . .”
    “Nobody tell me you want with three people. I can do, but only with you. I don’t like with other woman. But she can watch.”
    “Well, if that’s the problem . . .” said Ingrid, rather angrily, “I’ll leave right now. Bye, Salvo, have fun.”
    She made as if to get back into her car, but didn’t, because Montalbano grabbed her arm as he turned towards the girl.
    “Listen, signorina, this must be some kind of mistake, I never—”
    “I understand. You pick her up and like her. No problem. I go.”
    Montalbano let go of Ingrid’s arm, went up to the girl and said in a low voice:
    “I’ll pay you anyway. How much do I owe?”
    “All paid. Ciao.”
    She got in the car and left, driving back up the driveway in reverse.
    Montalbano, still half confused, opened the front door, and Ingrid followed him inside, not saying a word. When he opened the French door to the veranda, she went outside and sat down, still silent. He got a bottle of whisky and two glasses and then sat down beside her on the bench.
    Ingrid grabbed the brand-new bottle and poured herself half a glass without offering any to Montalbano.
    “I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” the inspector began, pouring himself some whisky. “After all, between us, there’s—”
    “Between us, my ass!”
    Montalbano decided it was perhaps better to drink in silence. After a brief spell, she was the first to speak.
    “Don’t think I’m jealous or anything. I don’t give a fuck about your women.”
    “So then why are you making that face?”
    “Because I’m profoundly disappointed.”
    “About what?”
    “Disappointed in you. I had no idea you could be such a hypocrite.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “What is this? At the restaurant you tell me there’d been no exceptions since Rachele and when we come back here there’s a whore waiting for you. So I guess, for you, going with a whore doesn’t constitute an exception, because you don’t even consider a prostitute to be a real woman.”
    “Ingrid, you are totally on the wrong track! There was a misunderstanding. I can explain everything.”
    “You don’t have to explain anything to me, and at any rate, I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to the bathroom.”
    Man, what a mess that fucking idiot Pasquale had created! In his rage Montalbano downed a whole glass of whisky. He heard Ingrid come out of the bathroom and then, moments later, he heard her cry out.
    “What’s going on?”
    “Nothing, nothing.”
    She didn’t come back right away. Then she