Caputo swaggering along the corridor with his chilling grin, raptor's eyes and quick, decisive movements.
'The Questura just called again. I told them you'd gone to Rome for an urgent consultation with someone at the ministry and weren't expected back until tonight.'
Zen nodded and pushed open the door to his oppressively large and empty office.
'And the prisoner?'
'He finally opened his mouth/ 'Ah!'
'But only to say that he doesn't speak Italian/ 'So what does he speak?'
'English, so he claims.'
Zen sighed massively as he hung up his coat and hat.
'Get him up here/ he told Caputo. 'Also all his belongings, clothes, everything he had on him. And bring me the arresting officer's report/ 'It's there on your desk, chief/ While he waited for Caputo to bring the prisoner up from the cells, Zen skimmed through the report. It was as impressively precise and detailed as a railway timetable, with every event timed to the nearest minute, every distance measured to the last fraction of a metre — and probably just about as reliable. The only features of interest were the fact that the Greek sailors had selected their victim because he was the first American they had come across who was about their fighting size, and that the man had been attacked while heading away from the dock area, apparently towards the main gate. The guard had been unable to say when he had arrived. With the aircraft carrier in port, American sailors had been coming and going all evening, and he had simply waved them through.
Zen looked up as Caputo led in the prisoner. Although on the short side, he was anything but puny in appearance.
His limbs were muscular, his belly firm and his chest robust. His copper-coloured skin was covered with black hair everywhere except for his head, which was impressively bald. He was wearing handcuffs, underpants, a vest and nothing else. Caputo pushed him unceremoniously into a chair facing Zen and dumped a black plastic sack on the desk. Zen gazed at the prisoner, who was apparently studying the plasterwork with great attention.
'I'm told you don't understand Italian/ he said, watching the man's eyes.
There was a long silence.
'Spik only Ingleesh/ the prisoner replied at length, still giving his full attention to a patch of wall just to the right of one of the room's three windows.
Zen heaved another enormous sigh. Like all Italians, he had been protected from any bruising contact with spoken English thanks to a law — passed originally by the Fascists but, like so many of their laws, never subsequently rescinded — which required all films and other material shown publicly to be dubbed into Italian. On the other hand, he had the advantage of having spent much time at the home of Ellen, his clandestine American girlfriend for some years.
'Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender/ he said, 'adrift in a world of my own. I seem to be what I'm not, you see. Too real is this feeling of make-believe.. / 'Only spik Ingleesh/ Caputo stood looking on wide-eyed at this novel interrogation, obviously impressed by his superior's unsuspected linguistic skills. Zen leapt to his feet and came around the desk, towering over the prisoner.
'I wonder, wonder who, who wrote the book of love?' he demanded. 'Who wrote the book of love?'
'Only Ingleesh/ 'Who was that man? I'd like to shake his hand. He made my babay fall in love with me/ It was amazing how much he could remember from those rowdy, drunken parties which Ellen used to give at the beginning of July for her expatriate friends. A shame he couldn't let rip here. His pleasing light baritone voice had been much admired at the time. How Americans loved to laugh! 'Ingleesh only spik/ Zen turned sulkily on his heel like an artiste disappointed with his reception.
'Take him away!' he told Caputo.
As the prisoner was led to the door, Zen ripped open the sack of personal belongings and let the contents fall out on the desk. The clothes consisted of a pair of black shoes, a light blue shirt and the US naval uniform. There was also a leather wallet, a scattering of coins, a set of keys, the knife — a vicious item with a long retractable blade sharpened to a razor edge — and a light rectangular slab of grey plastic moulded into slots and grooves, rather like an outsize cassette tape, with a strip of metal contacts mounted on a card inside a recess.
'I take it all this has been dusted?' he called after Caputo, who turned in the doorway.
'Apart from the suspect's own, we found a number of extraneous prints. We're running the files for them now, but we won't hear before next week.'
Zen nodded vaguely, but he was looking not at Caputo but at the prisoner. His head was turned back towards the desk in the room he was just leaving, and his glowing black eyes were fixed on one item with an intensity which seemed capable of melting the plastic.
While Caputo returned the man to his cell, Zen examined the clothing piece by piece. The uniform was strongly made and neatly cut. To his eyes it looked very much like the real thing, apart from the absence of any labels or other identifying marks. The shirt and shoes, on the other hand, were both of Italian manufacture. The soles of the latter were stamped gucci.
'Fake/ commented Caputo, coming back in. 'Look at the position of the logo and check the sloppy stitching at the heel. You can buy them in Piazza Garibaldi for thirty thousand a pair. I can get you twenty/ he added automatically.
Zen held up the grey plastic cassette.
'Were any of the extraneous prints on this?' he asked.
Caputo walked over and picked up the sheaf of pages forming the report Zen had skimmed earlier. He turned a few pages.
'There's a partial thumb on one side, and a nice forefinger and obscured second digit on the other.'
Using the edge of the cassette, Zen rapped out the rhythm of one of the songs he had quoted earlier on the desktop.
'All right, Caputo, I need you to do three things. One, take this uniform over to our American allies. I'm pretty sure it's fake too, but we need to make sure.'
He held up the cassette.
Two, try and find out how we can go about comparing the extraneous prints with those of the crew of that air craft carrier. Their prints must all be on file somewhere for identification purposes. Make it clear we don't suspect anyone, and it's purely for purposes of elimination/ 'And the third?' asked Caputo, frowning at the prospect of these onerous duties which were going to cut into his weekend.
Zen smiled.
'Ah, that's more amusing. I want you to get together a team of men to harass the prisoner round the clock, twenty-four hours a day.'
Caputo coughed nervously.
'Forgive me saying so, chief, but I don't think we'll get anywhere that way with this son of a bitch. He's as tough as they come. To break him we'd have to use the most extreme methods, and that's bound to leave scarring and internal injuries, to say nothing of the risk of the guy dying on you.'
Zen pursed his lips judiciously.
'I don't think we quite understand one another, Caputo. I'm talking about verbal harassment.'
Caputo looked utterly perplexed.
'But he only speaks English!'
'The only English he speaks is 'only spik Ingleesh'. My bet is that he's as Neapolitan as you. Your job is to prove it. Set up a roster of men to go down there in shifts and abuse him in dialect. Tell him his mother performs fellatio on Arab carpet salesmen's dogs, that sort of thing. The idea is to get him to respond. It doesn't matter what he says, just the fact that he understands what's being said to him. OK?'
Caputo gave a laugh as sharp as a razor cut.
'I'll get Santanna on the job. When it comes to this sort of thing, he's a virtuoso.'
'Go to work on him until he cracks and says something in return. Then I want you to really go to work on him. I need a name, an address, anything we can pass on to the Questura to get this son of a bitch off our backs.'
He headed for the door.
'And if la Piscopo calls again?' asked Caputo.
Zen smiled thinly.
'Tell her I'm in Rome following up an important lead.'
