the car. ‘Where to, sir?’
‘Is that dining-hall open today?’ He was very hungry, realized only now that it was after one.
‘Yes, sir. Strike’s been settled.’
‘Who was on strike?’
‘CGL,’ he explained, naming the biggest of the Communist labour unions.
‘CGL?’ Brunetti repeated in amazement. ‘On an American military base?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the driver said and laughed. ‘After the war, they hired people who spoke some English, and they let the unions form without paying any attention to them. But once they realized that CGL was Communist, they refused to hire anyone else who was a member. But they can’t get rid of the people who still are. Lots of them work in the dining-hall. Food’s good.’
‘All right, take me there. How far?’
‘Oh, about two minutes,’ he said, pulling away from the kerb and cutting the car into another tight U-turn that took them back up what Brunetti was sure was a one-way street.
On their left, they passed two larger-man-life Statues that he hadn’t noticed before. ‘Who are those two?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know who the angel with the sword is, but the other one is Saint Barbara.’
‘Saint Barbara? What’s she doing here?’
‘She’s the patron saint of the artillery, sir. Remember, her father was struck by lightning when he tried to cut her head off?’
Although he had been raised a Catholic, Brunetti had never felt much interest in religion and found it difficult to keep the different saints straight, rather, he believed, in the manner the pagans must have found it hard to remember which god was in charge of what. Besides, it had always seemed to him that the saints spent entirely too much time misplacing various body parts: eyes, breasts, arms, and now, with Saint Barbara, her head. ‘I don’t know the legend. What happened?’
The driver swerved through a STOP sign and around a corner, looked back at Brunetti, and explained. ‘Her father was a pagan, and she was a Christian. Her father wanted her to marry a pagan, but she wanted to stay a virgin.’ He added, under his breath, ‘Silly girl.’ He looked back at the road, just in time to brake sharply to avoid running into a truck. ‘So the father decided to punish her by cutting off her head. He raised his sword over her, giving her one last chance to obey him, and
‘What happened to her?’
‘Oh, they never tell you that part of the story. In any case, because of the explosion of the lightning, she’s the patron saint of the artillery.’ He pulled up in front of another low building. ‘Here we are, sir.’ Then he added, puzzled. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t know that, sir. About Saint Barbara.’
‘I wasn’t assigned the case,’ Brunetti said.
After lunch, he had the driver take him back to Foster’s apartment. The same two soldiers were sitting in their Jeep in front of the apartment. They both got out when Brunetti approached them and waited for him to draw up to them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, smiling pleasantry. ‘I’d like to have another look inside the apartment if that’s possible.’
‘Have you spoken to Major Butterworth about this, sir?’ the one with more stripes asked.
‘No, not today. But he gave me permission yesterday.’
‘Could you tell me why you want to go back, sir?’
‘My notebook. I was jotting down the names of his books yesterday, and I must have set it down on the bookcase inside. I didn’t have it when I got on the train, and this was the last place I’d been.’ He saw that the soldier was about to refuse, so he added, ‘You’re welcome to come inside with me if you’d like. All I want to do is pickup the notebook if it’s there. I don’t think the apartment is going to be any help to me, but I have notes on other things in there, and they’re important to me.’ He was talking too much, he realized.
The two soldiers exchanged glances, and apparently one of them decided that it would be all right. The one he had spoken to handed his rifle to his companion and said, ‘If you’ll come along with me, sir, I’ll let you into the apartment.’
Smiling his gratitude, Brunetti followed him towards the front entrance and into the elevator. Neither of them spoke during the short ride to the third floor nor while the soldier opened the door. He stepped back and allowed Brunetti to walk past him into the apartment, then closed the door behind them.
Brunetti went into the living room and up to the bookcase. He made a show of looking for the notebook, which was in his jacket pocket, even stooped down and looked behind a chair that stood beside the bookcase. ‘That’s strange. I’m sure I had it here.’ He pulled a few books forward and looked behind them. Nothing. He paused, reflecting on where else he might have set it down. ‘I got myself a drink of water in the kitchen,’ he said to the soldier. ‘I might have set it down in there.’ Then, as if he had just thought of it, ‘Is there any chance that someone might have come in and found it?’
‘No, sir. No one’s been in here since you left.’
‘Good,’ Brunetti answered with his friendliest smile, ‘then it’s got to be here.’ He preceded the soldier into the kitchen and went to the worktop beside the sink. He looked around him, bent down to look under the kitchen table, then stood. As he did, he placed himself directly in front of the water heater. The screws on the front panel which he had replaced yesterday, careful to leave them at exact verticals and horizontals, had all been moved and were all slightly out of true. So someone had checked and found that the bags were missing.
‘It doesn’t seem to be here, sir.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Brunetti agreed in a voice into which he put real confusion. ‘Very strange. I’m sure I had it while I was here.’
‘Could you have dropped it in your car, sir?’ the soldier suggested.
