Blood from a stone

He took a seat in the cabin and opened that morning’s Gazzettino, but he learned from it considerably less than he had the night before. In possession of few facts, the writer opted for sentiment and spoke of the terrible cost the extracomunitari had to pay for their desire for a chance at bare survival and to earn enough money to send back to their families. No name was given for the dead man, nor was his nationality known, though it was assumed he was from Senegal, the country from which most of the ambulanti came. An elderly man got on at Sant’ Angelo and chose to sit next to Brunetti. He saw the newspaper and mouthed out the headline, then said, ‘Nothing but trouble once you start letting them in.’

Brunetti ignored him.

Brunetti’s silence spurred the man to add, ‘I’d round them up and send them back.’

Brunetti gave a grunt and turned the page, but the old man failed to take the hint. ‘My son-in-law has a shop in Calle dei Fabbri. Pays his rent, pays his help, pays his taxes. He gives something to the city, gives work. And these people,’ he said, making a gesture that stopped just short of slapping the offending page, ‘what do they give us?’

With another grunt, Brunetti folded his newspaper and excused himself to go and stand on deck, though they were only at Santa Maria del Giglio and he had another two stops before he got off.

The Paganelli was a narrow hotel, slipped in, like an architectural dash separating two capital letters, between the Danieli and the Savoia amp; Jolanda. At the desk he said he was there to meet the Doctors Crowley and was told they were already in the breakfast room. He followed the clerk’s gesture down a narrow corridor and entered a small room that held six or seven tables, at one of which the Crowleys sat. With them were another elderly couple and, between them, a woman whose appearance gave evidence of considerable assistance.

When Doctor Crowley saw Brunetti, he got to his feet and waved at him; his wife looked up and smiled a greeting. The other man at the table rose and stayed standing as Brunetti approached. One of the women smiled in Brunetti’s direction; the other did not.

The people presented to him as the Petersons were tiny, bird-like people, dressed in colours as inconspicuous as those of sparrows. She had iron grey hair that capped her head in a tight perm; he was entirely bald, his head covered with deep, sun-hardened furrows running from front to back. The woman who had not smiled, introduced as Lydia Watts, had lustrous red hair and lips the same colour. Brunetti saw her push back a vagrant curl with a hand that no surgery and no art could make look the same age as her face and hair.

The table was covered with the aftermath of breakfast: coffee cups and teapots and fragments of buttered rolls. There were two empty bread baskets and an equally empty platter that might have held meat or cheese.

After Brunetti shook hands with all of them, Dr Crowley pulled over a chair from a neighbouring table and offered it to Brunetti. He sat and when the doctor did too, looked around the table at the assembled Americans. ‘I’m grateful that you agreed to speak to me this morning,’ he said in English.

Dottoressa Crowley answered, ‘It’s only right, isn’t it, to tell you what we saw, if it can help?’ There were nods of agreement from the others.

Her husband took over from her and said, ‘We’ve been talking about it already this morning, Commissario.’ With a gesture that encompassed all of the people at the table, he added, ‘It’s probably best that we each tell you what we saw.’

Dr Peterson cleared his throat a few times, then said, speaking with the sort of clarity that comes of the fear that a foreigner might not otherwise understand, ‘Well, after we got down into that place you call a campo, we were standing sort of in the front, to the left of Fred and Martha, and I was looking down at the purses those fellows were selling. And a man, not the one Martha saw — guy about my height — he moved forward until he was standing just a little bit behind me. He was on my left, but I really didn’t pay any attention to him because, as I said, I was looking at the purses. Then I heard the noise, sort of a zip zip — I didn’t have any idea what it was — sounded like a staple gun or something, or that thing they use when they take your tyres off — and there was the music from behind us, too — and then this guy stepped back without looking where he was going, and then he was gone. I didn’t think anything of it except that I didn’t like the way he pushed back like that, right into the people behind him.

‘Next thing you know, I looked back and I saw that the guy who was selling the purses, he was down on the ground. And then Martha was kneeling beside him, and then Fred, and then they said he was dead.’ He looked at Brunetti, and around at the others.

‘I never saw anything like it in my life,’ Dr Peterson continued, with what began to sound like indignation, as though he thought Brunetti owed him an explanation. He continued: ‘Well, we waited around for a while, I’d say about a half-hour, but nothing happened. No one came. And it was awful cold and we hadn’t had our supper yet, so we came back here to the hotel.’

A waiter passed by their table, and Dr Peterson took his attention away from Brunetti long enough to ask for another pot of coffee. The waiter nodded, noticed Brunetti sitting with them, and asked if he would like un caffe, a question which seemed to confuse the Americans as much as it relieved Brunetti. He had been in America and knew the difference between coffee and caffe.

Peterson turned to his wife and said, speaking to Brunetti, ‘My wife was standing on the other side of me, so she didn’t see anything, did you, honey?’

She shook her head and said in a very soft voice, ‘No, dear.’

‘Nothing at all, Signora?’ Brunetti asked, ignoring her husband and speaking directly to her. ‘Anything at all, no matter how insignificant?’ When she still didn’t answer, he prompted, ‘Did he smoke, say anything, was he wearing anything you noticed?’

The woman smiled and looked at her husband as if to ask him if she had indeed noticed any of these things, but then she shook her head and lowered her eyes.

The woman with the red hair said, ‘One of them had very hairy hands.’

Brunetti turned to her and smiled. ‘Was this the one who was standing by Dr Crowley or the other one, the one near Dr Peterson?’

‘The first one,’ she said, ‘the one near Martha. I didn’t see the other man or, if I did see him, I didn’t pay any attention to him. You see, when I was standing there, my shoe was untied.’ She saw Brunetti’s response to this and explained, ‘And someone must have been standing on it, so when I heard that noise, it startled me, and I must have tried to move, but my foot was trapped and I lost my balance for a moment, and by the time I was steady on my feet again, I’d got sort of turned around. So I saw a man backing away, and I was vaguely conscious that he was near Martha. He had his hand up near his face, pulling at his scarf or his hat, and all I could see was that the back of his hand was very hairy, almost like a monkey’s. But then I heard Martha calling for Fred, and I turned back around and didn’t pay any more attention to him.’

Her appearance had led him to expect her to be flirtatious, but Brunetti found nothing of the coquette in her. She had described the scene simply, and he had no doubt that the man she had seen had hands as hairy as a monkey’s.

When it seemed that no one else was going to add anything, Brunetti asked, ‘Can any of you recall anything else about either of these men?’

His question was met with silence and a general shaking of heads.

‘If I assure you that you will not be kept here to answer further questions and will not be called back to Italy as a result of anything you tell me, will that make it easier for you to answer?’ Brunetti had no idea if foreigners feared getting caught up in the machinery of the judicial system as much as Italians did, but he still thought it wise to assure them that they would not be, even if he was not certain this was true.

None of them said a word.

Before he could attempt to rephrase the question, Dottoressa Crowley said, ‘It’s kind of you to put it that way, Commissario, but you don’t have to do that with us. If we’d seen anything, we’d tell you, even if it meant we had to stay here longer.’

Her husband said, ‘We asked the others when we got back last night, but no one seems to have noticed these men.’

‘Or is willing to say they do,’ added Lydia Watts.

The waiter arrived with their coffee and his caffe. Brunetti added sugar and drank it quickly. He stood and took a number of his business cards from his wallet and handed them around, saying, ‘If you should remember anything at all about what happened, please do get in touch with me. Phone or fax or email.