but we still thought we should get rid of him.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. We waited while he got his coat, and then we walked — escorted — him to the front door.’
‘He say anything? Threaten you?’
‘No, but you should have felt him,’ Vasco began and then, as if he recalled the way Brunetti had touched his hand, said, ‘I mean, you should have seen him. It’s like electricity was going through him. So we took him to the door, calling him “
‘And then?’
‘And then we went back and put him on the list.’
‘The list?’
‘The list of people who can’t come back. If they behave like that, or if someone in their family calls up and gives their name and tells us not to let them in, then we bar them.’ Again, that shrug. ‘Not that it makes any difference. They can go to Campione, to Jesolo, or there’s plenty of houses here in the city where they can gamble, especially since the Chinese got here. But at least we got rid of him.’
‘How long ago did this happen?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I don’t remember exactly: the date should be there,’ he said, pointing to the paper on the desk: ‘Yes, the twentieth of November.’
‘What about the one who was with him?’
‘I didn’t know at the time that they had come in together. I was told, later, when I went down to bar him. I don’t remember seeing the other guy.’
‘Is he barred, too?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No reason to do it,’ Vasco said.
‘May I take these?’ Brunetti asked, indicating the photocopies.
‘Of course. I told you I owed you a favour.’
‘Would you do me another one?’ Brunetti asked.
‘If I can.’
‘Lift the ban on him and call me if he comes in.’
‘If you give me your phone number, I will,’ Vasco replied. ‘I’ll tell the girls at the desk to call you if I’m not here.’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said and then thought to ask, ‘You think they can be trusted? If they think the guy is so attractive?’
Vasco’s smile bloomed. ‘I told them it was you who arrested those two shits upstairs. You can trust them with anything now.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Besides,’ Vasco said, picking up the papers and handing them to Brunetti, ‘they’re gamblers: none of the girls would touch either of them with a boathook.’
13
The next morning, Brunetti went into Signorina Elettra’s office carrying the photocopies. As if in visual harmony with the papers, she was wearing black and white, a pair of what looked like black Levi’s — though black Levi’s that had spent some time in a tailor’s hands — and a turtleneck so white it made him nervous that there might be some latent smudge on the documents. She studied the copies of the passport photos of the two men, looking back and forth from one to the other, and finally said, ‘Handsome devils, aren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti answered, wondering why it seemed to be every woman’s first reaction to these men. Perhaps they were good looking, but one of them was suspected of being involved in a murder, and the only thing women had to say about them was that they were good looking. It was enough to make a man question his belief in the basic good sense of women. His better self prevented him from adding to the list of charges the fact that they were from the South and one of them, at least, had the surname of a well-known Camorra family.
‘I wondered if you had access, or could have access, to the files of the Ministry of the Interior,’ Brunetti said with the calm of the habitual criminal. ‘The passport files.’
Signorina Elettra held the photos to the light, glancing more closely at them. ‘It’s hard to tell from a copy if the passports are real or not,’ she said with the calm of someone familiar with the work of habitual criminals.
‘No hotline to the Minister’s office?’ he asked with false jocularity.
‘Unfortunately, no,’ she answered, straight faced. Absently, she picked up a pencil and put its point on the desk, ran her fingers down the sides, flipped it over, and repeated the motion a few times, then let it fall to her desk. ‘I’ll start with the Passport Office,’ she said, just as if their files stood to her left, and all she had to do was leaf through them. Her hand reached out, as if by its own will, to the pencil, and this time she tapped the eraser against the photos and said, ‘If they are real, I’ll check our files to see what we have on them.’ As an afterthought, she asked, ‘When would you like to have this, Dottore?’
‘Yesterday?’ he asked.
‘Unlikely.’
‘Tomorrow?’ he suggested, deciding to play fair and not ask for today.
‘If these are their real names, I should have something by tomorrow. Or if they’ve used the names long enough for them to be in our system somewhere.’ Her fingers slid up and down the pencil, and Brunetti had the sensation that he was watching her mind slide back and forth among possibilities.
‘Is there anything more you can tell me about them?’ she asked
‘The man who was killed in Tessera was involved with that one,’ Brunetti said, pointing to the man whose name was given as Antonio Terrasini. ‘And the other one went to the Casino with him, where Terrasini lost a great deal of money and had to be thrown out when he started threatening the croupier.’
‘People always lose,’ she said with little interest. ‘Be intriguing, though, to know where he got a great deal of money, wouldn’t it?’
‘It’s always intriguing to know where people get a great deal of money,’ Brunetti offered. ‘Even more so if they’re willing to gamble it away.’
She stared at the photos for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll see what I can find.’
‘I’d be grateful.’
‘Of course.’
He left her office and started back to his own. As he reached the staircase, he glanced up and recognized Pucetti and, beside him, a woman in a long coat. He glanced at her ankles and was immediately reminded of his first sight of Franca Marinello and those elegant ankles walking up the bridge in front of him.
His eyes rose to the woman’s head, but she was wearing a woollen hat that covered her hair except for some wisps at the back. Blonde wisps.
Brunetti quickened his pace, and when he was a few steps behind them, called, ‘Pucetti.’
The young officer stopped, turned, and smiled awkwardly when he saw his superior. ‘Ah, Commissario,’ he began; then his companion turned, and Brunetti saw that it was indeed Franca Marinello.
The cold had mottled the sides of her face a strange dark purple while leaving the skin of her chin and forehead as pale as that of a person who never saw the sun. Her eyes softened, and Brunetti recognized what she used in place of a smile. ‘Ah, Signora,’ he said, not disguising his surprise. ‘Whatever brings you here?’
‘I thought I could take advantage of having met you the other night, Commissario,’ she said in that deep voice. ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you, if I might,’ she said. ‘This young officer has been very kind.’
Put on the spot like this, Pucetti explained. ‘The Signora said she was a friend of yours, Commissario, and asked to speak to you. I called your office a few times, but you weren’t there, so I thought perhaps I could bring the Signora up to see you. Instead of keeping her waiting downstairs. I knew you were in the building.’ He ran out of words.
‘Thank you, Pucetti. You did the right thing.’ Brunetti took the last few steps between them, extended his hand, and shook hers. ‘Come along to my office, then,’ he said and smiled, thanked Pucetti again, and continued
