by Donna Leon
Not that the number meant anything, not without knowing the contents. After that, they could tabulate the extent of the danger. All of these thoughts, numerical and otherwise, went through his mind as the light played over the façade of barrels.
‘Let’s have a look,’ Brunetti said, keeping his voice down. He and Vianello descended to the bottom step. ‘Give me the light, Pucetti.’
Brunetti freed his arm from Vianello’s and stepped on to the floor of the tank. Pucetti passed the Ispettore and stepped down, then took another step, and joined Brunetti. ‘I’ll come with you, sir,’ the younger man said, shining the light on to the mud just beneath their feet.
Vianello lifted one foot, but Brunetti put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I want to see how we get out of here, first.’ He was conscious of how softly they all spoke, as if to cause an echo might bring peril.
Instead of answering, Pucetti waved the beam of light back up the curving stairs, all the way to the top.
‘In case we have to move quickly,’ Brunetti said. In the glow from the flashlight, he reached out and took it from Pucetti’s hand. ‘Wait here,’ he said and moved off, his left hand sliding along the wall of the tank. He moved slowly until he found the door and then the inner keyholes of the two locks.
Not too far ahead he saw what he had hoped to see: the horizontal hand-bar of a smaller emergency exit cut into the larger door. Brunetti saw no written warning about an alarm nor any sign that it was wired to one. He pressed down on the bar, and the door swung outward on well-oiled hinges. The air brushed across his face, bringing different smells and a reminder of just how foul the air inside was. He toyed for a moment with the idea of leaving the door propped open, but decided against it. He pulled it closed, and the inner cold and smell returned.
He lit his way back to the others. Before he could say anything, Pucetti stepped closer and linked his arm in Brunetti’s, a gesture Brunetti found touchingly protective. Tentatively, arm in arm, they set off, careful of where they trod on the icy surface, pausing after every step to see that their feet were safely grounded on the frozen peaks and crevices of the floor. Caution slowed them, so it took them some time to reach the centre of the front line of barrels.
Brunetti ran the light across them, hunting for something that would disclose their contents or origins. The first three gave no indication of either, though the white skull and crossbones suggested the superfluity of such niceties. The next barrel had traces of white paper where something had been ripped away, leaving two faded Cyrillic letters. The container beside it was clean, as were the next three. Close to the end of the row stood a barrel with a sulphurous green trail leading from under the lid to a patch of dried powder in the mud in front of it. Pucetti released Brunetti’s arm and walked beyond the last barrel. Brunetti turned the corner and flashed the light along the side of the rows of barrels. ‘Eighteen,’ Pucetti said after a moment. Brunetti, who had counted nineteen, nodded and moved back to have a closer look at the corner barrel; he could see an orange label just below the lid. German was not a language he could read, but it was one he could recognize. ‘Achtung!’ Well, that left little doubt. ‘Vorsicht Lebensgefahr.’ This one, too, had a leak near the top and a dark green stain in the mud below.
‘I think we’ve seen enough, Pucetti,’ he said and turned back to where he thought Vianello was waiting.
‘Right, Commissario,’ Pucetti said and started towards him.
Brunetti stepped away from Pucetti, called Vianello’s name and, when he answered, pointed the beam in the direction of his voice. Neither of them saw what happened. Behind him, he heard Pucetti take a sharp breath – of surprise, not of fear – and then he heard a long slithery noise that he was able to identify only in retrospect as the sound of Pucetti’s foot sliding suddenly forward on the frozen mud.
He felt something slam into his back and he had a moment’s terror at the thought that it was one of the barrels. Then a thud, then silence, then a sudden cry from Pucetti.
He turned slowly, moving his feet carefully, and pointed the light towards Pucetti’s voice. The young officer was on his knees, wiping his left hand across the front of his coat, moaning while he did so. He stuffed his hand between his knees and began to rub it back and forth against the cloth of his trousers.
‘Oddio, oddio,’ the young man moaned and astonished Brunetti by spitting on his hand before wiping it again. He scrambled to his feet.
‘Vianello, the tea,’ Brunetti shouted and turned to point the light wildly, no longer sure where Vianello was, nor the door.
‘I’m here,’ the Ispettore said, and suddenly Brunetti had him transfixed in the light, thermos in one hand. Brunetti pulled Pucetti forward and locked his own hand around his lower arm, shoving Pucetti’s hand towards Vianello. The young man’s palm and part of the back of his hand were covered with traces of some black substance, much of which he had managed to wipe on to his clothing. Amidst the black, the skin was red, in places peeling back and already bleeding.
‘This is going to hurt, Roberto,’ Vianello said. He raised the thermos above the young man’s hand, and at first Brunetti didn’t understand what he was doing. But when the liquid spilled out, steaming, he realized that the Ispettore hoped that it would cool at least minimally before hitting the burnt flesh of Pucetti’s hand.
Brunetti tightened his grip, but there was no need to do that. Pucetti understood and stood motionless as the tea hit and then splashed across his hand. Brunetti stepped back, the better to keep the light steady on what was happening. The stream fell, leaving a halo of vapour all around it. Time seemed without end. ‘Here,’ Vianello finally said and handed Brunetti the thermos.
The Ispettore pulled off his parka and ripped a piece of the fleece lining from the inside. He dropped the jacket in the mud and used the ragged strip to wipe between the young man’s fingers, as thoughtful and careful as a mother. When he had most of the black goo removed, he took back the thermos and dribbled more tea across Pucetti’s hand, turning the hand carefully to see that the liquid went everywhere before running off on to the ground.
When the thermos was empty, Vianello dropped it and said to Brunetti, ‘Give me your handkerchief.’ Brunetti gave it to him, and Vianello wrapped it around Pucetti’s hand, tying it in a knot on the back. He picked up the thermos, pulled the young man to him in a one-armed hug, then said to Brunetti, ‘Let’s get him to the hospital.’
25
The doctor at the Pronto Soccorso at the Mestre hospital took almost twenty minutes to clean Pucetti’s hand, soaking it in a mild cleansing liquid and then in a disinfectant to lower the risk of infection from what was, in essence, a burn. He said that whoever had thought to wash his hand had probably saved it, or at least prevented the burns from being far worse than they were. He slathered on salve and wrapped Pucetti’s hand until it looked like a white boxing glove, then gave him something for pain and told him to go to the hospital in Venice the next day, and every day for a week, to have the dressing changed.
Vianello stayed with Pucetti while Brunetti was out in the corridor talking to Ribasso, having reached the Carabiniere after some difficulty. The Captain seemed not at all surprised by Brunetti’s account and, when Brunetti finished telling him about Pucetti, replied, ‘You’re lucky my sharpshooters decided to leave you alone.’
‘What?’
‘My men saw you drive in and go up the ladder, but one of hem thought of checking the registration. Good thing you used an official car or there might have been trouble.’
‘How long have you been there?’ Brunetti asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral.
‘Since we found him.’
‘Waiting?’ Brunetti asked, his mind running after possibilities.
‘Of course. It’s strange they’d leave him so close to where the stuff is,’ Ribasso said, offering no explanation. Then he went on, ‘Sooner or later, someone has to come for what’s in there.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘They will.’
‘You sound very sure about that.’
‘I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Because someone must have been paid to let them stock-pile it there, and if they don’t move it, there will be trouble.’
‘So you wait?’
‘So we wait,’ Ribasso answered. ‘Besides, we’ve got lucky. A new magistrate’s been assigned to Guarino’s murder, and it looks like she might be serious.’
Brunetti, silent, left him to his optimism.
Then Ribasso asked, ‘What happened to your man? They told me it looked as if you had to help him to your car.’ ‘He fell and put his hand down into the mud.’ Hearing Ribasso’s sudden intake of breath, Brunetti said,
‘He’ll be all right. He’s seen a doctor.’
‘Is that where you are, the hospital?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me know what happens to him, all right?’
‘Of course,’ Brunetti said, and then asked, ‘How bad is it in there?’
‘You name a chemical and it’s in that mud.’ After a long pause he said, ‘And blood.’
Brunetti allowed an even longer period to pass and asked, ‘Guarino’s?’
‘Yes.’ He added, ‘And the mud matches what was on his clothes and shoes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Ribasso said nothing.
‘You find the bullet?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes. In the mud.’
‘I see.’ Brunetti heard a door open behind him and saw Vianello put his head out. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Take care of your man,’ Ribasso said.
‘What is it, Lorenzo?’ Brunetti asked as he flipped his phone closed.
Vianello held out his own telefonino. ‘It’s Griffoni. She’s been trying to get you. So she called me.’
‘What’s she want?’ Brunetti asked.
‘She wouldn’t say,’ the Ispettore said, handing the phone to Brunetti.
‘Yes?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Someone called Vasco’s been trying to find you, but your phone was turned off; then it was busy. So he called me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That the man you’re looking for is there.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Brunetti said. He went back into the other room, where Vianello stood leaning against the wall. The doctor did nothing to disguise his displeasure at Brunetti’s arrival. ‘It’s Vasco. He’s there.’
‘The Casinò?’
‘Yes.’
Instead of answering, Vianello looked at the dull-eyed Pucetti, who sat bare-chested on the edge of the examining table, propping his bandaged hand up with the other. He turned to Brunetti and smiled, ‘It doesn’t hurt any more, Commissario.’
‘Good,’ Brunetti said and smiled encouragingly. Then, to Vianello, ‘Well?’ He held up the phone to show the call was still active.
He watched Vianello consider and then decide. ‘See if she can go with you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be less conspicuous. I’ll stay with him.’
Brunetti pulled the phone back and said, ‘I’m at the hospital in Mestre, but I’m leaving now. I’ll be at the Casinò in . . .’ he began, paused to calculate the time, and said, ‘In half an hour. Can you make it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not in uniform,’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘And have a launch get me at Piazzale Roma. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
‘Yes,’ she said and was gone.
Brunetti never understood how she did it, but Commissario Claudia Griffoni was standing on the deck of a taxi waiting at the police landing stage when his car pulled up twenty minutes later. Even had she worn her uniform, it would have been reduced to insignificance, perhaps invisibility, by her dark mink coat. It reached just to the top of a pair of razor-point crocodile-skin shoes with heels so high they made her as tall as Brunetti.
The taxi pulled away as soon as he was on deck and sped up the Grand Canal towards the Casinò. Brunetti explained as much as he could, finishing with what Ribasso had told him about sharpshooters.
When he stopped, she asked only, ‘And Pucetti?’
‘His hand’s burnt; the doctor said it’s not as bad as it could have been and his only real risk is infection.’
‘What was it?’ she asked.
‘God knows. Whatever’s leaked out of those barrels.’
‘Poor boy,’ she said with real feeling, though she could be no more than ten years older than Pucetti.
They saw Ca’ Vendramin Calergi appear on their left and moved out on to the deck. The driver cut towards the dock, switched into reverse, and brought them to a stop a millimetre from the landing. Griffoni opened her sequined bag, but the driver said only, ‘Claudia, per piacere,’ and offered an arm to help her step on to the dock.
Glad that he had thought to clean his shoes and wipe his coat with one of the hospital’s towels, Brunetti stepped on to the red carpet close behind her, took her arm, and walked towards the open doors. Light spilled towards them and warmth engulfed them as they stepped inside: how very unlike the place where he had been with Vianello and Pucetti. He glanced at his watch: well after one. Was Paola asleep or was she awake, perhaps in the company of Henry James, waiting for her legal husband to come home? He smiled at the thought, and Griffoni asked, ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. I thought of something.’
She gave him a quick look before they moved off across the courtyard and through the main doors. At the front desk, Brunetti asked for Vasco, who appeared after a very short time, his face unable to disguise his excitement and then, when he saw a different woman with Brunetti, his surprise.
‘Commissario Griffoni,’ Brunetti said, enjoying the sight of Vasco’s badly disguised reaction, which he covered by telling them to come with him and put their coats in his office. Inside, he handed Brunetti a tie and while he waited for him to put it on, said, ‘He’s up at the blackjack table. He’s been here about an hour.’ Then, with surprise even greater than that with which he had greeted Griffoni, he said, ‘Winning.’ It sounded as if that sort of thing were not meant to happen there.
The two commissari fell into step behind Vasco, who decided to take the stairs to the first floor. Everything was as Brunetti remembered it: the same people, the same sense of physical and moral dilapidation, the same soft lighting on shoulders and jewels.
Vasco led them through the roulette rooms and towards the one in which Brunetti had watched the card players. He stopped just before the door and told them to wait there until he was well across the room. He had dealt with Terrasini before and did not want to be seen entering the room with them.
Vasco walked in and made his slow way towards one of the tables, his hands clasped behind his back in the manner of a floorwalker or an undertaker. Brunetti noticed that Vasco’s right forefinger was pointing to the table at his left, though his attention seemed entirely directed to another table.
Brunetti looked towards the table, and as he did a man on the near side stepped aside, opening a sightline to the young man who sat on the opposite side. Brunetti recognized the sharp, exaggerated angle of the eyebrows, as though painted there with geometric exactitude. Dark eyes, unnaturally bright and seeming to be all iris, a broad mouth, and dark, gelled hair that brushed past the left eyebrow without touching it. He had a day’s growth of beard and, when he raised his cards to look at them, Brunetti saw large, thick-fingered hands, the hands of a labourer.
As Brunetti watched, Terrasini slid a small pile of chips forward. The man sitting next to him tossed down his cards. The croupier took another card. Terrasini shook his head. The man next to him took another card, then threw the others down. The croupier gave himself another card, then he too tossed his cards down on the table and swept the chips towards Terrasini.
The sides of the young man’s mouth pulled upward, but it was more taunt than smile. The dealer gave each player two cards – one up, one down – and the game continue
d. Brunetti glanced up and saw that Griffoni had wandered off to the other side of the room, where she appeared to be dividing her attention between the table where the young man was playing and the one where Vasco had his head bent to hear what was being said to him by a woman in a yellow dress who stood beside him.
Brunetti looked back just as the standing man took another step to the right, broadening the sightline. And he saw Franca Marinello, standing behind Terrasini, her eyes on his cards. Terrasini turned to her, and her lips moved. He tipped his chair back while he waited for the other players to decide what to do. He reached his arm out and wrapped it around her hip, drawing her close to him. Inattentively, as though her hip were a lucky coin or the knee of a saint’s statue that brought luck when touched, he rubbed his hand against it: Brunetti could see the cloth of her dress wrinkle under his touch.
Brunetti watched her face. The eyes glanced at Terrasini’s hand, then returned to the table. She said something, perhaps calling his attention to the croupier. He removed his arm and let his chair fall forward. Her expression did not change. Terrasini called for a card, which the croupier placed in front of him. Terrasini looked at the card, shook his head, and the croupier turned his attention to the next player.
Terrasini’s eyes moved around the table, then slid off in the direction of Brunetti, but by then Brunetti was pulling his handkerchief out of his breast pocket to wipe his nose, his attention elsewhere. When he glanced back at the table, the croupier was sliding more chips in Terrasini’s direction.
There was a minor disturbance at the table as the croupier got to his feet, saying something to the players. He gave a small bow and moved behind his chair, and another man in impeccable evening clothes slid into his place.
Terrasini took this opportunity to stand and turn away from the table. He raised his arms and grasped his hands together above his head like a tired sportsman. His motion pulled at the back of his jacket, and Brunetti saw the bottom half of what looked like a brown leather holster just above the left back pocket of his trousers.
The new dealer took fresh cards and began to shuffle them. At the sound, Terrasini lowered his hands and moved closer to Franca Marinello. Casually he ran both palms slowly across her breasts before taking his seat once again. Brunetti saw the flesh around her mouth go dead white, but she made no attempt to move away from the table, and she did not look at Terrasini.
