CB14 Blood From A Stone (2005) by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page A

topic, Brunetti said, ‘I asked when I came in, but no one’s called, which means we have no idea who he is or where he was from.’
    ‘Senegal, probably,’ Pucetti suggested.
    ‘I know. That’s likely, but we need to be sure if we want to have any hope of identifying him. He had no papers on him, and the fact that no one has called to identify him or to report that one of the vu cumprà is missing means we aren’t going to get any help from the rest of them.’ He was conscious of how dismissive that sounded of an entire class of people, ‘the rest of them’, but he had no time now to concern himself with niceties of expression. ‘So we have to find out who he was, and to do that we need someone who has contact with the others.’
    ‘Someone they trust?’ Pucetti asked.
    ‘Or fear,’ Brunetti said, not much liking the sound of that, either.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Whom they fear is probably easier,’ Brunetti answered. ‘I’d say we start with the people who rent rooms to them. Then we try the wholesalers who sell them the bags. Then the officers here who have arrested them,’ he said, holding up a finger as he named each group.
    ‘It might be easier to start with us, sir. That is, those of us who have arrested them,’ Pucetti said, adding, ‘Because we’re right here, if for no other reason.’
    ‘Of course,’ Brunetti said. ‘That technician get the photos done yet?’
    ‘Not that I know of, sir,’ Pucetti answered, starting to get to his feet, ‘but I could go down to the lab and see if he’s got them.’
    ‘Yes. Do,’ Brunetti told him. ‘And see ifthere’s any sign of Signorina Elettra while you’re down there, would you?’
    Pucetti saluted and was gone. Brunetti took the paper out of his briefcase and finished reading the first section, looking in vain for any sort of editorial comment on the death. That was sure to come, he knew.
    By the time he started the second section, the first page of which carried a longer, though no more informative, story about the murder, Pucetti was back, carrying in his hand a thick pile of full page photos.
    Quickly Brunetti flipped through them, discarding the photos of the whole body in place and selecting those taken from each side and from front on. The man’s eyes were closed, and the solemnity of his face was such that no one who saw the photos would expect him ever to open them again.
    ‘Handsome devil, wasn’t he?’ Pucetti asked, looking down at the photos. ‘How old would you say he was?’
    ‘I doubt he was more than thirty,’ Brunetti said.
    Pucetti nodded in agreement. ‘Who’d want to do something like that to one of these guys? They don’t cause any real trouble.’
    ‘You ever arrest one?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘A couple,’ Pucetti said. ‘But that doesn’t mean they aren’t good people.’
    ‘Does Savarini say that?’ Brunetti asked.
    Pucetti paused a moment, then finally answered, ‘That’s different.’
    ‘And Novello?’
    ‘Why wouldn’t he?’
    ‘Because they broke his finger the last time he was sent to arrest them.’
    ‘It was an accident, sir,’ said an affronted Pucetti. ‘He grabbed the big sports bag that held everything the man wanted to sell, and the guy did what anyone would do: he tried to yank it back. Savarini’s finger was in the strap, and when the vu cumprà pulled at it, he broke his finger. But it wasn’t like the guy intended to do it.’
    ‘So it’s not broken?’ Brunetti asked, curious to see how Pucetti would answer.
    ‘No, of course it’s broken. Only he didn’t mean to do it, and Savarini doesn’t bear him any ill will. I know because he told me so. Besides,’ continued an even more heated Pucetti, ‘he was one of the cops who jumped into the canal to save the one who fell in.’
    ‘While trying to evade arrest, if memory serves,’ Brunetti remarked.
    Pucetti started to speak but stopped and gave Brunetti a long look, then asked, ‘Are you playing with me, sir?’
    Brunetti