Adam's Rib Read Online Free PDF Page A

commissario no longer exists. Deputy Police Chief Schiavone.” Then he looked over at the woman, who still had a frightened look on her face and her hair standing straight up, held in place by some electrostatic force, probably emanating from her light blue nylon sweater.
    â€œGive me the keys!” Rocco said to the woman.
    â€œTo the apartment?” the Russian woman asked naively.
    â€œNo, to the city. Certainly, to the apartment, for the love of Jesus!” the retired warrant officer barked. “Otherwise how are they supposed to get in?”
    Irina dropped her gaze. “I forget inside the keys when I run away.”
    â€œOh hell,” muttered Rocco under his breath. “Okay, let’s do this: what floor is it?”
    â€œThere . . . fourth!” and Irina pointed at the apartment building. “You see? Window up there with curtains is living room, then there is other room next to it, with shutters pulled down: that is den. Then there is last on left, the half bath, then—”
    â€œSignora, it’s not as if I want to buy the apartment. All I need to know is where it is,” the deputy police chief brusquely interrupted her. Then he jutted his chin and directed Pierron toward the fourth-floor apartment. “Italo, what do you say?”
    â€œHow am I supposed to climb up there, Dottore? What we need is a locksmith.”
    Rocco sighed, then glanced at the woman, who seemed to have regained her composure. “What kind of lock is it?”
    â€œThere are two keyholes,” Irina replied.
    Rocco rolled his eyes. “Sure, but what kind? Pick-proof, lever tumbler, drum lock?”
    â€œNo . . . I don’t know. Apartment door.”
    Rocco pulled open the street door. “Do you know the apartment number, or not that either?”
    â€œEleven,” Irina replied with a broad smile, proud that she could finally provide the police with some actionable intelligence. “Eleven R.”
    Italo followed the deputy police chief.
    â€œWhat should I do?” asked the retired warrant officer.
    â€œYou stay here and wait for reinforcements!” Rocco shouted. And he almost had the impression that the old man promptly clicked his heels in response.
    AS SOON AS THE METAL ELEVATOR DOORS SWUNG open, Rocco went to the right, Italo to the left.
    â€œApartment 11R is right here,” said Italo. The deputy police chief caught up with him. “It’s an old Cisa lock. Excellent.”
    Rocco put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the keys to his own apartment.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” asked Italo.
    â€œHold on.” On his key ring, Rocco had a little Swiss Army knife, the kind that has about twelve thousand blades and clippers. He carefully pried open the little screwdriver. He bent over and started working on the lock. He removed the two screws that held the plate, then extracted the fingernail file. “You see? If you can just open a space between the wood and the lock mechanism . . .” He slid the file into the opening. He applied pressure, once, then a second time. “It’s a hollow-core door. In Rome, you don’t find front doors like this anymore. Nobody has them.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause they’re so damned easy to get open.” And with that the deputy police chief popped the lock open. Italo smiled. “You really picked the wrong line of work!”
    â€œYou’re not the first person to tell me that.” And Rocco swung open the door. Italo stopped him with one arm. “ShallI go first?” he asked, as he unholstered his pistol. “I mean, what if there really is someone barricaded in there?”
    â€œWho do you think is barricaded, Italo? Come on, let’s not talk bullshit.” And he strode in.
    They walked through the sliding door and found themselves in the living room. Italo headed for the kitchen. The deputy police chief continued down the hallway and took a look in