Death in a Strange Country Read Online Free PDF

look forward to
reading it, then,’ Brunetti said.
     
    ‘Oh, you won’t be able to
understand a word of it. Don’t even try, Guido. If you have any questions, call
me and I’ll explain it to you.’
     
    ‘What about his clothing?’
Brunetti asked, though he knew this was none of Rizzardi’s responsibility.
     
    ‘He was wearing jeans,
Levi’s. And he had one Reebok, size eleven.’ Before Brunetti could say
anything, Rizzardi continued, ‘I know, I know. That doesn’t mean he’s American.
You can buy Levi’s and Reeboks anywhere today. But his underwear was. I’ve sent
it over to the lab boys, and they can tell you more, but the labels were in
English and said “Made in USA”.’ The doctor’s voice changed, and he displayed a
curiosity that was unusual for him. ‘Have your boys heard anything from the
hotels? Any idea of who he was?’
     
    ‘I haven’t heard
anything, so I guess they’re still calling.’
     
    ‘I hope you find out who
he is so you can send him home. It’s no good thing, to die in a strangecountry.’      
                     
           
     
    ‘Thanks, Ettore. I’ll do
my best to find out who he is. And send him home.’          
       
     
    He set the phone down. An
American; He had carried no wallet, no passport, no identification, no money
aside from those few coins. All of that pointed to a street crime, one that had
gone horribly wrong and ended in death instead of robbery. And the thief had a
knife and had used it with either luck or skill. Street criminals in Venice had
some luck, but they seldom had any skill. They grabbed and ran. In any other
city, this might be taken for a mugging that had gone wrongs but here in Venice
this sort of thing simply didn’t happen. Skill or luck? And if it was skill, whose
skill was it and why was it necessary that skill be employed?
     
    He called down to the
main office and asked if they had had any luck with the hotels. The first-and
second-class hotels had only one missing guest, a man in his fifties who had
not returned to the Gabriele Sandwirth the previous night. The men had begun to
check the smaller hotels, one of which had an American man who had checked out
the previous night but whose description didn’t fit.
     
    It was possible, Brunetti
realized, that he could have been renting an apartment in the city; in that
case, days could pass before he was reported missing, or he simply might not be
missed.
     
    He called the lab and
asked to speak to Enzo Bocchese, the Chief Technician. When he came on the
phone, Brunetti asked, ‘Bocchese, have you got anything on the things in his
pockets?’ It wasn’t necessary to specify whose pockets.
     
    ‘We used the infra-red on
the ticket. It was so soaked that I didn’t think we’d be able to get anything.
But we did.’
     
    Bocchese; terribly proud
of his technology and the things he could do with it, always needed to be
prompted, and then praised. ‘Good. I don’t know how you do it, but you always
manage to find something.’ Would that this were even close to the truth. ‘Where
was it from?’
     
    ‘Vicenza. Round trip to
Venice. Bought yesterday arid cancelled for the trip from Vicenza. I’ve got a
man coming from the station to see if he can tell us anything, from the
cancellation, about what train it was, but I’m not sure he can.’
     
    ‘What class was it, first
or second?’
     
    ‘Second.’
     
    ‘Anything else? Socks?
Belt?’
     
    ‘Rizzardi tell you about
the clothes?’
     
    ‘Yes. He thinks the
underwear is American.’
     
    ‘It is. No question. The
belt — he could have bought that anywhere. Black leather with a brass buckle.
The socks are synthetic. Made in Taiwan or Korea. Sold everywhere.’
     
    ‘Anything else?’
     
    ‘No, nothing.’
     
    ‘Good work, Bocchese, but
I think we don’t need more than the ticket to be sure.’
     
    ‘Sure of what,
Commissario?’
     
    ‘That he’s