Donna Leon - About Face

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.’

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.