Read Online Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 by Michael Dibdin - Free Book Online Page B

just about as reliable. The only features of interest were the fact that the Greek sailors had selected their victim because he was the first American they had come across who was about their fighting size, and that the man had been attacked while heading away from the dock area, apparently towards the main gate. The guard had been unable to say when he had arrived. With the aircraft carrier in port, American sailors had been coming and going all evening, and he had simply waved them through.
    Zen looked up as Caputo led in the prisoner. Although on the short side, he was anything but puny in appearance.
    His limbs were muscular, his belly firm and his chest robust. His copper-coloured skin was covered with black hair everywhere except for his head, which was impressively bald. He was wearing handcuffs, underpants, a vest and nothing else. Caputo pushed him unceremoniously into a chair facing Zen and dumped a black plastic sack on the desk. Zen gazed at the prisoner, who was apparently studying the plasterwork with great attention.
    ‘I’m told you don’t understand Italian/ he said, watching the man’s eyes.
    There was a long silence.
    ‘Spik only Ingleesh/ the prisoner replied at length, still giving his full attention to a patch of wall just to the right of one of the room’s three windows.
    Zen heaved another enormous sigh. Like all Italians, he had been protected from any bruising contact with spoken English thanks to a law - passed originally by the Fascists but, like so many of their laws, never subsequently rescinded - which required all films and other material shown publicly to be dubbed into Italian. On the other
    hand, he had the advantage of having spent much time at the home of Ellen, his clandestine American girlfriend for some years.
    ‘Oh, yes, I’m the great pretender/ he said, ‘adrift in a world of my own. I seem to be what I’m not, you see. Too real is this feeling of make-believe.. p>
    ‘Only spik Ingleesh/
    Caputo stood looking on wide-eyed at this novel interrogation, obviously impressed by his superior’s unsuspected linguistic skills. Zen leapt to his feet and came around the desk, towering over the prisoner.
    “I wonder, wonder who, who wrote the book of love?’
    he demanded. ‘Who wrote the book of love?’
    ‘Only Ingleesh/
    ‘Who was that man? I’d like to shake his hand. He made my babay fall in love with me/
    It was amazing how much he could remember from those rowdy, drunken parties which Ellen used to give at the beginning of July for her expatriate friends. A shame he couldn’t let rip here. His pleasing light baritone voice had been much admired at the time. How Americans loved to laugh!
    ‘Ingleesh only spik/
    Zen turned sulkily on his heel like an artiste disappointed with his reception.
    ‘Take him away!’ he told Caputo.
    As the prisoner was led to the door, Zen ripped open the sack of personal belongings and let the contents fall out on the desk. The clothes consisted of a pair of black shoes, a light blue shirt and the US naval uniform. There was also a leather wallet, a scattering of coins, a set of keys, the knife - a vicious item with a long retractable blade sharpened to a razor edge - and a light rectangular slab of grey plastic moulded into slots and grooves, rather like an outsize cassette tape, with a strip of metal contacts mounted on a card inside a recess.
    “I take it all this has been dusted?’ he called after Caputo, who turned in the doorway.
    ‘Apart from the suspect’s own, we found a number of extraneous prints. We’re running the files for them now, but we won’t hear before next week.’
    Zen nodded vaguely, but he was looking not at Caputo but at the prisoner. His head was turned back towards the desk in the room he was just leaving, and his glowing black eyes were fixed on one item with an intensity which seemed capable of melting the plastic.
    While Caputo returned the man to his cell, Zen examined the clothing piece by piece. The