Dalton said nothing.
Brancati’s smile became a centimeter less warm.
“Maybe you can think of some useful observations?”
“I have nothing to suggest.”
“Anything would be welcome. Please. Try.”
Dalton pretended to try. He had no intention of saying anything useful about Porter Naumann’s life and times. That wasn’t his job.
“I’m sorry. Nothing in Porter’s life explains any of this. Have you looked at his room in this hostel?”
“We have.”
“And?”
“And it reveals little. Mr. Naumann bought a bottle of Chianti and some cigarillos. He smoked the cigarillos and drank the Chianti and slept on top of the bed. At one point he smashed an old pot filled with morning glories, and then he made a fire in the wastepaper basket—”
“He started a fire?”
“Yes. It set off the smoke alarm. The clerk went up. Mr. Naumann did not open the door. He said it was only a cigarette. He was very apologetic. The clerk went away.”
“He broke a flowerpot?”
“Yes. It was full of morning glories. My wife, Luna, calls them moonflowers. She loves them because they are nocturnal, as she is. They flower only at night. They were in one of those tall round cilindri, like you put would put white wine bottles into. Terra-cotta. To keep them cool.”
“Was anybody with him?”
“As I said, Mr. Naumann did not open the door, so the clerk could not see. Mr. Naumann made no calls and received no calls. The girls in the next room heard some talking. The walls are very thin. They heard two people, a man’s voice, very low, and another. A conversation. Not angry. The second person they said had a strange voice. They cannot recall what time.”
“Strange? What does that mean?”
Brancati made a face, drew on his cigarillo.
“They said it was droning, like a bee. But very loud. Neither male nor female. More… come si dice? Like a bear growls?”
“Guttural?”
“Guttural? What an ugly word. But that is what they said.”
“But it means someone was in the room with Porter?”
“According to the clerk, who guards the door all night, no one came in to see him. The hostel has many young girls there and they keep order because of it. Guests are always observed and announced. No one came for him. Therefore we must assume that Mr. Naumann was alone.”
“What? Talking to himself?”
Brancati shrugged.
“Unless it was someone who was already in the hostel.”
“The guests have been interviewed. Mr. Naumann would have had nothing to say to any of them. They are all these traveling blatte. These cockroaches. Americans. Canadians. Swedes. These backpackers.” Brancati made the phrase sound like a risky sexual deviance.
“Did this desk clerk see Porter leave?”
“He says he did not.”
“I don’t believe him.”
“He is a reliable man, a cousin to one of my men. It is a puzzle.”
“Damn straight it’s a puzzle. Somebody’s lying to you. On what floor was Porter’s room?”
“The third.”
“Was there a fire escape? Outside stairs?”
“Fire escape? The buildings on Via Janelli are the oldest in Cortona. From the twelfth century. They do not have these ‘fire escapes.’”
“Then how did he get out?”
Brancati shrugged again, palms raised as if in divine supplication. “We do not know.”
“On the face of it, if I were you, I’d take that desk clerk apart and I’d talk to everyone who was in that hostel. Somebody is lying.”
Brancati studied Dalton’s face for a time. Young, late thirties, perhaps as old as forty; tall, slightly tanned, with long white-blond hair swept back from his forehead like a Renaissance princeling. He had the scarred face of a gentleman boxer, with strong nose knocked slightly out of true and flattened at the bridge; a hard, fit frame under his blue cashmere topcoat and his dark gray pinstripe, his pristine collar and the gold bar under his pearl-gray silk tie.
His pale, almost colorless eyes were wide-set. There was something in his face that was not quite right, as if it had been badly damaged, perhaps in an accident, and then expensively repaired by someone who was an artist at the work. Dalton waited out the appraisal in an uneasy silence.
“You interest me, Signor Dalton. Were you ever in the military?”
“Never.”
“Polizia, maybe? Or the government?”
Dalton shook his head.
“I would not take you for a banker. Maybe a fencer. Do you fence, Signor Dalton? In the army, I was a fencing instructor. You have the eye.”
“No. I box a little. I don’t fence.”
“You ask good police questions, Signor Dalton. For a banker.”
“Thank you.”
“You think well. You ask clear questions, like a policeman would. You are observant and intelligent. You are his friend, his colleague. You meet for drinks and dinner. You know his family. And yet you tell me you have no idea why he would leave his suite at the hotel, leave all his clothes, even his shaving things, all his papers save his passport, and drive down to Cortona to hide himself in a student hostel on the Via Janelli? Then to come up here and die in this outrageous way in the courtyard of San Nicolò? Do you not even wonder about such things?”
“Of course I do. So what? I have no standing. These are your problems. We’ll let you handle them. Naturally we’ll provide whatever assistance you require. But our policy in situations such as this is to leave the inquiries to the professionals.”
“Burke and Single has a policy about employees who die like this?”
“No. It’s a policy about not interfering with official investigations.”
Brancati looked as if he had more to say and then decided not to say it.
“Okay. Basta. Time is running. Come with me. We will do this.”
A rising wind was whipping the material of the tent and a cold rain lashed at their faces as they crossed the gravel courtyard. Father Jacopo stepped into their path as they walked, gently brushing aside Brancati’s intervening arm, his dark face fixed on Dalton.
“You are Micah Dalton?”
“I am.”
“You must forgive me. I have something to say to you. I do not mean to offend. It may sound ridiculous. Ma… It is ridiculous. But Paolo has begged me to speak to you. You will permit?”
“Please, Father.”
“Paolo says you stand in darkness, Signor Dalton. Paolo says a man calls for you along the Via Margherita. Paolo wants me to say that if you see this man or hear him call out to you, you should turn away. He says this man is a ghost, a spirit, and he has been standing there for almost a full year now. Paolo says the ghost has been calling out a name. The name of an inglese. The name Paolo heard was Micah. I know this is absurd. But when Paolo heard your name from the police, heard that you were coming here, he came to me and told me. I said this is godless. Mere superstition. But Paolo was determined. So I felt I should say something. And this I have done. Forgive my intrusion. You are going into the tent now. To see your dead friend. May I give you the blessing of Our Lady?”