On the door handle, a last touch from the thief or thieves: the housekeeping sign saying ‘Thank You For Your Stay: Gratuities.’
* * *
He checked the dumpsters outside the hotel, went through the trash, dawn now and his side beginning to ache, and found nothing. The hope, at least, that the notebooks would be scattered somewhere because they were of no earthly use to anyone else. As he bent over the dumpster, moved cardboard around, he remembered a description in one of the newspapers about the discovery of the clothes in Ercolano — and didn’t like the idea that there could be more in the dumpster than trash or stolen goods.
WEDNESDAY
He packed his rucksack in the morning. Without his papers and notebooks and equipment he didn’t have enough to fill the soft hold-all. He hadn’t slept, and through the night plans were made and disassembled, ideas on how he would return home because he had less than nothing, and how he’d have to undo the publishing deal because he didn’t have the material any more, or even the heart to start over. He hadn’t slept, and he had to go back to the Questura, chase up his report, because the police who’d come had told him there wasn’t anything to do until the morning because this crime didn’t register to them as being something worthy of any kind of attention. He couldn’t even call Rino because all of his numbers were on his phone, his email was on his laptop, and nowhere would yet be open.
* * *
After the police, Finn checked in his bag at the Stazione Central. His head rang with humiliation; they’d laughed at him, asked him to describe with particular precision exactly where he’d hidden his valuables. So you hid the money on top of the what? Exactly where? He couldn’t expect any sympathy back home, because this whole thing, he had to admit, was kind of shameful. He’d set himself up: bragged about his summer, his contract, rubbed it hard into other people’s faces, and in one night he’d managed to wreck it all. The police had contacted Rino, who said he had no idea about any kidnapping, assault, or robbery. Last night was the same as any other, he ate at about eight o’clock, watched TV, argued with his wife, and was incredulous, as was his wife, about this entire idea, and Finn understood that words were said between the police and Rino that undermined him, although he did not know exactly what.
Finn stood in the concourse and looked up at the grey boards flickering city names and routes above him. Passengers waited on the platforms, some smoking, most sitting, pressed down by the heat, mopping their foreheads and necks as if expressing regret. It was stupid, foolish to trust Rino, to have paid money to the man. A mistake he swore he wouldn’t make again. It was hard to estimate the amount he’d lost, all in all. Now he had twenty euro, just enough to find a place to email his parents and explain the whole stupid episode in some kind of shorthand they would understand. How much would he need to return home, end the summer in Massachusetts? How much would that humiliation cost? He wouldn’t ask his parents, he’d ask his sister. Carolyn would lend him money, and he’d pay her back, as long as she swore to keep this to herself.
What to do? Tired and too sickened to eat, he walked through the platform, and found a bookstore. Feltrinelli. And there, facing the door, a small display of The Kill, a new Italian translation with the introduction restored, as per the ’73 Editiones Mandatore original. The cover: a blood-spattered picture of an Italian palazzo. Finn stood in front of the display completely forlorn. Here it was, a last piece of mockery to rub home his failure. Two days in Naples and he was through. He picked up a copy and walked out of the store without making any effort to disguise the book.
He sat for an hour on the concourse, faced the bookstore entrance, and read the introduction in one sitting.
* * *
Finn called his sister collect, could hear her laughing as she accepted the charges — This is going to be good, bro. He told her quickly about the theft, about the night with Rino and some skinny thug on a scooter, and how, everything done, Rino denied the whole thing.
Carolyn laughed. Couldn’t help herself. Thought this was funny, better than expected. But he was obviously OK, OK? because they were talking. So he’s been stung right? This is what it was. A sting. This Rino had orchestrated the whole thing. Obviously.
Finn couldn’t see the logic.
‘Where did you find him?’
‘Online. The university.’
‘And you know that he goes to the university? You’ve seen him there, met his friends, spoken with his professors?’
‘I’ve spent one day with him. His email address is through the university.’ And then he remembered, it wasn’t. Rino had given an excuse, The university email is sometimes inaccessible. The server is slow and often fails. Use this address.
‘So he could be a student, but he could also not be a student. Doesn’t really matter.’
‘They kidnapped him. Someone kidnapped him and threatened to slit his throat.’
‘Someone said that they’d kidnapped him. Big difference. Do you know anything about him?’
Finn struggled for ideas, of course he knew things about Rino, they had spoken for two months, the man had completed research for him, sent photographs, sat outside the estate at Rione Ini for an entire week and watched Scafuti’s apartment. He knew all of the sites and all of the places relevant to the murders.