Free Adam's Rib by Antonio Manzini Page B

happy to receive?”
    â€œPersonally? Prada. Or Jimmy Choo. Though I wouldn’t rule out Manolo Blahniks either. But you have to try shoes on. Do you at least know the lady’s shoe size?”
    â€œThirty-eight,” said Rocco.
    â€œAre you certain? Because I can tell you that it’s no simple matter with shoes, there are half sizes, different foot widths, in other words—”
    â€œWorst case, she can exchange them. Now, tell me what shop to go to here in Aosta.”
    â€œIn the center of town; otherwise you won’t get there in time.”
    â€œWe’re late as it is. In fact, put on your jacket and come with me.”
    Caterina walked around the desk. “Actually, any minutenow D’Intino and Deruta are going out for their stakeout and I’m supposed to be—”
    â€œThey’ll do fine without any help from you.”
    â€œAh, and then there are all the interviews that Scipioni and Pierron did with the Baudos’ neighbors.”
    â€œNot now, Caterì, not now, or the stores will close!”
    OFFICER CATERINA RISPOLI AND DEPUTY POLICE Chief Rocco Schiavone strode briskly down Via de Tillier, the broad shopping street in central Aosta, lined with boutiques and restaurants. A few pedestrians glanced at them in alarm, convinced they must be on the trail of some particularly urgent case.
    â€œWhere is this shop, Caterì?”
    â€œWe’re almost there!”
    They narrowly avoided colliding with a couple walking out of a pub flying the Irish tricolor and other green flags with emblems of shamrocks and the Celtic harp. As the two policemen veered around them, a Yorkshire terrier covered with a Scotch tartan coat yapped madly at them.
    â€œCouldn’t we just have driven here?”
    â€œIt’s a pedestrian area, Dottore.”
    â€œBut we’re the police, and that’s got to be good for something, don’t you think?”
    Then Rocco came to a sudden halt like a stubborn mule, and stood gazing at the sign outside a shop.
    â€œThis isn’t the place, Dottore!”
    But Rocco wasn’t listening to her anymore. “Just wait for me, I’ll be right back,” he said, and hurried off toward a menswear boutique called “Tomei.”
    It was an “English-style” shop, with faux antique paintings of golfers, horsemen setting out on fox hunts, cricket gear mounted on the walls, and the inevitable canvas Union Jack behind the cash register. They sold suits in tweed and glen plaid, lots of colorful cashmere sweaters stacked on wooden shelves. The place was wallpapered with something resembling a Scotch tartan. Set on the blue-green wall-to-wall carpeting were pairs of Church’s English shoes, and hanging on pegs along the shop’s long wall were Burberry jackets. A man in jacket and tie came over to the deputy police chief. From the way he walked, he clearly believed he resembled some member of the Spencer family. But to Rocco he was reminiscent of a night porter in a seedy, two-star hotel. “Can I be of any assistance?” said the counterfeit English lord, dry-washing his hands.
    â€œMaybe you can. I want to see your sacks.”
    The man didn’t seem to understand. “What do you mean, our sacks?”
    â€œThe sacks you put the things you sell in, for the customers to carry out of the store.”
    â€œAh, our shopping bags. But we don’t sell those.”
    â€œAnd I don’t want to buy one. I just want to see one.”
    â€œIt’s a rather odd request, don’t you think?”
    â€œCertainly, mister , but it just so happens that I’m the deputy chief of the mobile squad of the Aosta police force, and I’m in the middle of an investigation.”
    â€œAre you a policeman?”
    â€œI suppose I am, since a deputy police chief does work for the police.”
    The proprietor looked stunned. “Oh Jesus . . . Of course, of course . . . please come with me,