Mario hadn't left a single drop. He mournfully spun the empty bottle on a tabletop. I informed him it was his turn and then I played a few more moves of chess with Alice Bree as Mario visited the lavatory. My eyes strayed to Mariam's trim form when it was Alice's turn.
But soon enough I sat across from Mario Costa in the little lounge. His fumes filled the small space.
"I didda hear nothing. Nothing." A hiccup jolted his burly frame.
"Did you know the deceased previous to coming here?"
"Whatta? You don'ta know? I used to work for that imbroglione."
I blinked. "Crook?"
"Si, si. You know the casino, the Donna Fortunata? About half its business was legal. The other half not so much. And the third half, trust me, broke every law ever written." His thick forefinger stabbed at my knee to emphasize his point.
"So George Raptis knew about these illegal activities?"
"Knew? Bah. He was in charge. And, Inspector, I tella you true, and I tella you honest so help me. I know this because I was the guy to break the kneecaps of whoever needed scaring. I went to jail for it, too. Six months in the hole."
"Wait. You were—"
"Hired muscle, they call it. My lips are loose. I tell you everything. I tell you because after my time in prison I changed. I wore the one suit they gave me and that very hour I went to the biggest hotel in Milan and started washing dishes. Then I waited tables. Now I'm chef's assistant. Not bad, eh? Not bad." He thumped his meaty chest and beamed a cherubic smile.
"Congratulations. So what are you feelings about Raptis?"
"Hate him, of course. Oh, I didn't kill him, but I'm not crying over it. Poison, eh? See, I would have just punched his face in."
"Right. Well, did he threaten you?"
A profound frown wiped away Costa's cherubic smile. "Inspector. I like you, so I will tell you. The answer is no."
"No?"
"Not threaten, but he did apply pressure. Pressure to come back to work for him. Money. Money. Money. He waved the money in front of my eyes."
"But you declined it."
"I tell him vai a morire ammazzato.*" Costa blew a rude sound from his generous lips.
"Declined indeed. Did you know Trevor Brashear?"
"The limey? A little bit, the poor man. His wife died. Fell off a bridge, the newspapers said." The Italian tapped the side of his nose wisely.
"But you don't believe it?"
"Not for a second, not where the Donna Fortunata is concerned. The word is she was pushed. The word is she won a big pot of money at the casino, but the management didda notta pay."
"Good heavens." I had forgotten to take notes.
Mario combed blunt fingers through his abundant curly hair. "No proof, Inspector. Just a rumor. There will never be proof. Whatta is the matter, Inspector?"
I had probably gone pale and a look of horror had probably twisted my face. It had occurred to me that Trevor Brashear would have motive to kill Raptis, if he believed Raptis had been responsible for his wife's death.
"Oh, I'm fine. Where were we? Oh, yes, did you know any of the other guests before coming here?"
"Only Daria." Costa's face went dreamy.
My face grew slack. His smitten tones were one shock too many. In my mind I saw Mario's hand descending comfortingly on Daria's shoulders. Romance bloomed, it seemed. Though I remembered, too, how she had failed to respond to the gesture.
"We met in Switzerland during the war, when I fled there to escape the draft. We've never been together for very long. Fate has decreed otherwise. So far." Mario belched juicily. "Scusa."
The belch could hardly dent the alcoholic miasma that clogged the air. "No worries. Why did you stay at the boarding house, Mr. Costa?"
"Mister Costa. I like that. Much better than 'boy' or 'hey, you.' I came to see Daria, of course. I wanted to tell her I will soon be a chef. Three months of school already. Soon, I will deserve her." He leaned forward, his pleasant face darkening. "I didda not know her father would be here. I hate thatta man. Once, long ago, I asked for Daria's hand. He laughed at me. The pig."
"He refused to allow your marriage?"
"Si, that bastardo. I hate him. If he were not already dead, and he make-a me mad, I might kill him. I think he knew it. It was why he always waved the money in front of my face."
"So." I blew air from my cheeks. "So you had a motive for murder."
Mario blinked at me like a startled owl. He threw his head back and brayed a laugh. "Yes, of course, of course. But you know I didn't kill him. If it were me, it would be a — how do you say? — a crime of passion. I would snap, and then his blood would flow. Not in secret in the middle of the night. Out where everyone could see."
I kept my face neutral. I checked my notes. Ah, yes. The cigarette papers. "Did you ever go to his room?"
His face screwed up and he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. He tapped his nose. "Yes. Notta yesterday. The day before, the bastardo wanted to hire me back to Donna Fortunata. I told him where to go."
Cigarette papers left in room number one not necessarily incriminating. Check.
He leaned forward again and poked my knee with his index finger. His voice sank to a husky, slurred stage-whisper. "I know who did it."
"Do you, now?" Inwardly, I wore a knowing smirk. Outwardly, I was a polite stoic.
"The woman who calls herself Alice Bree."
"Why her?"
"The phone number at Peace Palace. Plus the fake name."
"That you overheard."
He was oblivious to my scathing glare and lowered his voice another notch. "Think about it. Peace Palace. War trial. Witnesses who need to stay safe. Fanatics and patriots are the same thing, and some of them would be proud to gun down any enemy of Darko Dor. Alice Bree is here as a witness, and here in this house to keep her out of sight and secret."
"It's plausible."
"There's more."
"Oh?"
"Did you notice that her eyebrows are lighter than her hair?"
"She wears dark glasses."
"Ho! She does! Today, yes, every minute. Not all of yesterday, though. I saw. She wears a wig, I will bet all of Donna Fortunata on it."
I leaned back and pursed my lips. "What color are her eyes?"
"I know, but I won't-a tell you. Ask her yourself." The burly Italian seemed to think this the very height of comedy and burst into a gale of raucous laughter.
The electric light went dark. My heart skipped a beat.
A second later, thunder shook the house and vibrated my chair. As sonic blast rolled by and faded, a thin, feminine scream rose through the floorboards.
*Italian language. An insult. Literally, "Go die murdered."