Stolen cards / Fragment

Friday 13 August 2010.10 A.M.

Ann Carrington looked disconsolate through the window of his hotel room the rain falling on the sea. In the distance, the clouds that hid the horizon did not promise anything good. There was no doubt that would happen raining all day.

"What a waste, he thought to have a room overlooking the sea and not able to enjoy a beautiful sunny day." Your room liked. Simple, sober, but cozy. They called the Yellow Room because of the curtains, the bedspread and small sofa upholstery, all in the same color. Was quite large, though the double bed occupied most of the space.

Born in Virginia, Ann Carrington was a beautiful woman of forty-one years. He had an enviable physique kept in shape at footing, Assiduous visits to the gym and ferocious diet, was a natural blonde, with an average hair that hung to the neck and, given its height, never left indifferent to the men who crossed his path.

Divorced, childless, professor of history at the University of Brown, in Providence, Rhode Island, on the east coast of the United States, had come to Camogli last night from Boston, with stops in Paris and Genoa, an endless journey with exasperating waits at airports because of the scarcity of links.

It was his first time in Europe.

He would have liked to stay a few days in Paris, visiting the city and, above all, the files of the Louvre, where he knew extensive documentation on the subject that was investigated was retained, but unfortunately, it was impossible. Only had a few days off and had to make the most.

When he arrived by train from Genoa and it was night, and from the small station Camogli walked to the hotel, following the instructions had been given and dragging the suitcase, too full decidedly for those few days of vacation.

They had warned that the hotel is called close to the station but taxis could not get there because it was located in a pedestrian area at the foot of a staircase there was no way to avoid.

It was, indeed, but, either by fatigue endless journey or the weight of the suitcase, the last two hundred meters seemed eternal, and ultimately lower the thirty-nine steps leading to the hotel entrance will seemed an insurmountable company in appearance.

And yet, he succeeded.

As soon as he was in his room, undressed, opened the bag, took out the vanity to desmaquillarse quickly brushed his teeth and dropped into bed, exhausted. The pillows were decidedly too big and too soft, but the truth is that soon no time in staying asleep.

Awakened by the sound of the alarm, which had put the nine o'clock. He had slept at a stretch.

When you open the curtains, discovered amazed that their windows looked directly into the sea, with views that took our breath away and covering a piece of the village, consisting of multicolored houses on your right, and a covered mountain of dense vegetation, on your left . Although the distance could trick her, seemed pines.

Having a room with such a view was a pleasant surprise. Maybe it was not a mistake at all to have finished in that unknown place.

Before getting into the shower, I prepare for bed clothes he would wear. White linen blouse in her head was too wrinkled and had no time to ask to be ironed, assuming that the hotel offered such a service. And that he had carefully folded and stored in a plastic bag. A pity.

He chose, alternatively, a white cotton blouse, sleeveless. The weather was not the most suitable for a sleeveless garment, but could always cover their shoulders with a light sweater if he was cold.

Had only brought a couple of skirts. He preferred pants, then his legs did not like much. He chose a pair of gray.

Miro time. He had to hurry.

It was ten o'clock when he was ready to go down to the hotel lobby.

I had an appointment at that hour reception below. He hoped the visit of Professor Gianni Scoppetta, University of Florence, a researcher like her, his passion for history. It was he who convinced her to meet in Camogli.

Before leaving the room, checked again makeup in the bathroom mirror. He was still tired from the trip but apparently, judging by the image reflected, no one would notice.

He went out and, as the elevator took under the stairs.

Never met Professor Scoppetta.

That may exist documents that class already suspected. He had a quintals in the basement of the State Archive of Florence, not to mention those who piled on file with the Louvre in Paris. But what really piqued his curiosity was the fact that Scopetta hinted that he had discovered something very particular correspondence hidden queen revealing one of the best kept secrets of Marie de Medicis, and that was something that interested him much, because I was just writing a biography of this queen, and the contribution of new documents would be very important, no doubt.

In the lobby there was no one waiting.

To wait for the teacher, chose a sofa located in a strategic position from which he could watch who entered and left the hotel. When it came, it would quickly.

The lobby was not very big and opened a salon small, with a couple of sofas upholstered in blue and some matching chairs. Behind her, a large window offering the same views we enjoyed from your room. To the right was the bar, with a bar that opened directly into the living room.

It was a fairly small hotel.

Although there knew Professor Scoppetta, and had never even seen a picture of him, I imagined quite old, with white hair.

The girl behind the reception desk, a brunette with unkempt without attractions worth relief with a long, straight hair that covered part of her cheeks as she let curiously peek out the tips of his ears, said, when he went to leave the key, not to worry about the rain: it was no more than a passing cloud and would soon sunrise.

I did not know if he had said to avert an imminent departure, or if the weather was truly whimsical in that place. Yet only planned to stay a couple of days, three at the most.

He entered a group of tourists. Seemed somewhat overwrought, talking among themselves as much gesticulating and raising his voice.

Ann Carrington could not understand what they said, - "It must be Scandinavian" thought, but the reality, were Lithuanians, but when one of them went to the receptionist in English, Ann caught a snippet of conversation.

So he could understand, a man had been shot in the street, almost before their eyes.

When tourists turned away, walked to the counter.

Excuse me, señorita- asked, slightly worried, but I seem to have heard from those tourists that someone has been killed in front of them. Could it be true?

The girl looked up and stared at her with an expression that seemed to say clearly "but why is in no matter what gets?".

- Not exactly, ma'am. So this man told me, it seems that they have

killed someone on the street this morning, but they have not seen anything. Only police he had cut the street.

- Are not things that happen often? asked Ann, who had

well aware that the girl had no intention to keep talking to her about the crime news of the day. It was not good for tourism.

- There has never been anything like it. Perhaps these gentlemen have not understood it well and just about an old man who died of heart attack.

A Ann it seemed a sensible and calmer, sat down on the couch response.

It was ten and twenty Professor had not yet appeared.

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