said he thought it must be down by Santa Giustina, near the shop that used to be the Doll Hospital.
‘Has anyone been here to ask for him?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No one while I’ve been here, Commissario. But his family will have been called by the hospital, so they’ll know where to go.’
Brunetti looked at his watch. It was almost one, but he doubted that the usual summons to lunch would be heeded by Franco Rossi’s family, if he had one, that day. He knew that the dead man worked in the Ufficio Catasto and had died after a fall. Beyond that, he knew only what little he had inferred from their one brief meeting and even briefer phone conversation. Rossi was dutiful, timid, almost a cliché of the punctilious bureaucrat. And, like Lot’s wife, he had turned solid when Brunetti suggested he step out on to the terrace.
He started down Barbaria delle Tolle, heading in the direction of San Francesco della Vigna. On his right, the fruit vendor, the one with the wig, was just closing, draping a green cloth over the open boxes of fruit and vegetables in a gesture Brunetti found disturbingly reminiscent of the way he had pulled the cloth over Rossi’s face. Around him, things went on as normal: people hurried home to lunch and life went on.
The address was easy to find, on the right side of the campo, two doors beyond what had now become yet another real estate agency, rossi, franco , was engraved on a narrow brass plaque next to the doorbell for the second floor. He pressed the bell, waited, then pressed it again, but there was no answer. He pressed the one above but got the same result, and so he tried the one below it.
After a moment, a man’s voice answered through the speakerphone, ‘Yes, who is it?’
‘Police.’
There was the usual pause, then the voice said, ‘All right.’
Brunetti waited for the click that would open the large outer door to the building, but instead he heard the sound of footsteps, and then the door was pulled open from within. A short man stood in front of him, his size not immediately apparent because he stood at the top of the high step the residents no doubt hoped would raise their front hall above the level of acqua alta. The man still held his napkin in his right hand and looked down at Brunetti with the initial suspicion he was long accustomed to encountering. The man wore thick glasses, and Brunetti noticed a red stain, probably tomato sauce, to the left of his tie.
‘Yes?’ he asked without smiling.
‘I’ve come about Signor Rossi,’ Brunetti said.
At Rossi’s name, the man’s expression softened and he leaned down to open the door more fully. ‘Excuse me. I should have asked you to come in. Please, please.’ He moved aside and made room for Brunetti on the small landing then extended his hand as if to take Brunetti’s. When he noticed that he still held his napkin, he quickly hid it behind his back. He leaned down and pushed the door closed with his other hand then turned back to Brunetti.
‘Please, come with me,’ he said, turning back toward a door that stood open halfway down the corridor, just opposite the stairs that led to the upper floors of the building.
Brunetti paused at the door to allow the man to enter before him, then followed him in. There was a small entrance, little more than a metre wide, up from which rose two steps, further evidence of the Venetians’ eternal confidence that they could outwit the tides that gnawed away perpetually at the foundations of the city. The room to which the steps led was clean and neat and surprisingly well lit for an apartment located on a piano rialzato. Brunetti noticed that at the back of the apartment a row of four tall windows looked across to a large garden on the other side of a wide canal.
‘I’m sorry. I was eating,’ the man said, tossing his napkin on to the table.
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Brunetti insisted.
‘No, I was
‘Has anyone been here to ask for him?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No one while I’ve been here, Commissario. But his family will have been called by the hospital, so they’ll know where to go.’
Brunetti looked at his watch. It was almost one, but he doubted that the usual summons to lunch would be heeded by Franco Rossi’s family, if he had one, that day. He knew that the dead man worked in the Ufficio Catasto and had died after a fall. Beyond that, he knew only what little he had inferred from their one brief meeting and even briefer phone conversation. Rossi was dutiful, timid, almost a cliché of the punctilious bureaucrat. And, like Lot’s wife, he had turned solid when Brunetti suggested he step out on to the terrace.
He started down Barbaria delle Tolle, heading in the direction of San Francesco della Vigna. On his right, the fruit vendor, the one with the wig, was just closing, draping a green cloth over the open boxes of fruit and vegetables in a gesture Brunetti found disturbingly reminiscent of the way he had pulled the cloth over Rossi’s face. Around him, things went on as normal: people hurried home to lunch and life went on.
The address was easy to find, on the right side of the campo, two doors beyond what had now become yet another real estate agency, rossi, franco , was engraved on a narrow brass plaque next to the doorbell for the second floor. He pressed the bell, waited, then pressed it again, but there was no answer. He pressed the one above but got the same result, and so he tried the one below it.
After a moment, a man’s voice answered through the speakerphone, ‘Yes, who is it?’
‘Police.’
There was the usual pause, then the voice said, ‘All right.’
Brunetti waited for the click that would open the large outer door to the building, but instead he heard the sound of footsteps, and then the door was pulled open from within. A short man stood in front of him, his size not immediately apparent because he stood at the top of the high step the residents no doubt hoped would raise their front hall above the level of acqua alta. The man still held his napkin in his right hand and looked down at Brunetti with the initial suspicion he was long accustomed to encountering. The man wore thick glasses, and Brunetti noticed a red stain, probably tomato sauce, to the left of his tie.
‘Yes?’ he asked without smiling.
‘I’ve come about Signor Rossi,’ Brunetti said.
At Rossi’s name, the man’s expression softened and he leaned down to open the door more fully. ‘Excuse me. I should have asked you to come in. Please, please.’ He moved aside and made room for Brunetti on the small landing then extended his hand as if to take Brunetti’s. When he noticed that he still held his napkin, he quickly hid it behind his back. He leaned down and pushed the door closed with his other hand then turned back to Brunetti.
‘Please, come with me,’ he said, turning back toward a door that stood open halfway down the corridor, just opposite the stairs that led to the upper floors of the building.
Brunetti paused at the door to allow the man to enter before him, then followed him in. There was a small entrance, little more than a metre wide, up from which rose two steps, further evidence of the Venetians’ eternal confidence that they could outwit the tides that gnawed away perpetually at the foundations of the city. The room to which the steps led was clean and neat and surprisingly well lit for an apartment located on a piano rialzato. Brunetti noticed that at the back of the apartment a row of four tall windows looked across to a large garden on the other side of a wide canal.
‘I’m sorry. I was eating,’ the man said, tossing his napkin on to the table.
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Brunetti insisted.
‘No, I was
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