dock. Leaning back, he held the rope taut and the boat close to the dock as Brunetti stepped ashore.
‘You want me to wait for you, sir?’ Bonsuan asked.
‘No, don’t bother. I don’t know how long we’ll be,’ Brunetti told him. ‘You can go back.’
Bonsuan raised a hand languidly toward the peak of his uniform cap, a gesture that served as both salute and farewell. He slipped the motor into reverse and arched the boat out into the canal, not bothering to look back at the two men who stood on the landing.
‘Where first?’ Vianello asked.
‘Dorsoduro 723. It’s up near the Guggenheim, on the left.’
The men walked up the narrow calle and turned right at the first intersection. Brunetti found himself still wanting a coffee, then surprised that there were no bars to be seen on either side of the street.
An old man walking his dog came toward them, and Vianello moved behind Brunetti to give them room to pass, though they continued to talk about what Bonsuan had said. ‘You really think the water is that bad, sir?’ Vianello asked.
‘Yes.’
‘But some people still swim in the Canale della Giudecca,’ Vianello insisted.
‘When?’
‘Redentore.’
‘They’re drunk, then,’ Brunetti said dismissively.
Vianello shrugged and then stopped when Brunetti did.
‘I think this is it,’ Brunetti said, pulling the paper from his pocket. ‘Da Pr è ,’ he said aloud, looking at the names engraved on the two neat rows of brass plates that stood to the left of the door.
Who is it?’ Vianello asked.
‘Ludovico, heir to Signorina da Prè. Could be anyone. Cousin. Brother. Nephew.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Seventy-two,’ Brunetti answered, remembering the neat columns on Maria Testa’s list.
‘What did she die of?’
‘Heart attack.’
‘Any suspicion that this person,’ Vianello began, nodding with his chin toward the brass plate beside the door, ‘had anything to do with it?’
‘She left him this apartment and more than five hundred million lire.’
‘Does that mean that it’s possible?’ Vianello asked.
Brunetti, who had recently learned that the building in which they lived needed a new roof and that their share of it would be nine million lire, said, ‘If the apartment’s nice enough, I might kill someone to get it.’
Vianello, who knew nothing about the roof, gave his commissario a strange look.
Brunetti pressed the bell. Nothing happened for a long time, so Brunetti pressed it again, this time holding it for much longer. The two men exchanged a glance, and Brunetti pulled out the list, looking for the next address. Just as he turned away to the left and up toward the Accademia, a disembodied, high-pitched voice called out from the speaker above the name plates.
‘Who is it?’
The voice was imbued with the asexual plaint of age, providing Brunetti with no idea of how to address the speaker, whether Signora or Signore. ‘Is that the da Prè family?’ he asked.
‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘There are some questions about the estate of Signorina da Prè, and we need to talk to you.’
Without further question, the door clicked open, letting them into a broad courtyard with a vine-covered well in the centre. The only staircase was through a door on the left. On the landing at the second floor, a door stood open, and in it stood one of the smallest men Brunetti had ever seen.
Though neither Vianello nor Brunetti was particularly tall, they both towered over this man, who seemed to grow even smaller as they drew near him.
‘Signor da Prè?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, coming a step forward from the door and extending a hand no larger than a child’s. Because the man raised his hand almost to the height of his own shoulder, Brunetti did not have to lean down to take it; otherwise, he would certainly have had to do so.
‘You want me to wait for you, sir?’ Bonsuan asked.
‘No, don’t bother. I don’t know how long we’ll be,’ Brunetti told him. ‘You can go back.’
Bonsuan raised a hand languidly toward the peak of his uniform cap, a gesture that served as both salute and farewell. He slipped the motor into reverse and arched the boat out into the canal, not bothering to look back at the two men who stood on the landing.
‘Where first?’ Vianello asked.
‘Dorsoduro 723. It’s up near the Guggenheim, on the left.’
The men walked up the narrow calle and turned right at the first intersection. Brunetti found himself still wanting a coffee, then surprised that there were no bars to be seen on either side of the street.
An old man walking his dog came toward them, and Vianello moved behind Brunetti to give them room to pass, though they continued to talk about what Bonsuan had said. ‘You really think the water is that bad, sir?’ Vianello asked.
‘Yes.’
‘But some people still swim in the Canale della Giudecca,’ Vianello insisted.
‘When?’
‘Redentore.’
‘They’re drunk, then,’ Brunetti said dismissively.
Vianello shrugged and then stopped when Brunetti did.
‘I think this is it,’ Brunetti said, pulling the paper from his pocket. ‘Da Pr è ,’ he said aloud, looking at the names engraved on the two neat rows of brass plates that stood to the left of the door.
Who is it?’ Vianello asked.
‘Ludovico, heir to Signorina da Prè. Could be anyone. Cousin. Brother. Nephew.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Seventy-two,’ Brunetti answered, remembering the neat columns on Maria Testa’s list.
‘What did she die of?’
‘Heart attack.’
‘Any suspicion that this person,’ Vianello began, nodding with his chin toward the brass plate beside the door, ‘had anything to do with it?’
‘She left him this apartment and more than five hundred million lire.’
‘Does that mean that it’s possible?’ Vianello asked.
Brunetti, who had recently learned that the building in which they lived needed a new roof and that their share of it would be nine million lire, said, ‘If the apartment’s nice enough, I might kill someone to get it.’
Vianello, who knew nothing about the roof, gave his commissario a strange look.
Brunetti pressed the bell. Nothing happened for a long time, so Brunetti pressed it again, this time holding it for much longer. The two men exchanged a glance, and Brunetti pulled out the list, looking for the next address. Just as he turned away to the left and up toward the Accademia, a disembodied, high-pitched voice called out from the speaker above the name plates.
‘Who is it?’
The voice was imbued with the asexual plaint of age, providing Brunetti with no idea of how to address the speaker, whether Signora or Signore. ‘Is that the da Prè family?’ he asked.
‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘There are some questions about the estate of Signorina da Prè, and we need to talk to you.’
Without further question, the door clicked open, letting them into a broad courtyard with a vine-covered well in the centre. The only staircase was through a door on the left. On the landing at the second floor, a door stood open, and in it stood one of the smallest men Brunetti had ever seen.
Though neither Vianello nor Brunetti was particularly tall, they both towered over this man, who seemed to grow even smaller as they drew near him.
‘Signor da Prè?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, coming a step forward from the door and extending a hand no larger than a child’s. Because the man raised his hand almost to the height of his own shoulder, Brunetti did not have to lean down to take it; otherwise, he would certainly have had to do so.
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