Read Online The Rainaldi Quartet by Paul Adam - Free Book Online Page B

looked out through the crack.
    â€˜Show me some identification.’
    Guastafeste held out his police identity card and a hand like a wizened claw snatched it away for a few seconds, then gave it back. The door snapped shut and we heard the chain being detached on the inside. When Forlani reopened the door it was only a little wider than before. He beckoned us in and we squeezed awkwardly through the gap, Forlani pushing us to one side so he could lock and bolt the door behind us.
    The stench was the first thing I noticed. There was the damp odour you get all over Venice, but it was particularly noticeable here and exacerbated by a pungent reek of decaying vegetable matter and a fruitier, more human smell which I realised was emanating from Forlani himself. To my right, a short flight of stone steps led down into the open basement of the building which, like most of the others on the canal, had been constructed as a water entrance and boathouse for the palazzo. I could see the Grand Canal through the wrought-iron gates, see and hear the water lapping against the walls of the basement. Even in the gloomy light it was possible to make out the scum on the surface of the water; a thick layer of kitchen scraps and other rubbish which had been dumped there over the years and never been flushed away by the action of the tides. I heard a patter of feet which I knew was rats.
    We followed Forlani up the stairs to the first floor. Through an elaborately panelled set of double doors was a large room overlooking the Grand Canal – at least it would have overlooked the canal if the shutters on the windows hadn’t been tightly shut. Strips of sunlight percolated in through the slats in the shutters, dimly illuminating the bare floor and walls of the room. The plaster was peeling off like diseased skin, the long curtains next to the windows hung in soiled, shredded tatters. There was no furniture except for a long wooden table and a couple of cheap wooden chairs. The top of the table was cluttered with piles of china plates on which congealed sauce and rancid old meat and rubbery pasta lay decomposing.
    I could scarcely believe that this was the Enrico Forlani we were seeking. Guastafeste must have had his doubts too for the first thing he said was, ‘You are Enrico Forlani, collector of violins, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Of course I am,’ Forlani replied testily. ‘Who else do you think I am? Now what is it you want?’
    He was wearing a threadbare old dressing gown and a pair of cheap plastic flip-flops on his bare feet. The smell from his body was so overpowering that I had to step back a few paces from him.
    Guastafeste glanced around the room. ‘Is there perhaps somewhere more, ah, comfortable, we can talk?’
    â€˜What’s wrong with here?’ Forlani demanded.
    â€˜As you wish. First of all, thank you for agreeing to see us. I hope we’re not going to take up too much of your time.’
    â€˜Get to the point,’ Forlani said.
    Guastafeste’s mouth tightened. ‘We’re investigating the murder of a man named Tomaso Rainaldi. A violin-maker who was found dead in his workshop in Cremona last Wednesday night.’
    Forlani gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘You told me all this on the phone. What has it got to do with me? I’ve never been to Cremona in my life.’
    â€˜Rainaldi came to see you two days before he was killed. I’d like to know why.’
    Forlani looked at us in turn. He had a pale, unhealthy complexion and hooded eyes like a lugubrious vulture. I put his age at somewhere in his late seventies.
    â€˜What if I say that’s my business?’
    â€˜A man has been murdered, Dottor Forlani,’ Guastafeste said mildly. ‘I’m sure you would want to give us your full cooperation.’ Guastafeste smiled at Forlani, a pleasant enough smile, but one edged with an unmistakable hint of menace.
    I sensed Forlani drawing back from