Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

the scene. The Vice-Questore has suggested that it be handed over to Sergeant Buffo, since he’s the one who answered the original call.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, considering this. ‘Is there an alternative?’

‘Do you mean, is there an alternative to Sergeant Buffo?’

‘Yes.’

‘You could request that, as your original contact was with me, and we have discussed the case at great length…’ Here Gallo paused, as if to make that length even greater, then continued, ‘It might save time if I were to continue to be assigned to the case.’

‘Who is the vice-questore in charge of this?’

‘Nasci.’

‘Is she liable to… I mean, will she think this a good idea?’

‘I’m sure that if the request came from a commissario, she’d agree, sir. Especially as you’re coming out here to give us a hand.’

‘Good. Get someone to write up a request, and I’ll sign it before lunch.’ Gallo nodded, made a note on a piece of paper in front of him, then looked up at Brunetti and nodded again. ‘And get your people working on the clothing and shoes he was wearing.’ Gallo made another note.

Brunetti flipped open the blue file that he had studied the night before and pointed to the list of names and addresses stapled to the inside cover. ‘I think the best thing we can do is to begin asking these men questions about the victim, if they know who he is or if they recognize him or know anyone who might have known him. The pathologist said he must be in his early forties. None of the men in the file are that old, few of them are even in their thirties, so if he’s a local, he’d stand out because of his age, and people would certainly know about him.’

‘How do you want to do this, sir?’

‘I think we should divide the list into three, and then you and I and Scarpa can start showing them the picture and asking them what they know.’

‘They aren’t the sort of people who are willing to talk to the police, sir.’

‘Then I suggest we take along a second picture, one of the photos of what he looked like when we found him out in the field. I think if we convince these men that the same thing could happen to them, they might be less reluctant to talk to us.’

‘I’ll get Scarpa up here,’ Gallo said and reached for the phone.

Chapter Seven

They decided, even though it was still morning – probably more like the middle of the night to the men on the list – to talk to them now. Brunetti asked the other men, because they were familiar with Mestre, to arrange the addresses into some sort of geographic order, so they wouldn’t have to traverse the city repeatedly as they went through the names.

When this was done, Brunetti took the list he was given and went downstairs to find his driver. He doubted the wisdom of arriving to question the men on this particular list in a blue and white police car with a uniformed policeman at the wheel, but he had only to step out into the mid-morning air of Mestre to decide that mere survival overrode any consideration of caution.

The heat wrapped itself around him, and the air seemed to nibble at his eyes. There was no breeze, not the slightest current; the day lay like a filthy blanket upon the city. Cars snaked past the Questura, their horns bleating in futile protest against changing lights or crossing pedestrians. Whirls of dirt and cigarette packages flying back and forth across the street marked their passing. Brunetti, seeing it, hearing it, and breathing it, felt as though someone had come from behind and wrapped tight arms around his chest. How did human beings live like this?

Brunetti fled into the cool cocoon of the police car and emerged from it a quarter of an hour later in front of an eight-storey apartment building on the western edge of the city. He looked up and saw that lines of washing hung extended between it and the building on the opposite side of the street. A faint breeze blew here, so the particoloured strata of sheets, towels, and underwear undulated above him and, for a moment, raised his spirits.

Inside, the portiere sat in his cage-like office, arranging papers and envelopes on a desk, sorting the mail that must just have been delivered for the inhabitants of the building. He was an old man with a thin beard and silver-framed reading glasses hovering on the end of his nose. He raised his eyes over the tops of the lenses and said good morning. The humidity intensified the sour smell of the room, and a fan on the floor, blowing across the old man’s legs, did no more than shove the smell around the room.

Brunetti said good-morning and asked where he could find Giovanni Feltrinelli.

At the mention of the name, the portiere shoved his chair back and got to his feet. ‘I’ve warned him not to have any more of you come to this building. If he wants to do his job, then he can go do it in your cars or in the open fields, with the other animals, but he’s not going to do his filthy work here, or I’ll call the police.’ As he said it, his right hand reached out for the telephone on the wall behind him, his fiery eyes running up and down Brunetti with disgust he did nothing to disguise.

‘I am the police,’ Brunetti said softly and pulled his warrant card from his wallet, holding it out for the old man to see. He took it roughly from Brunetti, as if to suggest that he, too, knew where these things could be faked, and pushed his glasses up on his nose to read it.

‘It looks real,’ he finally admitted and handed it back to Brunetti. He took a dirty handkerchief from his pocket, removed his glasses, and began to rub at the lenses, first one and then the other, carefully, as though he had spent his life doing this. He put them back on, careful to hook them behind each ear, put the handkerchief back in his pocket, and asked Brunetti, in a different voice, ‘What’s he done now?’

‘Nothing. We need to question him about someone else.’

‘One of his faggot friends?’ the old man asked, returning to his aggressive tone.

Brunetti ignored the question. ‘We’d like to speak to Signor Feltrinelli. Perhaps he can give us some information.’

‘Signor Feltrinelli? Signor?’ the old man asked, repeating Brunetti’s words but turning the formality into an insult. ‘You mean Nino the Pretty Boy, Nino the Cocksucker?’

Brunetti sighed tiredly. Why couldn’t people learn to be more discriminating in whom they chose to hate, a bit more selective? Perhaps even a bit more intelligent?

Why not hate the Christian Democrats? Or the Socialists? Or why not hate people who hated homosexuals?

‘Could you tell me Signor Feltrinelli’s apartment number?’

The old man retreated behind his desk and sat back down to his task of sorting the mail. ‘Fifth floor. The name’s on the door.’

Brunetti turned and left without saying anything further. When he was at the door, he thought he heard the old man mutter, ‘Signor,’ but it could have been only an angry noise. On the other side of the marble-floored hallway, he pushed the button for the elevator and stood waiting for it. After a few minutes, the elevator still had not come, but Brunetti refused to go back to ask the portiere if it was working. Instead, he moved over to the left, opened a door to the stairs, and climbed to the fifth floor. By the time he reached it, he had to loosen his tie and pull the cloth of his trousers away from his thighs, where it clung wetly. At the top, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his face.

As the old man had said, the name was on the door: ‘Giovanni Feltrinelli – Architeito’.

He glanced at his watch: 11.35. He rang the bell. In immediate response, he heard quick footsteps approach the door. It was opened by a young man who bore a faint resemblance to the police photo Brunetti had studied the night before: short blond hair, a squared and masculine jaw, and soft dark eyes.

‘Si?’ he said, looking up at Brunetti with a friendly smile of enquiry.

‘Signor Giovanni Feltrinelli?’ Brunetti asked, holding out his warrant card.

The young man barely glanced at the card, but he seemed to recognize it immediately, and that recognition wiped the smile from his face.

‘Yes. What do you want?’ His voice was as cool as his smile had become.