Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

and shuttered now, that opened on to the campo.

She led the way through the living-room, a room familiar from Brunetti’s youth: fat armchairs and a sofa with horsehair stuffing that scratched at whoever sat down; massive dark brown credenzas, their tops covered with silver candy bowls and silver-framed photos; the floor of poured Venetian pavement that glistened, even in the dim light. He could have been in his grandparents’ house.

The kitchen was the same. The sink was stone, and an immense cylindrical water-heater sat in one corner. The kitchen table had a marble surface, and he could see her both rolling out pasta and ironing on the surface.

‘Just put it there, by the door,’ she said. ‘Would you like a glass of something?’

‘Water would be nice, Signora.’

As he knew she would, she reached down a small silver salver from the top of the cabinet, placed a small round lace doily on it, then set a Murano wineglass on top of it. From the refrigerator, she took a bottle of mineral water and filled the glass.

‘Grazie infinite,’ he said before he drank the water. He set it carefully down on the centre of the doily and refused her offer of more. ‘Would you like me to help you unpack it all, Signora?’

‘No, I know where everything is and where it all goes. You’ve been very kind, young man. What’s your name?’

‘Brunetti, Guido.’

‘And you sell insurance?’

‘Yes, Signora.’

‘Well, thank you very much,’ she said, placing his glass in the sink and reaching into the trolley.

Remembering what his real job was, he asked, ‘Signora, do you always let people into the apartment with you like this? Without knowing who they are?’

‘No, I’m not a fool. I don’t let just anyone in,’ she replied. ‘I always see if they have children. And, of course, they have to be Veneziano.’

Of course. When he thought about it, her system was probably better than a lie detector or a security check. ‘Thank you for the water, Signora. I’ll let myself out.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, bent over her trolley, hunting for the figs.

He went down the first two flights of stairs and stood on the landing above the door of the Bank of Verona. He heard nothing at all, though occasionally a voice or a shout would float up from the campo. In the dim light that filtered in through the small windows of the staircase, he looked at his watch. A little after one. He stood for another ten minutes and still heard nothing except odd, disjointed sounds from the campo.

He walked slowly down the stairs and stood outside the door to the bank. Feeling not a little ridiculous, he bent his head and put his eye against the horizontal keyhole of the metal porta blindata. From behind it, he could make out the faintest trace of light, as if someone had forgotten to turn off a light when they closed the shutters on Friday afternoon. Or as if someone were working inside on this Saturday afternoon.

He went back up the steps and leaned against the wall. After about ten minutes, he took his handkerchief from his pocket and spread it on the second step above him, hiked up his trousers, and sat down. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists. After what seemed a long time, he got up, moved the handkerchief closer to the wall, and sat down again, now leaning against the wall. No air circulated, he had eaten nothing all day, and the heat battered at him. He glanced down at his watch and saw that it was after two. He determined that he would stay there until three and not a minute later.

At 3.40, still there but now determined to leave at four, he heard a sharp sound from below. He stood and backed up on to the second step. Below him, a door opened, but he remained where he was. The door closed, a key turned in the lock, and footsteps sounded on the stairs. Brunetti stuck his head out and looked down after the retreating figure. In the dim light, he made out only a tall man in a dark suit, carrying a briefcase. Short dark hair, a starched white collar just visible at the back of his neck. The man turned and started down the next flight of stairs, but the dim light of the stairwell revealed little about him. Brunetti moved silently down behind him. At the door to the bank, Brunetti glanced in through the keyhole, but it was now dark inside.

From below, he heard the sound of the front door being opened and closed, and at the sound Brunetti ran down the remaining steps. He paused at the door, opened it quickly, and stepped out into the campo. For a moment, the bright sun blinded him, and he covered his eyes with his hand. When he took it away, he swept his eyes across the campo, but all he saw were pastel sports clothes and white shirts. He walked to the right and looked down Calle della Bissa, but there was no dark-suited man there. He ran across the campo and looked down the narrow calle that led to the first bridge, but he didn’t see the man. There were at least five other calli that led off the campo, and Brunetti realized the man would be long gone before he could check them all. He decided to try the Rialto embarcadero: perhaps he had taken a boat. Dodging past people and pushing others out of his way, he ran to the water’s edge and then up towards the embarcadero. When he got there, a boat was just leaving, heading towards him in the direction of San Marcuola and the train station.

He pushed his way through a gaggle of Japanese tourists until he got to the edge of the canal. The boat sailed past him, and he ran his eyes over the passengers standing on deck and those sitting inside. The boat was crowded, and most of the people on it wore casual clothing. Finally Brunetti saw, on the other side of the deck, a man in a dark suit and white shirt. He was just lighting a cigarette and turned aside to flip the match into the canal. The back of his head looked the same, but Brunetti knew he couldn’t be certain about this. When the man turned back, Brunetti stared at his profile, trying to memorize it. And then the boat slipped under the Rialto Bridge, and the man was gone.

Chapter Fourteen

Brunetti did what any sensible man will do when he has known defeat: he went home and called his wife. When he was put through to Paola’s room, Chiara answered the phone.

‘Oh, ciao, Papa; you should have been on the train. We got stuck outside Vicenza and had to sit there for almost two hours. No one knew what happened, but then the conductor told us that a woman had thrown herself under a train between Vicenza and Verona, so we had to wait and wait. I guess they had to clean it up, eh? When we finally got going, I stayed right at the window all the way to Verona, but I didn’t see anything. You think they got it cleaned up so fast?’

‘I suppose so, cara. Is your mother there?’

‘Yes, she is, Papa. But maybe I was looking out the wrong side of the train and all the mess was on the other side. Do you think that might be it?’

‘Perhaps, Chiara. Could I talk to Mamma?’

‘Oh, sure, Papa. She’s right here. Why do you think someone would do that, throw themselves under a train?’

‘Probably because someone wouldn’t let them talk to the person they wanted to, Chiara.’

‘Oh, Papa, you’re always so silly. Here she is.’

Silly? Silly? He thought he had sounded entirely serious.

‘Ciao, Guido,’ Paola said. ‘You’ve just heard? Our child is a ghoul.’

‘When did you get there?’

‘About half an hour ago. We had to have lunch on the train. Disgusting. What have you been doing? Did you find the insalata di calamari?’

‘No, I just got in.’

‘From Mestre? Did you have lunch?’

‘No, there was something I had to do.’

‘Well, there’s insalata di calamari in the refrigerator. Eat it today or tomorrow; it won’t keep very long in this heat.’ He heard Chiara’s voice in the background, and then Paola asked, ‘Are you coming up tomorrow?’