'I don't know, sir Pucetti confessed. 'I have to admit I come over
here only for the Redentore. I don't think I even know where the place
is.' Ordinarily, no confession of the provincialism of his fellow
Venetians could surprise Brunetti, but Pucetti seemed so very bright
and open-minded.
As if sensing his commander's disappointment, Pucetti added, 'It's
always seemed like a foreign country to me, sir. Must be my mother:
she always talks about it like it's not part of Venice. If they gave
her the key to a house on the Giudecca, I'm sure she'd give it back.'
Thinking it wiser not to mention that his own mother had often
expressed the same sentiment and that he agreed with it completely,
Brunetti said only, 'It's back along this canal, near the end,' and set
off in that direction.
Even at this distance, he could see that the large port one that led
into the courtyard of the Academy stood open: anyone could walk in or
out. He turned back to Pucetti. 'Find out when the doors were opened
this morning and if there's any record of people entering or leaving
the building.' Before Pucetti could speak, Brunetti added, 'Yes, and
last night, too, even before we know how long he's been dead. And who
has keys to the door and when they're closed at night.' Pucetti didn't
have to be told what questions to ask, a welcome relief on a force
where the ability of the average officer resembled that of Alvise.
Vianello was already standing just outside the port one He
acknowledged his superior's arrival with a slight raising of his chin
and nodded to Pucetti. Deciding to use whatever advantage was to be
gained by appearing unannounced and in civilian clothes, Brunetti told
Pucetti to go back down to the boat and wait ten minutes before joining
them.
Inside, it was evident that word of the death had already spread,
though Brunetti could not have explained how he knew this. It might
have been the sight of small groups of boys and young men standing in
the courtyard, talking in lowered voices, or it might have been the
fact that one of them wore white socks with his uniform shoes, sure
sign that he had dressed so quickly he didn't know what he was doing.
Then he realized that not one of them was carrying books. Military or
not, this was a school, and students carried books, unless, that is,
something of greater urgency had intervened between them and their
studies.
One of the boys near the port one broke away from the group he was
talking to and approached Brunetti and Vianello. 'What can I do for
you?' he asked, though, from the
tone, he might as well have been demanding what they were doing there.
Strong-featured and darkly handsome, he was almost as tall as Vianello,
though he couldn't have been out of his teens. The others followed him
with their eyes.
Provoked by the boy's tone, Brunetti said, 'I want to speak to the
person in charge.'
'And who are you?' the boy demanded.
Brunetti didn't respond but gave the boy a long, steady glance. The
young man's eyes didn't waver, nor did he move back when Brunetti took
a small step towards him. He was dressed in the regulation uniform
dark blue trousers and jacket, white shirt, tie and had two gold
stripes on the cuffs of his jacket. In the face of Brunetti's silence,
the boy shifted his weight then put his hands on his hips. He stared
at Brunetti, refusing to repeat his question.
'What's he called, the man in charge here?' Brunetti asked, as if the
other had not spoken. He added, 'I don't mean his name, I mean his
title.'
'Comandante,' the boy was surprised into saying.
'Ah, how grand,' Brunetti said. He wasn't sure whether the boy's
behaviour offended his general belief that youth should display
deference to age or whether he felt particular irritation at the boy's
preening belligerence. Turning to Vianello, he said, 'Inspector, get
this boy's name and moved toward the staircase that led to the
palazzo.
He climbed the five steps and pushed open the door. The foyer had a
floor patterned with enormous diamonds made from boards of different
woods. Booted feet had worn a path to a door in the far wall. Brunetti
crossed the room, which was unexpectedly empty, and opened the door. A
hallway led toward the back of the building, its walls covered with
what he assumed to be regimental flags. Some of them bore the lion of
San Marco; others carried different animals, all equally aggressive:
teeth bared, claws unsheathed, hackles raised.
The first door on the right had only a number above it, as
did the second and third. As he walked by the last of them, a young
boy, certainly not more than fifteen, came out into the hall. He was
surprised to see Brunetti, who nodded calmly and asked, 'Where's the
office of the Comandante?'
His tone or his manner sparked a Pavlovian response in the boy, who
jumped to attention and snapped out a salute. 'Up one flight, sir.
Third door on the left.'
