you: she’s very nice. And then, after she left, I asked him, and he said he liked animals, especially dogs, and knew a bit about them.’
‘Anything else?’ Brunetti asked, realizing that this was precious little to be going ahead with.
‘No, only that he was a nice man. People who like animals usually are, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Vianello said. Brunetti limited himself to a nod.
The manager was still busy with the two women, the three of them surrounded by expanding waves of boxes, shoes littering the floor in front of them. ‘Did your colleague speak to him?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Oh, no. She took care of Signora Persilli.’ At their blank looks, she said, ‘The lady with the dog.’
Brunetti took out his wallet and gave her his card. ‘If you think of anything else, Signorina, please call me.’
They turned towards the door, but she called from behind them. ‘Is he really the dead man? In Venice?’
Surprising himself with his frankness, Brunetti turned back and said, ‘I think so.’ Her mouth contracted in a small grimace and she shook her head at the news. ‘So if you think of anything, please call us; it might help,’ he said, not specifying how this might be possible.
‘I’d like to help,’ she said.
Brunetti thanked her again, and he and Vianello left the shop.
14
‘A MAN WITH Madelung who likes animals and knows something about dogs,’ Vianello said as they walked towards the car.
More practically, Brunetti said, ‘We’ll talk to Vezzani. He should be back from Treviso by now.’ He had gone to the shoe shop in the full hope, even expectation, of discovering the man’s name and identity. He felt not a little embarrassed, now, at how he had looked forward to being able to walk into Vezzani’s office with the dead man’s name in his possession. Now, that possibility gone, he accepted the fact that there was nothing to do save what both of them now knew they should have done before: go to the Mestre Questura and ask for their cooperation.
He got into the front seat of the car and asked the driver to take him to the Questura. The driver reminded him about the seat belt, and Brunetti, thinking it foolish to use it for what would prove such a short trip, put it on nevertheless. It was well past four, and the traffic seemed heavy, though Brunetti was hardly an expert on traffic.
Inside the building, he showed his warrant card and said he had an appointment with Commissario Vezzani. They had worked as part of the team investigating the baggage handlers at the airport some years ago – the investigation Pucetti was still involved with – had passed through those fires together and emerged, both of them wiser and more pessimistic, but with a far clearer understanding of the limits to which a clever lawyer could push the rights of the accused.
The officer on duty pointed to the elevator and told them the Commissario’s office was on the third floor. Vezzani was from Livorno originally, but he had lived in the Veneto so long that his speech had taken on the sing-song cadence, and he had once told Brunetti, during a break in the endless interrogation of two men accused of armed robbery, that his children spoke to their friends in the Mestre version of Veneziano.
He rose when they entered, a tall, thin man with prematurely grey hair, cut close to his skull in a vain attempt, perhaps, to disguise the colour. He shook hands with Brunetti, clapped him on the arm in greeting, and extended his hand to Vianello, with whom he had also worked.
‘You find out who he is?’ he asked when they were seated.
‘No. We spoke to the women in the shoe shop, but they couldn’t tell us who he was. All one of them said was that he liked dogs and knew something about animals.’
If Vezzani found this an odd piece of information to divulge during the purchase of a pair of shoes, he did not remark on it and merely asked, ‘And this disease you say he had?’
‘Madelung. It happens to
‘Anything else?’ Brunetti asked, realizing that this was precious little to be going ahead with.
‘No, only that he was a nice man. People who like animals usually are, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Vianello said. Brunetti limited himself to a nod.
The manager was still busy with the two women, the three of them surrounded by expanding waves of boxes, shoes littering the floor in front of them. ‘Did your colleague speak to him?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Oh, no. She took care of Signora Persilli.’ At their blank looks, she said, ‘The lady with the dog.’
Brunetti took out his wallet and gave her his card. ‘If you think of anything else, Signorina, please call me.’
They turned towards the door, but she called from behind them. ‘Is he really the dead man? In Venice?’
Surprising himself with his frankness, Brunetti turned back and said, ‘I think so.’ Her mouth contracted in a small grimace and she shook her head at the news. ‘So if you think of anything, please call us; it might help,’ he said, not specifying how this might be possible.
‘I’d like to help,’ she said.
Brunetti thanked her again, and he and Vianello left the shop.
14
‘A MAN WITH Madelung who likes animals and knows something about dogs,’ Vianello said as they walked towards the car.
More practically, Brunetti said, ‘We’ll talk to Vezzani. He should be back from Treviso by now.’ He had gone to the shoe shop in the full hope, even expectation, of discovering the man’s name and identity. He felt not a little embarrassed, now, at how he had looked forward to being able to walk into Vezzani’s office with the dead man’s name in his possession. Now, that possibility gone, he accepted the fact that there was nothing to do save what both of them now knew they should have done before: go to the Mestre Questura and ask for their cooperation.
He got into the front seat of the car and asked the driver to take him to the Questura. The driver reminded him about the seat belt, and Brunetti, thinking it foolish to use it for what would prove such a short trip, put it on nevertheless. It was well past four, and the traffic seemed heavy, though Brunetti was hardly an expert on traffic.
Inside the building, he showed his warrant card and said he had an appointment with Commissario Vezzani. They had worked as part of the team investigating the baggage handlers at the airport some years ago – the investigation Pucetti was still involved with – had passed through those fires together and emerged, both of them wiser and more pessimistic, but with a far clearer understanding of the limits to which a clever lawyer could push the rights of the accused.
The officer on duty pointed to the elevator and told them the Commissario’s office was on the third floor. Vezzani was from Livorno originally, but he had lived in the Veneto so long that his speech had taken on the sing-song cadence, and he had once told Brunetti, during a break in the endless interrogation of two men accused of armed robbery, that his children spoke to their friends in the Mestre version of Veneziano.
He rose when they entered, a tall, thin man with prematurely grey hair, cut close to his skull in a vain attempt, perhaps, to disguise the colour. He shook hands with Brunetti, clapped him on the arm in greeting, and extended his hand to Vianello, with whom he had also worked.
‘You find out who he is?’ he asked when they were seated.
‘No. We spoke to the women in the shoe shop, but they couldn’t tell us who he was. All one of them said was that he liked dogs and knew something about animals.’
If Vezzani found this an odd piece of information to divulge during the purchase of a pair of shoes, he did not remark on it and merely asked, ‘And this disease you say he had?’
‘Madelung. It happens to
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