with Vianello.
‘Bertolli?’ Vianello asked. ‘The one who used to be on the city council?’
‘Yes, Renato. He’s a lawyer,’ Signorina Elettra said.
‘And the other one?’ Vianello asked.
‘Cuzzoni. Alessandro,’ she said, then waited to see if the name meant anything to either of them. ‘He’s originally from Mira, but he lives here now and has a shop.’
‘What sort of shop?’
‘He’s a jeweller, but most of the stuff he sells is factory made,’ she said with the easy dismissal of a woman who would never wear a piece of machine-made jewellery.
‘Where’s the shop?’ Brunetti asked, not because he was particularly interested but to show them that he really was listening.
‘Off Ventidue Marzo. On that calle that goes up towards the Fenice, down from the bridge.’
Brunetti sent his memory walking towards Campo San Fantin, down the narrow calle towards the bridge, past the antique shop. ‘Opposite the bar?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ she answered. ‘I haven’t checked the address, but it’s the only one there, I think.’
‘And these two rent to extracomunitari ?’ Brunetti asked.
‘That’s what Leonardo tells me. No long-termcontracts, no questions about how many people will eventually live in the apartment, and everything paid in cash.’
‘Furnished or unfurnished?’ Vianello asked.
‘Either, I think,’ Signorina Elettra replied. ‘If you can call it furnished. Leonardo said they did a story once, about two years ago, about one of the apartments they were living in. He said you wouldn’t believe the place: seven of them sleeping in the same room, roaches all over the place. He said the kitchen and bathroom were unlike anything he’d ever seen, and when I asked him what it was like, he made it clear that I didn’t want to know.’
‘And was one of these two the landlord?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I don’t know, and he didn’t say. But Leonardo told me they probably rent to extracomunitari .’
‘Did he know where the apartments are?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No. As I say, he’s not even absolutely sure that they do rent to them, but he says he’s heard their names when people talk about who’s willing to rent to extracomunitari .’
‘Is this his office?’ Brunetti asked, looking at the address listed for Renato Bertolli and trying to calculate where it might be.
‘Yes. I checked it in Calli, Campielli e Canali , and I think he’s got to be just before the fabbro , the one who makes keys.’ This was enough for Brunetti. He had been over there a few times, about five years ago, to have a metal banistermade for the final flight of stairs leading to their apartment. He knew the area, though it seemed a strangely out of the way location for a lawyer’s office.
‘I’m not sure how to approach them,’ Brunetti said, taking the paper and waving it gently in the air. ‘If we ask about the apartments, they’ll worry that we’ll report them to the Finanza. Anyone would.’ It did not for an instant occur to him that either man would be declaring the rent on the apartments and thus paying taxes on the money. ‘Can you think of anyone who might be able to get them to talk to us?’
‘I’ve some friends who are lawyers,’ Signorina Elettra said cautiously, as if admitting to some secret vice. ‘I could ask if anyone knows them.’
‘You, Vianello?’ Brunetti asked.
The inspector shook his head.
‘What about the other one, Cuzzoni?’ Brunetti asked.
This time both Signorina Elettra and Vianello shook their heads. Seeing Brunetti’s disappointment, she said,’ I can check at the Ufficio del Catasto and see what apartments they own. Once we know where they live, then we just have to check if there are rental contracts for their other apartments.’
Brunetti’s uncle, who lived near Feltre, used to go hunting, and with him went Diana, an English setter whose greatest joy, aside from gazing adoringly at his uncle as he stroked her ears, was to chase
‘Bertolli?’ Vianello asked. ‘The one who used to be on the city council?’
‘Yes, Renato. He’s a lawyer,’ Signorina Elettra said.
‘And the other one?’ Vianello asked.
‘Cuzzoni. Alessandro,’ she said, then waited to see if the name meant anything to either of them. ‘He’s originally from Mira, but he lives here now and has a shop.’
‘What sort of shop?’
‘He’s a jeweller, but most of the stuff he sells is factory made,’ she said with the easy dismissal of a woman who would never wear a piece of machine-made jewellery.
‘Where’s the shop?’ Brunetti asked, not because he was particularly interested but to show them that he really was listening.
‘Off Ventidue Marzo. On that calle that goes up towards the Fenice, down from the bridge.’
Brunetti sent his memory walking towards Campo San Fantin, down the narrow calle towards the bridge, past the antique shop. ‘Opposite the bar?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ she answered. ‘I haven’t checked the address, but it’s the only one there, I think.’
‘And these two rent to extracomunitari ?’ Brunetti asked.
‘That’s what Leonardo tells me. No long-termcontracts, no questions about how many people will eventually live in the apartment, and everything paid in cash.’
‘Furnished or unfurnished?’ Vianello asked.
‘Either, I think,’ Signorina Elettra replied. ‘If you can call it furnished. Leonardo said they did a story once, about two years ago, about one of the apartments they were living in. He said you wouldn’t believe the place: seven of them sleeping in the same room, roaches all over the place. He said the kitchen and bathroom were unlike anything he’d ever seen, and when I asked him what it was like, he made it clear that I didn’t want to know.’
‘And was one of these two the landlord?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I don’t know, and he didn’t say. But Leonardo told me they probably rent to extracomunitari .’
‘Did he know where the apartments are?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No. As I say, he’s not even absolutely sure that they do rent to them, but he says he’s heard their names when people talk about who’s willing to rent to extracomunitari .’
‘Is this his office?’ Brunetti asked, looking at the address listed for Renato Bertolli and trying to calculate where it might be.
‘Yes. I checked it in Calli, Campielli e Canali , and I think he’s got to be just before the fabbro , the one who makes keys.’ This was enough for Brunetti. He had been over there a few times, about five years ago, to have a metal banistermade for the final flight of stairs leading to their apartment. He knew the area, though it seemed a strangely out of the way location for a lawyer’s office.
‘I’m not sure how to approach them,’ Brunetti said, taking the paper and waving it gently in the air. ‘If we ask about the apartments, they’ll worry that we’ll report them to the Finanza. Anyone would.’ It did not for an instant occur to him that either man would be declaring the rent on the apartments and thus paying taxes on the money. ‘Can you think of anyone who might be able to get them to talk to us?’
‘I’ve some friends who are lawyers,’ Signorina Elettra said cautiously, as if admitting to some secret vice. ‘I could ask if anyone knows them.’
‘You, Vianello?’ Brunetti asked.
The inspector shook his head.
‘What about the other one, Cuzzoni?’ Brunetti asked.
This time both Signorina Elettra and Vianello shook their heads. Seeing Brunetti’s disappointment, she said,’ I can check at the Ufficio del Catasto and see what apartments they own. Once we know where they live, then we just have to check if there are rental contracts for their other apartments.’
Brunetti’s uncle, who lived near Feltre, used to go hunting, and with him went Diana, an English setter whose greatest joy, aside from gazing adoringly at his uncle as he stroked her ears, was to chase
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