Brunetti signalled to one of the officers, who helped him lead Vianello towards the boat. Angrily, the sergeant pushed their hands away, insisting he could walk by himself. From the deck of the boat, Brunetti radioed the Questura with a description of Malfatti, asking that copies of his photo be distributed to all the police in the city and that his description be radioed to everyone on patrol.
When the officers were aboard, the pilot backed the boat towards the Grand Canal, then swung it round and headed towards the Questura. Vianello went down into the cabin and sat with his head tilted back to stop the bleeding. Brunetti followed him. ‘Do you want to go to the hospital?’
‘It’s only a bloody nose,’ Vianello said. ‘It’ll stop in a minute.’ He wiped at it with his handkerchief. ‘What happened?’
‘I banged on his door, complaining about his music, and he opened it. I pulled him out and threw him down the stairs.’ Vianello looked surprised. ‘It was all I could think of,’ Brunetti explained. ‘But I didn’t think he’d recover so quickly.’
‘What now?’ Vianello asked. ‘What do you think he’ll do?’
‘Try to get in touch with Ravanello and Santomauro, I’d say.’
‘Do you want to warn them?’
‘No,’ Brunetti answered immediately. ‘But I want to know where they are, and I want to see what they do. I want them watched.’ The launch swung into the canal that led to the Questura, and Brunetti climbed back on deck. When they pulled up to the small dock, he jumped ashore and waited while Vianello followed him. As they passed through the front door, the officers on guard stared at the sergeant’s bloody shirt but said nothing. When the other officers came off the boat, the guards crowded round and asked for an explanation.
At the second landing, Vianello went off towards the bathroom at the end of the corridor, and Brunetti went up to his own office. He called the Banca di Verona and, using a false name, asked to speak to Signor Ravanello. When the man he spoke to asked him what this was in regard to, Brunetti explained that it was about the estimate the banker had asked for on a new computer. He was told that Signor Ravanello was not in that morning but could be reached at home. Asked, the man supplied the banker’s home number, and Brunetti dialled it immediately, only to find it busy.
He found the number of Santomauro’s office, dialled it, and, giving the same false name, asked if he could speak to Avvocato Santomauro. The lawyer, his secretary explained, was busy with another client and could not be disturbed. Brunetti said he would call back and hung up.
He dialled Ravanello’s number again, but still it was busy. He pulled the phone book from his bottom drawer and looked up Ravanello’s name, curious to find the address. From the listing, he guessed that it would have to be in the vicinity of Campo San Stefano, not far from Santomauro’s office. He considered how Malfatti would get there: the obvious answer was the traghetto, the public gondola that plied the waters back and forth between Ca’ Rezzonico and Campo San Samuele on the opposite side of the Grand Canal. From there, it was only minutes to Campo San Stefano.
He dialled the number again, but still it was busy. He called the operator and asked her to check the line and, after waiting less than a minute, was told that the line was open though not in contact with any other number, which meant the phone was either out of order or had been left off the hook. Even before he hung up, Brunetti was mapping out the fastest way to get there: the launch was best. He went down the stairs and into Vianello’s office. The sergeant, wearing a clean shirt, looked up when Brunetti came in.
‘Ravanello’s phone is off the hook.’
Vianello was out of his chair and on the way to the door before Brunetti said anything else.
Together, they went downstairs and out into the blanketing heat. The pilot was hosing down the deck of the launch but, seeing the two men come running out the front door, he tossed the hose to the sidewalk and jumped to the wheel.
‘Campo San Stefano,’ Brunetti called to him. ‘Use the siren.’
Klaxon shouting out its double-noted call, the boat pulled away from the dock and once again out into the bacino. Boats and vaporetti slowed to allow it to speed past them; only the elegant black gondolas paid it no heed: by law, all boats had to defer to the slow passage of the gondola.
Neither of them spoke. Brunetti went down into the cabin and consulted a city guide to see where the address was located. He was right: the apartment was directly opposite the entrance to the church that gave the campo its name.
As the boat neared the Accademia bridge, Brunetti went back on deck and told the pilot to cut the siren. He had no idea what they would find at San Stefano, but he would like their arrival there to go unannounced. The pilot switched the siren off and pulled the boat into the Rio del Orso and over to the landing stage on the left side. Brunetti and Vianello climbed up on to the embankment and walked quickly through the open campo. Lethargic couples sat at tables in front of a cafe, hunched over pastel drinks; everyone walking in the campo looked to be carrying the heat like a palpable yoke across their shoulders.
They quickly found the door, between a restaurant and a shop that sold Venetian paper. Ravanello’s bell was on the top right of the two rows of names. Brunetti rang the one below it then, when there was no answer, the one under that. When a voice answered, asking who it was, he declared, ‘Polizia,’ and the door snapped open immediately.
He and Vianello went into the building, and, from above them, a high, querulous voice called out, ‘How did you get here so fast?’
Brunetti started up the stairs, Vianello close behind him. On the first floor, a grey-haired woman, little taller than the banister over which she leaned, called down again, ‘How did you get here so fast?’
Ignoring her question, Brunetti asked, ‘What’s wrong, Signora?’
She moved back from the banister and pointed above her. ‘Up there. I heard shouting from Signor Ravanello’s, and then I saw someone run down the steps. I was afraid to go up.’
Brunetti and Vianello swept past her, taking the stairs two at a time now, both of them with their pistols in their hands. At the top, light spilled out of the apartment on to the broad landing in front of the open door. Brunetti crouched low and moved to the other side of the door, but he moved too quickly to be able to see anything inside. He looked back at Vianello, who nodded. Together they burst into the apartment, both bent low. As soon as they were through the door, they moved to either side of the room, making of themselves two separate targets.
But Ravanello was not going to shoot at them: one glance at him was enough to show that. His body lay across a low chair that had fallen to its side in the fight that must have taken place in this room. He lay on his side, facing the door, staring with unseeing eyes, eternally removed from any curiosity about these men who had burst suddenly and without invitation into his home.
Not for an instant did Brunetti suspect that Ravanello might still be alive: the marmoreal weight of his body rendered that impossible. There was very little blood: that was the first thing Brunetti noticed. Ravanello appeared to have been stabbed twice, for there were two bold red patches on his jacket, and some blood had spilled to the floor beneath his arm, but hardly enough to suggest that its passing had taken his life with it.
‘Oh Dio,’ he heard the old woman gasp behind him, turned and found her at the door, one fist clenched in front of her mouth, staring across at Ravanello. Brunetti moved two steps to his right and into her line of vision.
She looked up at him with chilled eyes. Could it be she was angry with him for having blocked her sight of the body?