The Bellini Card

67

Sergeant Vosper was not only a methodical man, and a slow one; the aspect of police work he liked best was standing in a doorway across the street, waiting for a suspect to appear.

At the Procuratie he had to weave his way between the stadtmeister’s interminable lectures and men like Brunelli, who bantered with him. When Brunelli laughed he never knew whether to be pleased or offended. Now Brunelli would be out for his scalp.

Waiting for Brett was not, on the whole, a bad way to spend an afternoon.

He came at a quarter to six, by Vosper’s watch: an ugly fellow who rolled up to the front door of the palazzo and pushed it and went inside. Vosper followed.

“Signor Brett?” he called, when he heard the man’s tread on the stone staircase overhead.

The man stopped.

“Who’s that?”

Vosper stuck his head over the banister and looked up.

“Police.”

“Who are you looking for?”

Vosper’s rule was never to answer a direct question directly. “Are you Signor Brett?”

Overhead he heard a voice muttering to itself. “Brett?” It called down, “Please-is this the Ca’ d’Aspi?”

“It’s the Casa Manin. D’Aspi is next door.”

The ugly man came down the stairs, chuckling ruefully. “Casa this, Casa that. You’d think they’d give us better street numbers in the nineteenth century.”

Vosper nodded: it was a good point. Numbers would help police work.

“We’re waiting for a Signor Brett,” he said.

“Never heard of him,” Alfredo said. “I’m due at the Ca’ d’Aspi. Next door, you said?”

“That’s right.” Man was lost He wasn’t the American, at any rate. “Turn left, first on the left.”

“Thank you, Commissario.” As he passed, the ugly man turned and lowered his voice. “What’s this Brett done, then?”

“I’m not at liberty to reveal, I’m afraid, sir.” Which was, when all was said and done, a shame. Vosper took precious little glory from his work, and here was a man who didn’t seem to hold it against him. He inclined a little. “It could be a hanging charge,” he said.

The ugly man pulled a face. “Murder?”

Vosper compressed his lips. “That’s about the short and long of it, sir. Between ourselves.”

Alfredo ducked his head in an admiring gesture. “Good luck to you, Commissario.”

“And good luck to you, too, sir. It’s left outside, and left again.”