Suffer the Little Children by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page B

was already planted in the room when the Polish woman got there.’
    â€˜And the concerned call you received from the man from social services?’
    â€˜These operations are secret,’ said an irritated Marvilli.
    â€˜Go on, Captain,’ Brunetti said, slipping open the buttons on his jacket as the morning light advanced and the temperature rose.
    Marvilli turned to him abruptly. ‘May I speak honestly, Commissario?’ As the light increased, Brunetti noticed that Marvilli looked younger.
    â€˜I shouldn’t bother to point this out, Captain, but your question suggests that you haven’t been so far; but, yes, you may speak honestly,’ Brunetti said in a voice grown suddenly gentle.
    Marvilli blinked, not sure whether to respond to Brunetti’s words or to his tone. He rose up on his toes and stretched backwards, saying, ‘God, I hate these early morning things. We didn’t even bother to sleep.’
    â€˜Another coffee?’ Brunetti suggested.
    For the first time, Marvilli smiled, and it made him look still younger. ‘You told the barman the coffee saved that doctor’s life. It’ll probably save mine, too.’
    â€˜Vianello,’ Brunetti called to the Inspector,who was still at the bottom of the steps, pretending to admire the façade of the building to his left. ‘What’s open around here?’
    Vianello looked at his watch. ‘Ponte dei Greci,’ he said and started up the steps towards them.
    When they reached the bar, the metal grille that protected the door and front windows was raised a few centimetres, enough to suggest that coffee was available inside. Brunetti tapped on the grille, calling out, ‘Sergio, you in there?’ He tapped again, and after a moment four hirsute fingers appeared at the bottom of the grille, and it slowly began to rise. Marvilli surprised them by squatting down and helping to lift the grille until it slid into place above the door and Sergio stood before them: thick, dark, hairy and as welcome a sight as Brunetti could imagine.
    â€˜Don’t you guys ever sleep?’ Sergio asked, more bark than bite. He retreated into the bar and went behind the counter.
    â€˜Three?’ he asked, not bothering to specify: the sight of them was enough.
    Brunetti nodded and led the others to a booth by the front window.
    He heard the hiss of the coffee machine, and a banging at the door; he looked up to see a tall African in a light blue jellaba and woollen jacket carrying a paper-covered tray of fresh pastries. Sergio called out, ‘Take it over to the men at the table, Bambola, would you?’
    The African turned towards them, and when he saw Marvilli’s uniform jacket gave an instinctive jerk of recognition and fear. He stoppedand pulled the tray defensively closer to his chest.
    Vianello made a casual gesture. ‘It’s before work,’ he called. Bambola looked from Vianello to the other two, and they nodded in agreement. His face relaxed and he walked over to their table and set the tray down; then, like a magician, he whipped back the paper, filling the space between them with the aromas of cream, eggs, sugar, raisins, and fresh baked dough.
    â€˜Just leave it,’ Marvilli said, then added, ‘please.’
    The African went over to the counter and said something to Sergio, then left the bar.
    Each of them chose a pastry, and then Sergio was there with three coffees on a tray and a plate on to which he placed several of the pastries. He picked up the remainder and carried them behind the counter, where he began to place them on a Plexiglas tray.
    As if in silent acknowledgement that it is difficult to discuss police business while eating cream-filled brioche, the three men remained silent until the coffees and the pastries were gone. Brunetti felt the rush of caffeine and sugar, and saw that the others were looking more alert.
    â€˜Then, after this couple from Milano took the