The Golden Egg by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page A

hands to ward off his words, stepped back into the house, and closed the door.

6
    Though the woman’s retreat meant Brunetti could go home early, his failure to get her to speak to him left him dissatisfied and, strangely enough, uncomfortable about going home when he should still be at work. He told himself not to behave like a schoolboy whose teacher might call and find him still at home when he was meant to be at school and, screwing up his courage, went to a bar in Campo San Polo and took a seat outside. He ordered a spritz, sure it would be the last of the season: a month from now, the thought of ice and chilled Aperol – chilled anything, for that matter – would set his teeth on edge. But the late afternoon sun was gentle on his face, and he was happy to sit in it and watch the world go by, busying itself with things he no longer had to concern himself with today.
    He studied the
campo
, glad it was one of the big ones, where kids could play soccer or ride their bicycles, the second in violation of some city ordinance that no one liked or bothered to obey. His drink came, and he let it sit in front of him for a while so as better to savour the first taste of it. He fished up the slice of orange and bit into it, then followed with the first bitter-sweet-cold-bitter sip. Three swallows landed near his feet. He leaned across to the next table and took a potato crisp from the bowl left behind by the last clients, crumbled it between his fingers, and tossed the pieces to the busy birds, which fell upon them. He took another sip and studied the birds.
    A shadow fell across his table and his drink. Looking up, he was momentarily blinded by the sun, but when his vision cleared he saw Lieutenant Scarpa, Vice-Questore Patta’s assistant, standing above him. ‘Good afternoon, Commissario,’ the Lieutenant said. ‘Busy with the birds?’ The Lieutenant was in full uniform, with his dark woollen jacket, but seemed remarkably cool. As if suddenly recalling that he was speaking to a superior officer, he removed his hat and held it, elbow bent, stiffly at his side.
    â€˜Yes, Lieutenant,’ Brunetti said with an easy smile,
‘the owner says they’ve been stealing potato crisps from the bowls on the tables, so I came over to investigate the case.’ He pointed to the bird on the far left and added, ‘I suspect that one’s the ringleader, so I’m going to stay here and finish my drink while I keep my eye on him, just to be sure.’
    â€˜I’ll look forward to reading your report,’ the Lieutenant said, gave a lazy salute, replaced his hat, and walked away, heading in the direction from which Brunetti had arrived.
    Paola had picked up many English expressions from the nannies who had lived with her family while she was growing up, and one of them sprang to Brunetti’s mind: ‘A ghost walked over my grave.’ Or was it a goose? And how was it that a speaking person could have a grave? Regardless of the sense of it or who did the stepping, it perfectly described the effect of Scarpa’s presence. The fact that the Lieutenant was walking towards San Stin made Brunetti uncomfortable.
    He finished his drink, paid the waiter, and walked home. Paola was in the kitchen, washing salad; she looked up in surprise when he walked in. He kissed the right side of her forehead and said, ‘I found his address and went there, but the mother . . .’ his voice trailed off for a moment. ‘She refused to talk to me, closed the door in my face.’
    Paola poured the water out of the bottom part of the spinner and, replacing the salad, began to spin it dry. ‘What did she say?’ She asked above the whirling noise.
    â€˜Nothing,’ Brunetti answered. ‘It was all very strange.’
    â€˜Why didn’t she speak? If she came to the door, then she heard the bell, and that means she’s not deaf.’
    â€˜No, no,’ Brunetti