Page 8 of The Venice Murders

‘But he worked here a long time?’

The maid held up one hand.

‘Five years?’

‘Yes, five.’

‘He was good at his job.Il suo lavoro – era bravo?’

The girl gave a small, sad smile.‘Sì, sì.From London,’ she offered.

‘Franco worked in London! The Ritz maybe,’ Flora suggested, half joking.

To her surprise, the maid nodded enthusiastically at the name. ‘The Ritz,’ she said, in an awed voice. ‘In Venice, he work the Gritti Palace. Very smart. You know?’

‘The big hotel on the Grand Canal?’

Again, the girl nodded. ‘But Franco come here and the Cipriani best.’

‘It’s wonderful,’ Flora agreed. ‘And it must be lovely to live here all the time. Do you have a room at the hotel?’

‘Mi scusi?’

‘A room.’ She pointed at the girl. ‘For you,una camera qui.’

The maid laughed. ‘No.’ She showed Flora her wedding ring. ‘I live in Mestre,’ she spelt out slowly.

‘And Franco?’

‘Qui, naturalmente. Nell’allegato.In annexe.’

‘Franco was single?Franco non sposato?’

Flora once more gave thanks to the Italian primer she’d found tucked into the corner of a top shelf at the All’s Well. The time she’d spent with it, between serving customers, was paying off.

‘Non ancora.’

‘Not yet. So, he was getting married? He had a fiancée?Una fidanzata?’

The girl spread her hands. The conversation was too tiring to continue, Flora saw, and no doubt she had a dozen more bedrooms to make up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I’ll go now.’

‘Il suo fazzoletto?’ the maid called after her.

But Flora had gone, handkerchief forgotten. She had an annexe to find.

It wasn’t difficult. Avoiding the breakfast terrace, she stepped out of the rear door of the hotel and, instead of turning right into the garden as she’d done previously, she looked left, and there it was. A square block of honey-coloured stone no more than a hundred yards away.

Outside its main entrance a workman was busy resetting paving slabs. ‘Buon giorno,’ she greeted him as she came close.

The workman got up from his knees, his apron clanking with the tools that hung from each pocket. ‘Buon giorno, signora.’

She pointed to the building behind him. ‘Allegato?’

‘The annexe, yes,’ he said in English to Flora’s relief.

‘I have a message,’ she began. ‘For Franco Massi. From a friend in London.’ She’d cobbled the excuse together on her way down from the bedroom and hoped it would suffice.

---