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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 150 из 209Judging from Rossetti’s uncompromising stance, the case might have contained secret documents he was sworn to protect at all costs. The deep silence of the room was broken only by the ticking of an antique clock. Rossetti shook the Englishman’s hand sadly, as though his visitor had come to confess unforgivable sins.
“I was about to leave for lunch,” Rossetti said, and at that moment, as if to accentuate his point, the antique clock on the wall behind him tolled one o’clock.
“This won’t take long. I’m here to collect the signet ring for Signore Bull.”
“The signet?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“For Signore Bull?”
“I believe he told you that I was coming.”
Rossetti tilted his head backward and peered at the Englishman as though he were an item of questionable value and provenance. Satisfied, he lowered his head and came round from behind the counter to change the sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED.
UPSTAIRS was a small private office. Rossetti settled himself behind the desk and invited the Englishman to sit in the little armchair next to the window.
“I received a call a short time ago from a porter at the Luna Hotel Baglioni,” Rossetti said. “The violinist and a friend have just checked in. Do you know the Baglioni?”
The Englishman shook his head.
Like most Venetians, Rossetti kept a map of the city within easy reach, if only to give assistance to a foreign tourist hopelessly lost in its labyrinthine alleys. Rossetti’s looked as though it had been purchased during the rule of the last doge-a dog-eared, tattered affair, with Scotch tape along the splitting seams, so old it had lost all color. He spread it across his desk, smoothing it with both hands, as though it showed the location of buried treasure.
“The Luna Hotel Baglioni is here”-a tap on the map with the tip of his delicate forefinger-“on the Calle dell’Ascencione, a few steps from the San Marco vaporetto stop. The Calle dell’Ascencione is very narrow, no bigger than this street. There’s a private dock in the Rio della Zecca. It will be impossible for you to watch the front and the back of the hotel on your own.”
The Englishman leaned over the map for a closer look. “You have a suggestion?”
“Perhaps I can use my resources to keep watch on the violinist. If she moves, I can alert you.”
“You have someone inside the hotel?”
Rossetti lifted an eyebrow and dipped his head, a neutral gesture, neither in the affirmative or the negative, which said he wished to discuss the matter no further.
“I was about to leave for lunch,” Rossetti said, and at that moment, as if to accentuate his point, the antique clock on the wall behind him tolled one o’clock.
“This won’t take long. I’m here to collect the signet ring for Signore Bull.”
“The signet?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“For Signore Bull?”
“I believe he told you that I was coming.”
Rossetti tilted his head backward and peered at the Englishman as though he were an item of questionable value and provenance. Satisfied, he lowered his head and came round from behind the counter to change the sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED.
UPSTAIRS was a small private office. Rossetti settled himself behind the desk and invited the Englishman to sit in the little armchair next to the window.
“I received a call a short time ago from a porter at the Luna Hotel Baglioni,” Rossetti said. “The violinist and a friend have just checked in. Do you know the Baglioni?”
The Englishman shook his head.
Like most Venetians, Rossetti kept a map of the city within easy reach, if only to give assistance to a foreign tourist hopelessly lost in its labyrinthine alleys. Rossetti’s looked as though it had been purchased during the rule of the last doge-a dog-eared, tattered affair, with Scotch tape along the splitting seams, so old it had lost all color. He spread it across his desk, smoothing it with both hands, as though it showed the location of buried treasure.
“The Luna Hotel Baglioni is here”-a tap on the map with the tip of his delicate forefinger-“on the Calle dell’Ascencione, a few steps from the San Marco vaporetto stop. The Calle dell’Ascencione is very narrow, no bigger than this street. There’s a private dock in the Rio della Zecca. It will be impossible for you to watch the front and the back of the hotel on your own.”
The Englishman leaned over the map for a closer look. “You have a suggestion?”
“Perhaps I can use my resources to keep watch on the violinist. If she moves, I can alert you.”
“You have someone inside the hotel?”
Rossetti lifted an eyebrow and dipped his head, a neutral gesture, neither in the affirmative or the negative, which said he wished to discuss the matter no further.