Calle where Giuseppe was waiting for him.
“We’re clear now,” Don said. “Where’s this place?”
“Down here, signore. Follow me.”
Giuseppe led Don down the Calle and into another that was so narrow the two men had to walk in single file. At the far end was a hump-shaped bridge that took them over a rio, down some steps into yet another Calle, flanked either side by shabby, forlorn-looking houses that showed no lights.
“This is it, signore,” Giuseppe said.
Don took out his flashlight and sent the beam on to a door just by him.
“Thirty-nine must be further along on this side,” he said, keeping his voice low.
They moved forward into the darkness. A few yards on, Don paused again and turned on his light.
“This is it,” he said, stepping back to look up at a narrow three-storeyed house whose peeling walls and boarded-up windows seemed to frown down at him. “It doesn’t look as if anyone is living here.”
“These houses are condemned, signore,” Giuseppe told him. “They are going to be pulled down. You won’t find anyone here.”
Don was examining the door of No. 39. He noticed the hinges of the door had been recently oiled. He took hold of the doorknob, turned it and pushed.
To his surprise the door opened silently and swung inwards.
He threw the beam of his flashlight through the open doorway. The light picked up a narrow passage, a door to the right and a flight of stairs.
“Wait here,” he said to Giuseppe. “I’m going in. Keep your eyes open.”
“Yes, signore,” Giuseppe said.
Don stepped into the passage and paused for a moment to examine the dusty floorboards. They were covered with footprints; at least one set was the prints of a woman’s shoes. He went cautiously to the door on the right, turned the handle and pushed. The door opened with a sharp, creaking sound. Don swung his light around the empty room. Dust, cobwebs and a sour, stuffy smell greeted him. A gigantic spider scuttled across the dusty floor and into a hole in the rotting floorboards. Don closed the door and examined the stairs. Most of the banisters had disappeared and the stairs looked old and rotten, but he could see footprints in the dust, telling him more than one person had climbed the stairs recently.
Keeping close to the peeling wall, he went up the stairs while Giuseppe watched him uneasily.
“Have a care, signore,” he muttered. “Mind where you step.”
Don waved him to silence, and went on up until he reached the first floor landing.
Two doors faced him.
He paused to listen, then hearing nothing, he stepped silently to the first door, gently turned the handle and eased the door open.
A sudden sound inside the room made him stiffen. There came out of the evil-smelling darkness a rustle of paper, then a soft, distinct thud.
Don snapped off his light and stepped away from the door. His heart beat a little faster as he waited, listening. More paper rustled. Then he heard a scurrying sound, and he grimaced. Rats! he thought. A place like this must be full of them. He put his foot against the door and gave it a quick shove, then he sent the beam of his flashlight around the room.
A monster water rat ran frantically around the room, jumped up against the wall, fell back with a thud, and scurried into the darkness unlit by Don’s flashlight. But Don scarcely paid it any attention. He shifted his light to the centre of the room.
Lying on the floor in the thick dust, the front of her black dress sodden with blood, was Louisa Peccati.
A big squat spider with long hairy legs crawled out from under a heap of rat-torn paper that at one time had peeled off the walls. Fat and obscene-looking, it moved slowly across the floor, through the pool of light from Don’s torch to disappear into the shadows.
Don felt cold sweat on his face. He didn’t move. He kept his flashlight directed on the dead girl. As he stared at her, he saw there was something wrong with her right hand and, peering forward,
“We’re clear now,” Don said. “Where’s this place?”
“Down here, signore. Follow me.”
Giuseppe led Don down the Calle and into another that was so narrow the two men had to walk in single file. At the far end was a hump-shaped bridge that took them over a rio, down some steps into yet another Calle, flanked either side by shabby, forlorn-looking houses that showed no lights.
“This is it, signore,” Giuseppe said.
Don took out his flashlight and sent the beam on to a door just by him.
“Thirty-nine must be further along on this side,” he said, keeping his voice low.
They moved forward into the darkness. A few yards on, Don paused again and turned on his light.
“This is it,” he said, stepping back to look up at a narrow three-storeyed house whose peeling walls and boarded-up windows seemed to frown down at him. “It doesn’t look as if anyone is living here.”
“These houses are condemned, signore,” Giuseppe told him. “They are going to be pulled down. You won’t find anyone here.”
Don was examining the door of No. 39. He noticed the hinges of the door had been recently oiled. He took hold of the doorknob, turned it and pushed.
To his surprise the door opened silently and swung inwards.
He threw the beam of his flashlight through the open doorway. The light picked up a narrow passage, a door to the right and a flight of stairs.
“Wait here,” he said to Giuseppe. “I’m going in. Keep your eyes open.”
“Yes, signore,” Giuseppe said.
Don stepped into the passage and paused for a moment to examine the dusty floorboards. They were covered with footprints; at least one set was the prints of a woman’s shoes. He went cautiously to the door on the right, turned the handle and pushed. The door opened with a sharp, creaking sound. Don swung his light around the empty room. Dust, cobwebs and a sour, stuffy smell greeted him. A gigantic spider scuttled across the dusty floor and into a hole in the rotting floorboards. Don closed the door and examined the stairs. Most of the banisters had disappeared and the stairs looked old and rotten, but he could see footprints in the dust, telling him more than one person had climbed the stairs recently.
Keeping close to the peeling wall, he went up the stairs while Giuseppe watched him uneasily.
“Have a care, signore,” he muttered. “Mind where you step.”
Don waved him to silence, and went on up until he reached the first floor landing.
Two doors faced him.
He paused to listen, then hearing nothing, he stepped silently to the first door, gently turned the handle and eased the door open.
A sudden sound inside the room made him stiffen. There came out of the evil-smelling darkness a rustle of paper, then a soft, distinct thud.
Don snapped off his light and stepped away from the door. His heart beat a little faster as he waited, listening. More paper rustled. Then he heard a scurrying sound, and he grimaced. Rats! he thought. A place like this must be full of them. He put his foot against the door and gave it a quick shove, then he sent the beam of his flashlight around the room.
A monster water rat ran frantically around the room, jumped up against the wall, fell back with a thud, and scurried into the darkness unlit by Don’s flashlight. But Don scarcely paid it any attention. He shifted his light to the centre of the room.
Lying on the floor in the thick dust, the front of her black dress sodden with blood, was Louisa Peccati.
A big squat spider with long hairy legs crawled out from under a heap of rat-torn paper that at one time had peeled off the walls. Fat and obscene-looking, it moved slowly across the floor, through the pool of light from Don’s torch to disappear into the shadows.
Don felt cold sweat on his face. He didn’t move. He kept his flashlight directed on the dead girl. As he stared at her, he saw there was something wrong with her right hand and, peering forward,
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