A Cada Uno Su Propia Muerte by Veit Heinichen

By Veit Heinichen

Es verano en Trieste y el comisario Proteo Laurenti esperaba disfrutar de una temporada tranquila. Pero tras el extraño accidente de un yate de lujo, el comisario tendrá que vérselas de nuevo en los angeles investigación con un antiguo contrincante: el mismo Bruno de Kopfersberg, sospechoso de haber asesinado a su mujer Elisa tiempo atrás, algo que sin embargo nunca pudo probarse. Bajo un calor asfixiante, Laurenti deberá enfrentarse al crimen organizado, al tráfico ilegal de personas, al blanqueo de dinero y al asesinato. Pero también en su propia vida le asaltan los desafíos: su mujer insiste en cambiarse de casa, su suegra cumple eighty años y su hija se presenta a l. a. elección de pass over Trieste... Una perfecta novela policiaca sobre esta ciudad, antiguo puerto de los angeles monarquía austro-húngara en el Adriático, protagonizada por un detective más que simpático, rica en detalles y que atrapa al lector desde las primeras líneas.

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Sample text

But although I never drank vodka when I was living with her I was sort of drunk every day. My boy, so far as we revolutionaries are concerned women are pure opium for the people. I'd have that written into the Party constitution in capi­ tal letters, and I'd have every Party member, every true Com­ munist and sympathizer read that great saying every night be­ fore going to bed and every morning three times on an empty stomach. And then you'd never have any devils getting into the mess our Comrade Davidov is in now.

He had much t o think about! Even before their quarrel on the steppe she had come to his room more than once as dusk was £a11ing, had sat in the room for a little while, and then said in a loud voice: "See me home, Sie­ mion. It's getting dark, and I'm afraid to go alone. It's terrible how nervous I am. " He pulled a fearful face and glanced at the board dividing the room. On the other side the housekeeper, an old and pious woman, sniffed indignantly, like a cat, and rattled the dishes nois­ ily as she prepared her husband's and Davidov's supper.

It swelled and broadened until it filled half the sky; its dark underwings whitened ominously, and then it dropped till its lower fringes, as translucent as muslin, clung to the ricks standing in the steppe, to the burial mounds, to the windmills; thunder rolled somewhere very high, and good­ naturedly, quietly; and a copious rain began to fall. The rain fell plentifully, as warm as fresh milk, on the earth waiting in the misty stillness. The drops danced in white bubbles on the foaming puddles, and so gentle and peaceable was the summer shower that it did not bow the heads of the flowers.

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