by Donna Leon
He had no choice but to hurl himself under the juggernaut of Patta’s certainty. ‘But why would he take the chance of carrying the American’s card? That doesn’t make any sense.’
Patta rolled right over him. ‘He could outrun you easily, Commissario, so there was no chance he would be found with it. Or perhaps he forgot about it.’
‘People don’t often forget about evidence that links them to murder, sir.’
Patta ignored him. ‘I’ve told the Press we had reason to suspect him in the killing of the American from the very beginning, that this was why you wanted to talk to him. He was probably afraid we were onto him and thought he could make a deal with us about a lesser crime. Or perhaps he was going to try to blame someone else for the American’s death. The fact that he had the American’s card with him leaves no doubt that he killed him.’ Well, Brunetti was sure of that: it surely would remove all doubt. ‘That, after all, is why you went to meet him, isn’t it? About the American?’ When Brunetti didn’t answer, Patta repeated his question, ‘Isn’t it, Commissario?’
Brunetti brushed aside the question with a motion of his head and asked, ‘Have you said any of this to the Procuratore, sir?’
‘Of course I have. What do you think I’ve been doing all morning? Like me, he believes it’s an open-and-shut case. Ruffolo killed the American in a robbery attempt, then tried to make more money by robbing the Viscardi palazzo.’
Brunetti tried one last time to interject some sense into this. ‘They’re very different sorts of crime, a mugging and the theft of paintings.’
Patta’s voice grew louder. ‘There’s evidence that he was involved in both crimes, Commissario. There’s the identification card, and there are your Belgian witnesses. You were willing enough to believe in them before, that they saw Ruffolo the night of the robbery. And now Signor Viscardi thinks he remembers Ruffolo. He’s asked to take another look at the photo, and if he recognizes him, there will be no doubt. There’s more than enough evidence for me, and more than enough to convince the Procuratore.’
Brunetti pushed his chair back abruptly and stood. ‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘I thought you’d be more pleased, Brunetti,’ Patta said with real surprise. ‘This closes the case of the American, but it will make it harder to find Signor Viscardi’s paintings and see that they’re returned to him. You’re not exactly a hero, since you didn’t bring Ruffolo in. But I’m sure you would have, if only he hadn’t fallen from the walkway. I’ve mentioned your name to the Press.’
That was probably harder for Patta to do than it would be for him to give Brunetti his own first-born son. Take the gift as given. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Of course, I made it clear that you were following my suggestions, mind you, that I’d been suspicious of Ruffolo from the very first. After all, he was let out of prison only a week before he killed the American.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Patta grew expansive. ‘It’s unfortunate that we haven’t found Signor Viscardi’s paintings. I’ll try to stop by to see him sometime today to tell him about this myself.’
‘He’s here?’
‘Yes, when I spoke to him yesterday, he mentioned he would be coming to Venice today. He said he was willing to stop by and take another look at that photograph. As I told you, that would remove all doubts.’
‘Do you think he’ll be bothered that we didn’t get the paintings back?’
‘Oh,’ Patta said, clearly having considered this. ‘Of course he will be. A person who has a collection feels that way about their paintings. Art comes alive to some people.’
‘I suppose that’s the way Paola feels about that Canaletto.’
‘That what?’ Patta asked.
‘Canaletto. He was a Venetian painter. Paola’s uncle gave us one of his paintings as a wedding present. Not a very big one, sir. But she seems very attached to it. I keep telling her to put it in the living room, but she likes to keep it in the kitchen.’ As revenge, it wasn’t much, but it was something.
Patta’s voice was strangled. ‘In the kitchen?’
‘Yes, I’m glad you think it’s a strange place to keep it, sir. I’ll tell her you think so, too. I think I’ll go down and see what Vianello’s done. He had a few things he has to take care of for me.’
‘Fine, Brunetti. I wanted to compliment you on a job well done. Signor Viscardi was very pleased.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Brunetti said, moving towards the door.
‘He’s a friend of the mayor’s, you know.’
‘Ah,’ Brunetti said, ‘no, I didn’t know that, sir.’ But he should have.
Downstairs, Vianello was at his desk. He looked up when Brunetti came in and smiled. ‘I hear you’re a hero this morning.’
‘What else was in that paper I signed last night?’ Brunetti asked with no prelude.
‘It said that you thought Ruffolo was involved with the death of the American.’
‘That’s ridiculous. You know what Ruffolo was like. He would have cut and run if anyone had so little as yelled at him.’
‘He’d just done two years inside, sir. It’s possible he changed.’
‘Do you really think that?’
‘It’s possible, sir.’
‘That’s not what I asked you, Vianello. I asked you if you believed he did it.’
‘If he didn’t, then how did the American’s identity card get into his wallet?’
‘You believe it, then?’
‘Yes. At least I think it’s possible. Why don’t you believe it, sir?’
Because of the Count’s warning – Brunetti could only now see it as the warning it had been – about the connection between Gamberetto and Viscardi. He saw now, as well, that Viscardi’s threat had had nothing to do with Brunetti’s investigation of the robbery at the palazzo. It was his investigation into the murders of the two Americans that Viscardi had warned him away from, murders with which poor, stupid Ruffolo had nothing to do, murders which he knew, now, would go forever unpunished.
His thoughts turned from the two dead Americans to Ruffolo, finally hitting what he thought was the big time, boasting to his mother about his important friends. He had robbed the palazzo, even done what the important man told him to do, roughed him up a little, though that was not at all like Ruffolo. When had Ruffolo learned that Signor Viscardi was involved in far more than stealing his own paintings? He had mentioned three things that would interest Brunetti – they must have been the paintings – yet, in his wallet, there had been only one. Who had put it there? Had Ruffolo somehow come into possession of the identity card and kept it to use as a bargaining chip in his conversation with Brunetti? Worse, had he tried to threaten Viscardi with his knowledge of it and what it meant? Or had he merely been an innocent, ignorant pawn, one of the countless little players in the game, like Foster and Peters, used for a while and then tossed away when they learned something that would threaten the major players? Had the card been slipped into his wallet by the same person who had used the rock to kill him?
Vianello still sat at his desk, looking at him strangely, but there was no answer Brunetti could give him, none that he would believe. Because he was almost a hero, he went back upstairs, closed the door to his office, and looked out of the window for an hour. A few workers had finally appeared on the scaffolding of San Lorenzo, but there was no way of telling what they were doing. None of them ever went as high as the roof, so the tiles remained untouched. Nor did they appear to be carrying tools of any sort. They walked along the various layers of scaffolding, climbed up and down between them on the several ladders that connected them, came together and spoke to one another, then separated and went back to climbing the ladders. It was very much like watching the busy activity of ants: it appeared to have a purpose, if only because they were so energetic, but no human was capable of understanding that purpose.
His phone rang, and he turned away from the window to answer it. ‘Brunetti.’
‘Commissario Brunetti. Thi
s is Maggiore Ambrogiani at the American base in Vicenza. We met some time ago in regard to the death of that soldier in Venice.’
‘Ah yes, Maggiore,’ Brunetti said after a pause long enough to suggest to whoever was listening in that he recalled the Maggiore only with difficulty. ‘How can I help you?’
‘You’ve already done that, Signor Brunetti, at least for my American colleagues, by finding the murderer of that young man. I’ve called to give you my personal thanks and extend those of the American authorities here at the base.’
‘Ah, that’s most kind of you, Maggiore. I do appreciate it. Of course, anything we can do to be of assistance to America, especially the agencies of its government, is gladly done.’
‘How nicely put, Signor Brunetti. I’ll be sure to convey your exact words to them.’
‘Yes, do that, Maggiore. Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘Wish me good luck, I suppose,’ Ambrogiani said with an artificial laugh.
‘Gladly, Maggiore, but why?’
‘I’ve been given a new assignment.’
‘Where?’
‘Sicily.’ Ambrogiani’s voice was absolutely level and without emotion when he pronounced the name.
‘Ah, how very nice for you, Maggiore. I’m told it has an excellent climate. When will you be going?’
‘This weekend.’
‘Ah, as soon as that? When will your family be joining you?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. I’ve been given command of a small unit in the mountains, and it’s not possible for us to bring our families with us.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Maggiore.’
‘Well, it’s all in the nature of the service, I suppose.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. Anything else we can do for you here, Maggiore?’
‘No, Commissario. Again, I extend my thanks and those of my American colleagues.’
‘Thank you, Maggiore. And good luck,’ Brunetti said, the only honest words he had said in the conversation. He hung up and went back to examining the scaffolding. The men were no longer on it. Had they, he wondered, been sent to Sicily, as well? How long does one survive in Sicily? A month? Two? He forgot how long Ambrogiani had said he had until he could retire. Brunetti hoped he made it that long.
He thought again of those three young people, all gone to their violent deaths, pawns tossed aside by a brutal hand. Until now, that hand could have been Viscardi’s alone, but Ambrogiani’s transfer meant that other, more powerful, players were involved, players to whom both he and Ambrogiani could just as easily be swept from the board. He recalled the lettering on one of those death-filled plastic bags, ‘Property of US Government’. He shivered.
He had no need to check the file for the address. He left the Questura and walked towards the Rialto, seeing nothing, insensible to what he passed. At Rialto, suddenly overcome with weariness at the thought of walking any further, he waited for the number one vaporetto and got off at the second stop, San Stae. Though he had never been there, his feet guided him to the door; Vianello had told him—it seemed months ago – where it was. He rang the bell, gave his name, and the door snapped open.
The courtyard was small, devoid of plants, the steps leading up from it a dull grey. Brunetti reached the top of the stairs and raised his hand to knock on the wooden door, but Viscardi opened it before he could do so.
The mark under his eye was lighter, the bruising almost entirely gone. The smile, however, was the same. ‘What a pleasant surprise to see you, Commissario. Do come in.’ He held out his hand, but when Brunetti ignored it, he lowered it as if naturally and used it to pull back the door.
Brunetti stepped into the entrance hall and allowed Viscardi to close the door behind him. He felt a compelling desire to strike this man, to do some sort of physical violence to him, hurt him somehow. Instead, he followed Viscardi into a large, airy salon that looked out across what must be a back garden.
‘What may I do for you, Commissario?’ Viscardi asked, still maintaining his politeness, but not to the point of offering Brunetti either a seat or a drink.
‘Where were you last night, Signor Viscardi?’
Viscardi smiled, letting his eyes grow soft and warm. The question surprised him not in the least. ‘I was where any decent man is at night, Dottore: I was at home with my wife and children.’
‘Here?’
‘No, I was in Milan. And if I might anticipate your next question, there were other people there, two guests and three servants.’
‘When did you get here?’
‘This morning, on the early plane.’ He smiled and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out a small blue card. ‘Ah, how very fortunate, I still have the boarding pass with me.’ He held it towards Brunetti. ‘Would you like to inspect it, Commissario?’
Brunetti ignored the gesture. ‘We found that young man who was in the photo,’ Brunetti said.
‘The young man?’ Viscardi asked, paused, and then let remembrance play across his face. ‘Ah yes, the young criminal your sergeant showed me the picture of. Has Vice-Questore Patta told you that I think I might remember him now?’ Brunetti ignored the question so Viscardi continued, ‘Does this mean you’ve arrested him? If this means you’ll be getting my pictures back, my wife will be thrilled.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Viscardi asked, letting one brow arch in surprise. ‘How unfortunate. Was it a natural death?’ he asked, then paused as if weighing his next question. ‘A drug overdose, perhaps? I’m told that accidents like that happen, especially with young people.’
‘No, it wasn’t a drug overdose. He was murdered.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that, but there does seem to be an awful lot of that going around, doesn’t there?’ He smiled at his little joke and asked, ‘And was he, after all, responsible for the robbery here?’
‘There is evidence that connects him to it.’
Viscardi contracted his eyes, no doubt intending to display dawning realization. ‘Then it really was him I saw that night?’
‘Yes, you saw him.’
‘Does that mean I’ll be getting the pictures back soon?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, too bad. My wife will be so disappointed.’
‘We found evidence that he was connected to another crime.’
‘Really? What crime?’
‘The murder of the American soldier.’
‘You and Vice-Questore Patta must be pleased, to be able to solve that crime, as well.’
‘The Vice-Questore is.’
‘And you are not? Why is that, Commissario?’
‘Because he wasn’t the killer.’
‘You sound very certain of that fact.’
‘I am very certain of that fact.’
Viscardi tried another smile, a very narrow one. ‘I’m afraid, Dottore, that I’d be far more pleased if you could be equally certain that you’d find my paintings.’
‘You may be certain I will, Signor Viscardi.’
‘That’s very encouraging, Commissario.’ He pushed back his cuff, glanced fleetingly at his watch, and said, ‘But I’m afraid you must excuse me. I’m expecting friends for lunch. And then I have a business appointment and really must get to the station.’
‘Your appointment isn’t in Venice?’ Brunetti asked.
A smile of pure delight bubbled up into Viscardi’s eyes. He tried to suppress it but failed. ‘No, Commissario. It’s not in Venice. It’s in Vicenza.’
Brunetti took his rage home with him, and it sat between him and his family as they ate. He tried to respond to their questions, tried to pay attention to what they said, but in the midst of Chiara’s account of something that happened in class that morning, he saw Viscardi’s sly smile of gleeful triumph; when Raffi smiled at something his mother said, Brunetti remembered only Ruffolo’s goofy, apologetic smile, two years ago, when he had taken the scissors from his mother’s upraised hand and begged her to understand that the Commis
sario was only doing his job.
Ruffolo’s body, he knew, would be turned over to her this afternoon, when the autopsy was completed and the cause of death determined. Brunetti was in no doubt as to what that would be: the marks of the blow to Ruffolo’s head would match exactly the configuration of the rock found beside his body on the small beach; who to determine whether the blow was struck in a fall or in some other way? And who, since Ruffolo’s death resolved everything so neatly, to care? Perhaps, as in the case of Doctor Peters, signs of alcohol would be found in Ruffolo’s blood, and that surely would account even more for the fall. Brunetti’s case was solved. Both, in fact, were solved, for the murderer of the American had turned out to be, most fortuitously, the thief of Viscardi’s paintings. With that thought, he pushed his chair back from the table, ignoring the six eyes that followed his progress from the room. Giving no explanation, he left the house and started towards the Civil Hospital, where he knew Ruffolo’s body would be.
When he got to Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo, familiar, too familiar, with where he had to go, he walked towards the back part of the hospital, not really seeing the people around him. When he passed the radiology department and started down the narrow corridor that led to pathology, he could no longer ignore the people, so many seemed crowded into the narrow hallway. They weren’t going anywhere, just standing around in small groups, heads together, talking. Some, clearly patients, wore pyjamas and dressing-gowns; others wore suits; some the white jackets of orderlies. Just outside the door to the pathology department, he saw a uniform he was more familiar with: Rossi stood in front of the closed door, one hand held up in a gesture meant to keep the crowd from coming any closer.
‘What is it, Rossi?’ Brunetti asked, pushing himself through the front row of bystanders.
‘I’m not sure, sir. We got a call about half an hour ago. Whoever called said one of the old women from the rest home next door had gone mad and was breaking up the place. I came over here with Vianello and Miotti. They went inside, and I stayed out here to try to keep these people from going in.’