by Donna Leon
‘Morandi’s not the sort of man who’d worry about his conscience,’ Vianello said abruptly. ‘Or his reputation.’ The Inspector chose not to comment on the third.
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘At what?’
‘At how important their reputation can be to the people we’d least expect to give it a thought.’
‘But he’s a man with no education, with a long criminal record, a known thief,’ Vianello said, making no attempt to disguise his astonishment.
‘You could be describing many of the men in Parliament,’ Brunetti said in return, intending it as a joke but then suddenly oppressed by the truth of it. But beyond the joke, Brunetti had struck on a truth, and he knew it: even the worst men wanted to be perceived as better than they were. How else could hypocrisy have risen to such delirious levels?
He thought back to his meeting with Morandi. The old man had been surprised to find him there and had reacted instinctively. But as soon as he realized that Brunetti was a representative of the state, there in performance of his duty – which duty he believed was to help Signora Sartori – his manner had softened. Brunetti thought of his own violent father: even at his worst, he had always remained deferential to authority and to those whose good opinion he valued. And he had always treated his wife with respect and strived to have hers. How slowly these old forms disappeared.
Vianello pulled him back from these thoughts by saying, though he said it grudgingly, ‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘About?’
‘That people’s good opinion would be important to him. You said he was protective of the woman?’
‘It seemed so.’
‘Protective because he didn’t want her to talk to you or because he didn’t want you to trouble her?’
Brunetti had to think about this for a moment before he answered, ‘I’d say a bit of both, but more the second than the first.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘Because he loves her,’ Brunetti said, remembering the way the old man looked at her. ‘That would be the obvious reason.’ Before Vianello could comment or object, Brunetti said, ‘One of the things Paola once told me is how prone we are to scorn the emotions of simple people. As if ours were better somehow.’
‘And love is love?’ Vianello enquired.
‘I think so, yes.’ Brunetti had still to fight against his reluctance to believe this wholeheartedly, as Paola seemed to do. He thought of it as one of his essential failures of humanity.
Then, changing tack entirely, Brunetti asked, ‘So where’s the money coming from?’ Seeing Vianello’s surprise, he said, ‘The money that’s going into the account.’
‘Beats me. It’s unlikely he’s selling drugs,’ Vianello said, meaning it as a joke.
‘But at more than eighty, it’s got to be that he’s selling something; he’s certainly not going around breaking into houses, and he’s too old to work,’ Brunetti said. In response to Vianello’s glance, he said, ‘And since Cuccetti’s dead, and all his family, and everything’s gone to the Church, there’s no one he can be blackmailing.’
Vianello smiled and could not resist saying, ‘I’m always cheered by your uplifting view of human nature, Guido.’
Was rhetorical style contagious? Brunetti wondered. A decade ago, Vianello would not have been capable of a verbal flourish such as this. Brunetti was pleased at the thought.
‘So he’s selling something,’ Brunetti went on as though the Ispettore had not spoken. ‘And if that’s so, and if he’s not stealing things from the docks any more, then it might be something they gave him when they signed the will or when he got the apartment from them.’
‘Or something he stole,’ Vianello added, as though he too had something to contribute to the view of human nature.
This possibility left Brunetti uncomfortable. ‘He met her when he went to work at the hospital, and he had no more trouble with us after that.’
‘Or he didn’t get caught.’
‘He’s not very bright, so he would have been caught,’ Brunetti insisted. ‘Look how many times he was arrested before that.’
‘But he always got out of it. He could have threatened his way out.’
‘If he was really violent, or dangerous, it would be in the files,’ Brunetti said. ‘We’d know.’
Vianello considered this and finally nodded in agreement. ‘It’s possible. I’ve known love to do stranger things to people than to make them careful.’
‘Or make them better,’ Brunetti amended.
‘You make him sound like Saint Paul,’ Vianello said, sounding amused at the unlikelihood. ‘He’s riding along on his way to steal an X-ray machine from the hospital, sees Signorina Sartori in her white nurse’s uniform; he falls to the ground at the sight of her, and when he gets to his feet, he’s a man transformed?’
Perhaps he had had enough of Vianello’s rhetorical flights. ‘Are you a better man since you married Nadia?’ he surprised Vianello by asking.
Vianello uncrossed his legs, then crossed them the other way. He looked so uncomfortable that Brunetti almost expected him to cry ‘foul’ and refuse to answer. Instead, the Inspector nodded, smiled, and said, ‘I see your point.’ Then, after another moment of consideration, he said, ‘It’s possible.’
‘Maybe the request that they witness the will was too big a temptation to resist,’ Brunetti suggested. ‘A house in exchange for two signatures.’ It occurred to Brunetti to add that Paris was worth a Mass, but he feared that Vianello might not understand and so he said nothing further.
Vianello smiled and added, ‘Who was that saint who said, “Make me chaste, but not yet.”?’
‘Augustine, I think.’
Vianello smiled.
‘But it doesn’t tell us where the money’s still coming from, does it?’ Brunetti asked.
They tossed the subject back and forth for some time, trying to find an explanation for the recurring deposits. ‘And why put the money in the bank?’ Vianello asked. ‘Only a fool would leave traces like that.’
‘Or a person with no idea of how easy it is to check on a money trail.’ Hearing himself speak, Brunetti decided to take another look at the list of deposits. He pulled the folder with Morandi’s bank records from his drawer and found the statements. Running his finger down the column of deposits, he found that the first two had been paid by cheque.
He dialled Signorina Elettra’s number and while he waited for her to answer, he heard Vianello muttering to himself, ‘No one could be this stupid.’
He explained what it was he wanted her to find, to which she answered, ‘Oh, wonderful, and I can do it legally this time,’ as delighted as if he had told her to take the rest of the day off and go home.
Uncertain how much she was baiting him, he said, ‘It’s always helpful for us to have new experiences,’ and hung up.
25
Though Signorina Elettra managed to find the complete records of all of Morandi’s bank transactions in less than twenty minutes, Brunetti did not for an instant believe that the ease with which she managed it would in any way convert her to the paths of legality.
The deposits, the first for four thousand euros, the second for three, had been made by cheques written by Nicola Turchetti, a name which resounded in Brunetti’s memory. Vianello had gone back to the squad room, so Brunetti was left to search for the name on his own. After some time, having found no resonant chord, he pulled the phone book from his bottom drawer and opened it to the Ts.
For some reason, seeing the name in print was enough to nudge Brunetti’s memory. Turchetti, the art dealer, was a man with a Janus-like reputation: his expertise was never questioned; the probity of his dealings sometimes was. To the best of Brunetti’s knowledge, no charges had ever been brought against the man. His name, however, was often mentioned when sharp business practices were discussed: positively by those who found rarities in his shop; negatively by those who speculated about the sources of some of his acquisitions. Brunetti’
s father-in-law, ignoring both opinions, remained a client of Turchetti’s and had, over the years, acquired from him many paintings and drawings.
Drawings. Brunetti’s thoughts flew to the legendary Reynard auction and the drawings that had not appeared on the block, thus disappointing so many collectors of the chance to add to their collections. Had no one done an inventory? Or, as was most likely, had the inventory been overseen by Avvocato Cuccetti? The Reynard palazzo was now a hotel, Brunetti knew, and the objects that had once filled it had long since been consigned to the hands of eager buyers. Avvocato Cuccetti was wherever Madame Reynard had preceded him, neither of them having been able to take anything with them.
Because the phone book was open in front of him, Brunetti dialled the number. His call was answered by a female secretary with the sloppy sort of Roman accent that irritated Brunetti. Brunetti gave his name, not his rank, and when the woman explained that Signor Turchetti was busy, he added his father-in-law’s name, and his title, whereupon the waters parted and the call was transferred immediately to Dottor Turchetti.
‘Ah, Dottor Brunetti,’ a deep voice intoned, ‘Conte Orazio has spoken of you often.’
‘And of you, Dottore,’ Brunetti answered with oleaginous civility.
‘In what way may I be of service to you?’ Turchetti asked after a moment’s hesitation.
‘I wonder if you’d have time to speak to me about one of your clients.’
‘Of course,’ he said easily. ‘Which one?’
‘I’ll come over and tell you, shall I?’ Brunetti asked and, without waiting for an answer, replaced the phone and left his office.
Brunetti took the Number One and got off at Accademia, turned left and started back in the direction of the Guggenheim. Before the first bridge, he found the gallery, paused to study the paintings in the window, and then entered. The space was large and low-ceilinged, though the effect was counteracted by the lighting, which angled up from the walls and thus effectively disguised the lowness. More light reflected from the canal in front, augmenting the sense of space.
A man Brunetti recognized from having seen him on the street more than a few times rose to greet him from a catalogue-covered desk at the back of the gallery. There was no trace of the woman who had answered the phone.
‘Ah, Dottor Brunetti,’ Turchetti said as he approached, hand extended. He was a man best described as ‘robusto’, not particularly tall and thus seeming thicker because of that. Had he been a taller man, the brisk energy of his movements would have been imposing; because he was not, there remained something faintly pugnacious about him, as though all that energy stuffed into such a low space would be forced to find some other means of escape. He had dark eyes set in a very broad face and a nose that veered to the left, as if to give further suggestion of something that might turn into belligerence.
His smile was pleasant and inviting, evident in both his eyes and mouth, but Brunetti could not help seeing it as a salesman’s smile. His grip was strong but completely uncompetitive. His lapels were hand-stitched. ‘How may I be of help, Dottore?’ he asked, surprising Brunetti by making it sound like a real question.
Before he answered, Brunetti cast his eyes around the gallery. On the wall to his left was a small portrait of Santa Caterina of Alexandria, her head turned to her left, glancing off towards martyrdom and beatification, one traitor hand placed protectively on her single string of pearls. She already wore her martyr’s crown, but that too was compromised by a row of inset pearls. Her right hand was placed negligently on her martyr’s wheel, the palm frond about to drop from her fingers. Which is it to be, girl? Earth or heaven? Pleasure or salvation? Poised in a moment of perfect indecision, she stared at a ray of light in the top corner of the painting, uncertainty evident in her every feature.
‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ Turchetti asked. He stepped aside to look square at the painting. ‘I’ll hate to see her leave,’ he said, just as though the woman in the painting were capable of making the decision about when to pick up her skirts and walk out of the gallery.
Then, turning away from the painting, the dealer faced Brunetti and said, ‘You were interested in one of my clients?’
‘Yes. Benito Morandi.’
The name registered in Turchetti’s eyes and his mouth contracted a bit at the corners, as if he had been reminded of an unpleasant taste. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, a noise that could register confusion as easily as recognition but, in either case, would give him time to consider his response. Brunetti, familiar with the tactic, stood and waited, saying nothing and offering only his impassive face.
‘Why don’t we go and sit down?’ Turchetti suggested, turning back towards his desk. Brunetti followed him, sat in one of the chairs placed on the client side and glanced around the gallery, taking in the paintings and drawings but seeing nothing as inviting as the martyr. At first Turchetti leaned back against the desk and folded his arms, but then, as if suddenly conscious of how this placed him so much higher than his guest, sat in a chair facing Brunetti. ‘Your father-in-law,’ Turchetti began, ‘has told me the work you do.’
Brunetti had to admire the exquisite sensibility that could not bring itself to pronounce the word, ‘policeman’. He nodded.
‘And that you are a man with a certain … how shall I put it?’ Turchetti said, pausing as if in search of the most flattering term. Brunetti, for his part, sat, resisting the impulse to tell the other man he didn’t much care what he called anything, so long as he told him about Benito Morandi. Instead, he tilted his head rather in the manner of Santa Caterina but in a fashion he hoped would suggest mild curiosity rather than angelic rapture.
‘… sense of justice? Is that the term I’m searching for?’
Brunetti thought it probably was and so nodded.
Turchetti renewed his smile. ‘Good, then.’ He sat back and crossed his legs, suggesting that, now that the preliminaries were established, they could start talking. ‘Morandi is a client of mine in that he has occasionally sold me things.’
Brunetti smiled as at the hearing of truth, already known, universally acknowledged. So Turchetti must remember, perhaps regret, writing those cheques to Morandi. Had he been short of cash? Had he needed to delay payment? Or had he paid with cheques so as to allow time to have whatever he bought authenticated? Or to verify the provenance?
‘What things?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Oh, this and that,’ Turchetti said with an easy smile and an airy wave of his hand.
‘What things?’
Displaying no surprise whatsoever at Brunetti’s tone, he said, ‘Oh, the occasional drawing.’
‘What drawings?’
While Turchetti thought about how to answer this, Brunetti reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook. He opened it to the page that had the name of Chiara’s teachers and looked down the list.
Before he could repeat his question, Turchetti said, ‘Oh, minor artists, no one you’ve ever heard of, I’d guess.’
Brunetti took a pen from his inside pocket, opened it, gave Turchetti a neutral glance, and said, ‘Try me.’
Turchetti’s smile was gracious. ‘Johann von Dillis and Friedrich Salathé,’ he said, pronouncing the first name of the second painter as though he were a man nursed on Goethe and Heine.
Brunetti had heard of the first, but he nodded as though both names were familiar to him and wrote them down. Though he had never heard his father-in-law mention either name, the Count was a collector and spent a lot of time in galleries, and so he might have seen them, had Turchetti shown them in his gallery, and thus Brunetti might learn their resale price.
‘And the others?’ Brunetti asked.
Turchetti smiled. ‘I’d have to check my records. It was so long ago.’
‘But the last sale was only …’ Brunetti said, trying to recall the papers Signorina Elettra had given him as he turned a page of his notebook, ‘about three months ago.’
Had Turchetti been a fish, Brunetti would have s
een him squirming around as he tried to free himself from the hook in such a manner as to do himself as little harm as possible. Turchetti did not gasp, at least not in the way of a fish: he drew in two long breaths and finally said, ‘Shall we save time, Commissario, and you tell me what it is you want?’
‘I want to know what he sold you and how much they were worth.’
With a smile that would have been flirtatious, had it been directed at a woman, the dealer asked, ‘You don’t want to know what I paid him?’
Brunetti felt the urge to swipe him aside, but Turchetti did not know that since Morandi had so conscientiously deposited the money into his account Brunetti already knew what he had been paid. It was probably impossible for an art dealer to conceive of a person who would sell something and deposit that amount in the bank.
‘No, Signore,’ Brunetti said, removing Turchetti’s title, ‘only what they were worth.’
‘May I estimate?’ Turchetti asked directly, as if he had tired of the game. He no longer bothered talking about his ‘records’. Brunetti had grown up hearing priests speak of indulgences, so he well knew how malleable was the interpretation of value.
‘Feel free,’ Brunetti told him.
‘The Dillis was worth about forty thousand; the Salathé a bit less.’
‘And the others?’ Brunetti said, glancing down at the names of Chiara’s history and geometry teachers.
‘There were some prints: Tiepolo, not worth more than ten or twelve. I think there were six or seven of them.’
‘You didn’t offer him a price for the lot?’
‘No,’ Turchetti said, unable to disguise his irritation. ‘He insisted on bringing them in one at a time.’ Then, unable to disguise his satisfaction at a job well done, he added, ‘He thought he’d get more for them that way.’ So much, his tone stated, for that possibility.
Brunetti refused to give him the satisfaction of a response and asked, ‘What else?’