Death in a Strange Country cgb-2

by Donna Leon

  The intercom buzzer on his phone sounded. He answered with a prompt, ‘Yes, sir.’

  Patta didn’t bother asking him how he knew who was calling, a sure sign that the call was important. ‘I’d like to speak to you, Commissario.’ The use of the title, rather than his name, emphasized the importance of the call.

  Brunetti said that he would go immediately down to the Vice-Questore’s office. Patta was a man of limited moods, each one clearly legible, and this was one that Brunetti needed to read carefully.

  When he went into Patta’s office Brunetti found his superior sitting behind his empty desk, hands folded in front of him. Usually, Patta made the attempt to create the appearance of diligence, even if it was no more than an empty file in front of him. Today there was nothing, just a serious, one might even say solemn, face and a pair of folded hands. The spicy odour of some omnisexual cologne wafted out from Patta, whose face, this morning, appeared to have been oiled rather than shaved. Brunetti walked over to the desk and stood in front of it, wondering how long Patta would remain silent, a technique he frequently employed when he wanted to stress the importance of what he had to say.

  At least a full minute passed before Patta said, ‘Sit down, Commissario.’ The repeated use of the title told Brunetti that what he was going to hear would be unpleasant in some way and that Patta knew it.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about this robbery,’ Patta said with no preamble as soon as Brunetti was seated.

  Brunetti suspected he did not mean this most recent one, on the Grand Canal, even though the victim was an industrialist from Milan. An assault on a person of that importance would usually be enough to drive Patta to almost any excess in the appearance of diligence.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘I learned today that you made another trip out to Vicenza.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why was that necessary? Don’t you have enough to do here in Venice?’

  Brunetti steeled himself, knowing that, despite their previous conversation, he would have to explain everything all over again. ‘I wanted to speak to some of the people who knew him, sir.’

  ‘Didn’t you do that the first day you were there?’

  ‘No, sir, there wasn’t time.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about that when you came back that afternoon.’ When Brunetti didn’t respond, Patta asked, ‘Why didn’t you do that the first day?’

  ‘There wasn’t time, sir.’

  ‘You were back here by six. There would have been plenty of time to stay out there and finish things up that afternoon.’

  Only with difficulty did Brunetti stop himself from displaying his astonishment that Patta would recall a detail such as the time Brunetti had returned from Vicenza. This was the man, after all, who could not be depended upon to name more than two or three of the uniformed police.

  ‘I didn’t get to it, sir.’

  ‘What happened when you went back?’

  ‘I spoke to Foster’s commanding officer and to one of the men who worked with him.’

  ‘And what did you learn?’

  ‘Nothing substantial, sir.’

  Patta glared across the desk at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I didn’t learn anything about why a person would want to kill him.’

  Patta threw his hands up in the air and let out a great sigh of exasperation. ‘That’s exactly the point, Brunetti. There is no reason why anyone would want to kill him, which is why you didn’t find it. And, I might add, why you aren’t going to find it. Because it isn’t there. He was killed for his money, and the proof of that is the fact that his wallet wasn’t found on him.’ One of his shoes wasn’t found with him, either. Did that mean he was killed for a size 11 Reebok?

  Patta opened his top drawer and pulled out a few sheets of paper. ‘I think you’ve wasted more than enough time chasing out to Vicenza, Brunetti. I don’t like the idea of your bothering the Americans about this. The crime happened here, and the killer will be found here.’ Patta made that last sound firmly terminal. He picked up one of the papers and glanced at it. ‘I’d like you to make better use of your time from now on.’

  ‘And how might I do that, sir?’

  Patta peered at him, then back at the paper. ‘I’m assigning you to the investigation of this break-in on the Grand Canal.’ Brunetti was certain that the location of that crime, and the suggestion it made about the wealth of the victim, was more than enough to make it seem, to Patta, far more important in real terms than mere murder, especially when that victim was not even an officer.

  ‘And what about the American, sir?’

  ‘We’ll go through the usual procedures. We’ll see if any of our bad boys talk about if or suddenly seem to have more money than they should.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘The Americans are looking into it, as well,’ Patta said, as if that put an end to it.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. How can the Americans look into something here in Venice?’

  Patta narrowed his eyes. ‘They have their ways, Brunetti. They have their ways.’

  Brunetti was in no doubt as to that, but he was in some doubt as to whether those ways would necessarily be directed towards finding the murderer. ‘I’d prefer to continue with this, sir. I don’t believe it was a mugging.’

  ‘I’ve decided it was, Commissario, and that’s how we’re going to treat it.’

  ‘What does that mean, sir?’

  Patta tried astonishment. ‘It means, Commissario, and I want you to pay attention to this, it means precisely what I said, that we are going to treat it as a murder that happened during a robbery attempt.’

  ‘Officially?’

  ‘Officially,’ Patta repeated, then added, with heavy emphasis, ‘and unofficially.’

  There was no need for Brunetti to ask what that meant

  Gracious in his victory, Patta said, ‘Of course, your interest and enthusiasm in this will be appreciated by the Americans.’ Brunetti thought it would make more sense for them to appreciate success, but this was not an opinion that could be offered now when Patta was at his most quixotic and had to be handled with greatest delicacy.

  ‘Well, I’m still not convinced, sir,’ Brunetti began, letting doubt and resignation struggle in his voice. ‘But I suppose it’s possible. I certainly found nothing about him that would suggest anything else.’ That is, if he discounted the odd few hundred million in cocaine.

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way, Brunetti. I think it shows that you’re growing more realistic about police work.’ Patta looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘They had a Guardi.’

  Brunetti, left behind by his superior’s chamois-like leap from one subject to another, could only ask, ‘A what?’

  ‘A Guardi, Commissario. Francesco Guardi. I would think you’d at least recognize the name: he’s one of your most famous Venetian painters.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir. I thought it was a kind of German television.’

  Patta gave a firm and disapproving ‘No,’ before he looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘All I have is a list from Signor Viscardi. A Guardi, a Monet, and a Gauguin.’

  ‘Is he still in hospital, this Signor Viscardi?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Yes, I believe so. Why?’

  ‘He seems pretty certain about which paintings they had, even if he didn’t see the men who took them.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m, not suggesting anything, sir,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Maybe he had only three paintings.’ But if all he had were three paintings, this case would not have moved so quickly to the top of Patta’s list. ‘What does Signor Viscardi do in Milan, if I might ask?’

  ‘He directs a number of factories.’

  ‘Directs, or owns and directs?’

  Patta made no attempt to disguise his irritation. ‘He’s an important citizen, and he has spent an enormous amount of money on the restoration of that palazzo. He’s an
asset to the city, and I think we should see that, if nothing else, the man is safe while he’s here.’

  ‘He and his possessions,’ Brunetti added.

  ‘Yes, and his possessions.’ Patta repeated the word but not the dry tone. ‘I’d like you to see to this investigation, Commissario, and I expect Signor Viscardi to be treated with every respect.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Brunetti got up to leave. ‘Do you know what sort of factories he directs, sir?’

  ‘I believe they manufacture armaments.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And I don’t want you bothering the Americans any more, Brunetti. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ It certainly was clear, but the reason was not.

  ‘Good, then get to it. I’d like this sorted out as quickly as possible.’

  Brunetti smiled and left Patta’s office, wondering what strings had been pulled, and by whom. With Viscardi, it was pretty easy to figure out: armaments, enough money to buy and restore a palazzo on the Grand Canal - the mingled odours of money and power had come wafting out of every phrase Patta spoke. With the American, the scents were less easy to trace back to their source, but that difficulty made them no less tangible than the others. But it was clear that the word had been passed to Patta: the death of the American was to be treated as a robbery gone wrong, nothing more. But from whom?

  Instead of going up to his office, he went back down the stairs and into the main office. Vianello had returned from the hospital and was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, telephone pressed to his ear. When he saw Brunetti come in, he cut the conversation short and hung up.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said.

  Brunetti leaned against the side of Vianello’s desk. ‘This Viscardi, how did he seem when you spoke to him?’

  ‘Upset He’d been in a ward all night, had just managed to get himself put into a private room...’

  Brunetti interrupted. ‘How’d he manage that?’

  Vianello shrugged. The Casinò was not the only public institution in the city that carried a ‘Non Nobis’ sign in front of it. The hospital’s, although visible only to the wealthy, was no less real. ‘I suppose he knows someone there or knows someone to call. People like him always do.’ From Vianello’s tone, it didn’t sound like Viscardi had made a hit

  ‘What’s he like?’ Brunetti asked.

  Vianello smiled, then grimaced. ‘You know. Typical Milanese. Wouldn’t say ‘R’ if he had a mouthful of them,’ he said, eliding all of the ‘R’s in the sentence, imitating perfectly this Milanese affectation in speech, so popular among the most arriviste politicians and the comedians who delighted in mocking them. ‘First thing he did was tell me how important the paintings are, which, I suppose, means how important he is. Then he complained about having to spend the night in a ward. I think that meant he was afraid of picking up some low-class disease.’

  ‘Did he give you a description of the men?’

  ‘He said that one of them was very tall, taller than I am.’ Vianello was one of the tallest men on the force. ‘And the other one had a beard.’

  ‘How many were there, two or three?’

  ‘He wasn’t sure. They grabbed him when he went in, and he was so surprised that he didn’t see, or he doesn’t remember.’

  ‘How badly is he hurt?’

  ‘Not bad enough for a private room,’ Vianello said, making no attempt to disguise his disapproval

  ‘Could you be a bit more specific?’ Brunetti asked with a smile.

  Vianello took no offence and answered, ‘He’s got a black eye. That will get worse today. Someone really gave him a good shot there. And he’s got a cut lip, some bruises on his arms.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I agree; hardly seems like the sort of thing to require a private room. Or a hospital at all.’

  Vianello responded immediately to Brunetti’s tone. ‘Are you thinking what I think you are, sir?’

  ‘Vice-Questore Patta knows what the three missing paintings are. What time did the call come in?’

  ‘Just a little past midnight, sir.’

  Brunetti looked at his watch. ‘Twelve hours. The paintings are by Guardi, Monet, and Gauguin.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t know about that sort of thing. But do the names mean money?’

  Brunetti gave a very affirmative nod. ‘Rossi told me that the place was insured. How’d he come to know that?’

  ‘The agent called us at about ten and asked if he could go and have a look at the palazzo.’

  Vianello took a pack of cigarettes from his desk and lit one. ‘Rossi told me these Belgian kids think Ruffolo was there.’ Brunetti nodded. ‘Ruffolo’s just a little runt of a guy, isn’t he, sir? Not very tall at all.’ He blew out a thin stream of smoke, then waved it away.

  ‘And he certainly didn’t grow a beard while he was in prison,’ Brunetti observed.

  ‘So that means that neither of the men Viscardi says he saw could have been Ruffolo, doesn’t it, sir?’

  ‘That certainly would seem to be the case,’ Brunetti said. ‘I asked Rossi to go over to the hospital and ask Viscardi if he recognizes a picture of Ruffolo.’

  ‘Probably won’t,’ Vianello remarked laconically.

  Brunetti pushed himself away from the desk. ‘I think I’ll go and make a few phone calls. If you’ll excuse me, officer.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ Vianello said, then added, ‘Zero two,’ giving Brunetti the dialling prefix for Milan.

  * * * *

  14

  In his office, Brunetti took a spiral-bound notebook from his desk and began to leaf through it. For years he had been telling himself, then promising himself, that he would take the names and numbers in this book and arrange them in some sort of order. He renewed the vow each time, such as now, he had to hunt through it for a number he had not called in months or years. In a way, paging through it was like strolling through a museum in which he saw many familiar paintings, allowing each to summon up the flash of memory before he passed on in search of the one he had come to see. Finally he found it, the home number of Riccardo Fosco, the Financial Editor of one of the major weekly news magazines.

  Until a few years ago, Fosco had been the bright light of the news media, unearthing financial scandals in the most unlikely places, had been one of the first to begin asking questions about the Banco Ambrosiano. His office had become the centre of a web of information about the real nature of business in Italy, his columns the place to look for the first suggestions that something might not be right with a company, a buy-out, or a takeover. Two years ago, as he emerged from that same office at five in the afternoon, on his way to meet friends for a drink, someone in a parked car opened up with a machine gun, aimed carefully at his knees, shattering them both, and now Fosco’s home was his office, and walking was something he did only with the help of two canes, one knee permanently stiffened and the other with a range of motion of only thirty degrees. No arrest had ever been made in the crime.

  ‘Fosco,’ he said, answering as he always did.

  ‘Ciao, Riccardo. It’s Guido Brunetti.’

  ‘Ciao, Guido. I haven’t heard from you in a long time. Are you still trying to find out about the money that was supposed to save Venice?’

  It was a long-standing joke between them, the ease with which the millions of dollars - no one ever knew exactly how much - that had been raised by UNESCO to ‘save’ Venice had disappeared in the offices and deep pockets of the ‘projectors’ who had rushed forward with their plans and programmes after the devastating flood of 1966. There was a foundation with a full working staff, an archive full of blueprints, there were even fund-raising galas and balls, but there was no more money, and the tides, unimpeded, continued to do whatever they chose with the city. This story, with threads leading to the UN, to the Common Market, and to various governments and financial institutions, had proven too complicated even for Fosco, who had never written about it, fearing t
hat his audience would accuse him of having turned to fiction. Brunetti, for his part, had worked on the assumption that, since most of the people who had been involved in the projects were Venetian, the money had indeed gone to save the city, though perhaps not in the manner originally intended.