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‘Do you have any idea why that might be?’
‘No, sir. Only she was so different from how she was when we looked at his personal things, as if that didn’t matter at all. I’d sort of think that people wouldn’t like that, poking around in someone’s clothing. But papers are just papers.’ Seeing that this last remark had clearly garnered Brunetti’s interest, he grew more expansive. ‘But maybe it’s because he was a genius. Of course, I wouldn’t know about that sort of music’ Brunetti braced himself for the inevitable. ‘The only singer I know personally is Mina, and she never sang with him. But as I was saying, if he was famous, then maybe the papers might be important. There might be things in them about, you know, music’
At that moment, Riverre came back. ‘Sorry, sir, but the papers have been sent back.’
‘How? Mailed?’
‘No, sir; the translator took them himself. He said that the widow would probably need some of them.’
Brunetti stepped back from the bar and reached for his wallet. He put ten thousand lire on the counter before either of the two uniformed men could object.
‘Thank you, sir,’ they both said.
‘It’s nothing.’
When he turned to leave, neither of them made a move to accompany him, though both did salute.
The porter at the Questura’s door told him that Vice-Questore Patta wanted to see him immediately in his office.
‘Gesù Bambino,’ Brunetti exclaimed under his breath, an expression he had learned from his mother, who, like him, used it only when pressed beyond the limits of human patience.
At the door to his commander’s office, he knocked and was careful to wait for the shouted ‘Avanti!’ before entering. As he had expected, he found Patta posed behind his desk, a stack of files fanned out in front of him. He ignored Brunetti for a moment, continuing to read the paper he had in his hand. Brunetti contented himself with examining the faint traces of a fresco that had once been painted on the ceiling.
Pasta looked up suddenly, feigned surprise at seeing Brunetti, and asked, ‘Where are you?’
Brunetti mirrored Patta’s apparent confusion, as though he found the question peculiar but didn’t want to call attention to it. ‘In your office, sir.’
‘No, no, where are you on the case?’ Waving Brunetti to one of the low ormolu chairs in front of his desk, he picked up his pen and began to tap it on the desk top.
‘I’ve interviewed the widow and two of the people who were in the dressing room. I’ve spoken to the doctor, and I know the cause of death.’
‘I know all that,’ Patta said, increasing the rhythm of the pen and making no attempt to hide his irritation. ‘In other words, you’ve learned nothing important?’
‘Yes, sir, I suppose you could put it that way.’
‘You know, Brunetti, I’ve given a lot of thought to this investigation, and I think it might be wise to take you off the case.’ Patta’s voice was heavy with menace, as though he’d spent the previous night paging through his copy of Machiavelli.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I could, I suppose, give it to someone else to investigate. Perhaps then we’d have some real progress.’
‘I don’t think Mariani’s working on anything at the moment.’
It was only with the exercise of great self-restraint that Patta kept himself from wincing at the mention of the name of the younger of the two other commissarios of police, a man of unimpeachable character and impenetrable stupidity who was known to have gotten his job as part of his wife’s dowry, she being the niece of the former mayor. His other colleague, Brunetti knew, was currently involved in the investigation of the drug traffic at the port of Marghera. ‘Or perhaps you could take it over yourself,’ he suggested, and then added with tantalizing lateness, ‘sir.’
‘Yes, that’s always a possibility,’ Patta said, either not registering the rudeness or deciding to ignore it. He took a package of dark-papered Russian cigarettes from his desk and fitted one into his onyx holder. Very nice, Brunetti thought; color coordinated. ‘I’ve called you in because I’ve had some phone calls from the press and from People in High Places,’ he said, carefully emphasizing all the capitals. ‘And they’re very concerned that you’ve done nothing.’ This time, the enunciation fell very heavily upon the singular. He puffed delicately at the cigarette and stared across at Brunetti. ‘Did you hear me? They’re not pleased.’
‘I can see how that would be, sir. I’ve got a dead genius and no one to blame for it.’
Was he wrong, or did he see Patta mouth that last one silently to himself, perhaps preparing to toss it off himself at lunch today? ‘Yes, exactly,’ Patta said. His lips moved again. ‘And no one to blame for it.’ Patta deepened his voice. ‘I want that to change. I want someone to blame for it.’ Brunetti had never before heard the man so clearly express his idea of justice. Perhaps Brunetti would toss that off at lunch today.
‘From now on, Brunetti, I want a written report on my desk each morning by’—he paused, trying to remember when the office opened—’by eight,’ he said, getting it right.
‘Yes, sir. Will that be all?’ It made little difference to Brunetti whether the report had to be spoken or written; he would still have nothing to report until he had a clearer idea of the man who had been killed. Genius or not, the answer always lay there.
‘No, that’s not all. What do you plan to do with yourself today?’
I’m going to go to the funeral. That’s in about twenty minutes. And I want to have a look through his papers myself.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Patta snorted. ‘No wonder we’re getting nowhere.’
That seemed to signal the end of the interview, so Brunetti got to his feet and went toward the door, wondering how close he would get before Patta would remind him of the written report. He estimated he was still three steps from the door when he heard: ‘Remember, eight o’clock.’
His meeting with Patta kept Brunetti from getting to the church of San Moisè until just a few minutes before ten. The black boat carrying the flower-covered casket was already moored to the side of the canal, and three blue-suited men were busy placing the wooden casket on the wheeled metal platform they would use to take it to the door of the church. In the host of people who crowded around the front of the church, Brunetti recognized a few familiar Venetian faces, the usual reporters and photographers from the papers, but he didn’t see the widow; she must already have entered the church.
As the three men reached the doors, a fourth man joined them, and they lifted the coffin, placed it with practiced ease on their shoulders, and ascended the two low steps of the church. Brunetti was among the people who followed them inside. He watched the men carry the casket up the center aisle and place it on a low stand before the main altar.
Brunetti took a seat at the end of a pew at the rear of the crowded church. With difficulty, he could see between the heads of the people in front of him to the first row, where the widow, in black, sat between a man and a woman, both gray-haired, probably the people he had seen with her in the theater. Behind her, alone in a pew, sat another woman in black, whom Brunetti assumed to be the maid. Though he’d had no expectations regarding the mass, Brunetti was surprised by the starkness of the ceremony. The most remarkable thing about it was the complete absence of music, even an organ. The familiar words floated over the heads of the crowd, the ageless sprinklings and blessings were performed. Because of its simplicity, the mass was quickly over.
Brunetti waited at the end of the pew as the casket was carried past, waited until the chief mourners left the church. Outside, cameras flashed and reporters surrounded the widow, who cringed back against the elderly man who accompanied her.
Without thinking, Brunetti pushed his way through the crowd and took her other arm. He recognized a few of the photographers, saw that they knew who he was, and ordered them to move away. The men who had surrounded the widow backed off, leaving a path open t
oward the boats that stood at the side of the campo. Supporting her, he led the widow toward the boat, helped her as she stepped down onto the deck, and then followed her into the passenger cabin.
The couple who had been with her in the theater joined her there; the gray-haired woman put her arm around the shoulder of the younger woman, and the man contented himself with sitting beside her and taking her hand. Brunetti placed himself at the cabin door and watched as the boat carrying the casket cast off and began moving slowly up the narrow canal. When they were safely away from the church and the crowds, he ducked his head and went back into the cabin.
‘Thank you,’ Signora Wellauer said, making no attempt to hide her tears.
There was nothing he could say.
The boat moved out into the Grand Canal and turned left, toward San Marco, which they would have to pass in order to get to the cemetery. Brunetti went back to the cabin door and looked forward, taking his intrusive gaze away from the grief within. The campanile flowed by them, then the checkered rectangularity of the Ducal Palace, and then those happy, carefree domes. When they were approaching the Arsenale canal, Brunetti went up on deck and asked the boatman if he could stop at the embarcadero of the Palasport. He went back into the cabin and heard the three people there conversing in low voices.
‘Dottor Brunetti,’ the widow said.
He turned from the cabin door and looked back at her.
‘Thank you. That would have been too much, back there.’
He nodded in agreement. The boat began the broad left turn that would take them into the canal of the Arsenale. ‘I’d like to speak to you again,’ he said, ‘whenever it would be convenient for you.’
‘Is it necessary?’
‘Yes, I believe it is.’
The motor hummed a deeper note as the boat pulled toward the landing platform that stood on the right side of the canal.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow?’
If she was surprised or the others were offended, they gave no sign. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘In the afternoon.’
‘Thank you,’ he said as the boat hovered at the wooden landing. No one answered him, so he left the cabin, jumped from the boat onto the platform, and stood there as the boat pulled back into line, following the casket out into the deeper waters of the laguna.
* * * *
CHAPTER TWELVE
Like most of the palazzi on the Grand Canal, Palazzo Falier was originally meant to be approached by boat, and guests were meant to enter by means of the four shallow steps leading down to the landing on the canal. But this entrance had long since been closed off by a heavy metal grating that was opened only when large objects were delivered by boat. In these fallen times, guests arrived by foot, walking from Cà Rezzonico, the nearest vaporetto stop, or from other parts of the city.
Brunetti and Paola approached the palazzo by foot, passing in front of the university, then through Campo San Barnaba, after which they turned left and along a narrow canal that led them to the side entrance of the palazzo.
They rang the bell and then were ushered into the courtyard by a young man Paola had never seen before. Probably hired for the night.
‘At least he’s not wearing knee breeches and a wig,’ Brunetti remarked as they climbed the exterior staircase. The young man had not bothered to ask who they were or whether they had been invited. Either he had a guest list committed to memory and could recognize everyone who arrived or more likely, he simply did not care whom he let into the palazzo.
At the top of the stairs, they heard music coming from the left, where the three enormous reception rooms were located. Following the sound, they went down a mirror-lined hallway, accompanied by their own dim reflections. The huge oaken doors to the first room stood open. Light, music, and the scent of expensive perfume and flowers spilled from beyond them.
The light that filled the room came from two immense Murano glass chandeliers, covered with playful angels and Cupids, which hung from the frescoed ceiling, and from candle-filled stanchions that lined the walls. The music came from a discreet trio in the corner, who played Vivaldi in one of his more repetitive moods. And the scent emanated from the flock of brightly colored and even more brightly chattering women who decorated the room.
A few minutes after he saw them enter, the count approached, bowed to kiss Paola’s cheek, and extended his hand to his son-in-law. He was a tall man in his late sixties who, making no attempt to disguise the fact that his hair was thinning, wore it cut short around a tonsure and looked like a particularly studious monk. Paola had his brown eyes and broad mouth but had been spared the large prow of aristocratic nose that was the central feature of his face. His dinner jacket was so well tailored that even had it been pink, the only thing anyone seeing it would have noticed was the cut.
‘Your mother is delighted that you both could come.’ The subtle emphasis alluded to the fact that this was the first time Brunetti had attended one of their parties. ‘I hope you will enjoy yourselves.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ Brunetti replied for them both. For seventeen years, he had avoided calling his father-in-law anything. He couldn’t use the title, nor could he bring himself to call the man Papà. ‘Orazio,’ his Christian name, was too intimate, a baying at the moon of social equality. So Brunetti struggled on, not calling him anything, not even ‘Signore.’ They did, however, compromise and use the familiar tu form of address with each other, though even that did not fall easily from their lips.
The count saw his wife come across the room and smiled, beckoning her to join them. She maneuvered her way through the crowd with a combination of grace and social skill that Brunetti envied, stopping to kiss a cheek here, lightly touch an arm there. He quite enjoyed the countess, stiff and formal in her chains of pearls and layers of black chiffon. As usual, her feet were encased in dagger-pointed shoes with heels as high as curbstones, which still failed to bring her level with her husband’s shoulder.
‘Paola, Paola,’ she cried, making no attempt to hide her delight at seeing her only child. ‘I’m so glad you could finally bring Guido with you.’ She broke off for a moment to kiss them both. ‘I’m so glad to see you here, not just for Christmas or for those awful fireworks.’ Not one to keep a cat in a bag, the countess.
‘Come,’ said the count. ‘Let me get you a drink, Guido.’
‘Thank you,’ he answered, then, to Paola and her mother, ‘May we bring you something?’
‘No, no. Mamma and I will get something in a little while.’
Count Falier led Brunetti across the room, pausing occasionally to exchange a greeting or a word. At the bar, he asked for champagne for himself and a Scotch for his son-in-law.
As he handed the drink to Brunetti, he asked, ‘I assume you’re here in the line of duty. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Brunetti answered, glad of the other man’s directness.
‘Good. Then my time hasn’t been wasted.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Brunetti said.
Nodding to an enormous woman who had just enthroned herself in front of the piano, the count said, ‘I know from Paola that you’ve been assigned this Wellauer thing. It’s bad for the city, a crime like this.’ As he spoke, he could not restrain his look of disapproval at the conductor for having gotten himself killed, especially during the social season. ‘In any case, when I heard that Paola called to say you both wanted to come tonight, I made a few phone calls. I assumed that you would want to know about his finances.’
‘Yes, that correct.’ Was there any information this man couldn’t get, just by picking up the phone and dialing the right number? ‘May I ask what you learned?’
‘He wasn’t as wealthy as he was generally thought to be.’ Brunetti waited for this to be translated into numbers he could understand. He and the count, surely, would have different ideas of what ‘wealthy’ meant. ‘His total holdings, in stocks and bonds and real estate, probably didn’t amount to more than ten million deutsche marks. H
e’s got four million francs in Switzerland, at the Union Bank in Lugano, but I doubt that the German tax people will learn anything about that.’ As Brunetti was calculating that it would take him approximately three hundred and fifty years to earn such money, the count added, ‘His income from performances and recordings must bring in at least three or four million marks a year.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti acknowledged. ‘And the will?’
‘I didn’t succeed in getting a copy of it,’ the count said apologetically. Since the man had been dead only two days, Brunetti believed this was a lapse he could overlook. ‘But it’s divided equally among his children and his wife. There is talk, however, that he tried to get in touch with his lawyers a few weeks before he died; no one knows why, and it need not have been about his will.’
‘What does that mean, “tried to get in touch with”?’