by Donna Leon
On his desk lay the usual personnel reports and requests for information from police in other cities as well as letters from people in the city. There was one from a woman on the small island of Torcello, asking him personally to look for her son, whom she knew had been kidnapped by the Syrians. The woman was mad, and different members of the police received a letter from her each month: it was always the same non-existent son, but the kidnappers changed according to the winds of world politics.
If he went now, he could see Patta before lunch. With this beacon shining out its bright hope, he took the slim file of papers on the Semenzato and Lynch crimes and went down to Patta’s office.
Though fresh iris abounded, Signorina Elettra was not at her desk. Probably out at the landscaper’s. He knocked and was told to enter. Spared the vagaries of the heating system, Patta’s office was a perfect 22 degrees, the ideal temperature to allow him the luxury of removing his jacket, should the pace of work grow too frenetic. Having so far been spared that necessity, he sat behind his desk, his mohair jacket buttoned, diamond tie-pin neatly in place. As always, Patta looked as if he had just slipped off a Roman coin, his large brown eyes perfectly set among the other perfections of his face.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Brunetti said, taking the seat that Patta gestured him to.
‘Good morning, Brunetti.’ When Brunetti leaned forward to place the folder on Patta’s desk, his superior waved it away with his hand. ‘I’ve read it. Carefully. I take it you’re working on the assumption that the beating of Dottoressa Lynch and the murder of Dottor Semenzato are related?’
‘Yes, sir, I am. I don’t see how they can’t be.’
He thought for a moment that Patta, as was usual with him, would object to any expressed certainty that was not his own, but he surprised Brunetti by nodding his head and saying, ‘Yes, you’re probably right. What have you done so far?’
‘I’ve interviewed Dottoressa Lynch,’ he began, but Patta broke in.
‘I hope you were polite with her.’
Brunetti contented himself with a simple, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, good. She’s an important benefactress of the city, and she’s to be treated accordingly.’
Brunetti allowed that to trickle away and then resumed. ‘There was a Japanese assistant who came here to close the exhibition and send the pieces back to China.’
‘Dottoressa Lynch’s assistant?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A woman?’ Patta asked sharply.
Patta’s tone so dirtied the word that Brunetti had to pause for a moment before he replied, ‘Yes, sir. A woman.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘Shall I go on, sir?!
‘Yes, yes. Of course.’
‘Dottoressa Lynch told me that the woman was killed in an accident in China.’
‘What kind of accident?’ Patta asked, as if this would turn out to have been an inescapable consequence of her sexual proclivities.
‘In a fall at the archaeological site where they were working.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Three months ago. It was after Dottoressa Lynch wrote to Semenzato to say that she thought some of the pieces that had been returned to China were false.’
‘And this woman who was killed was the one who packed them?’
‘It would seem so, sir.’
‘Did you ask Dottoressa Lynch what her relationship was to this woman?’
Well, he hadn’t, had he? ‘No, sir. I didn’t. The Dottoressa seemed troubled by her death and by the possibility of the young woman’s involvement in whatever is going on here, but there was no more than that.’
‘Are you sure of that, Brunetti?’ Patta’s eyes actually narrowed when he asked this.
‘Absolutely, sir. I’d stake my reputation on it.’ As he always did when he lied to Patta, he stared him directly in the eyes, careful to keep his own open fully, his gaze level. ‘Shall I go on, sir?’ As soon as he said it, Brunetti realized he didn’t have anything else to say — well, anything else he wanted to say to Patta. Surely not that the Japanese girl’s family was so wealthy that she would, presumably, have had no financial interest in the substitution of pieces. The thought of the way Patta would respond to the idea of sexual jealousy as a motive made Brunetti feel faintly queasy.
‘Do you think this Japanese woman knew that false pieces were sent back to China?’
‘It’s possible, sir.’
‘But it is not possible,’ Patta said with heavy emphasis, ‘that she could have organized it herself. She must have had help here, here in Venice.’
‘It would seem so, sir. That’s a possibility I’m pursuing.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve initiated an investigation of Dottor Semenzato’s finances.’
‘On whose authority?’ Patta snapped.
‘My own, sir.’
Patta let that stand as said. ‘What else?’
‘I’ve already spoken to some people about Semenzato, and I expect to get information about his real reputation.’
‘What do you mean, “real reputation”?’
Oh, so seldom does fate cast our enemy into our hands, to do with as we will. ‘Don’t you think, sir, that every bureaucrat has an official reputation, what people say about him publicly, and then the real reputation, what people know to be true and say about him in private?’
Patta turned his right palm upward on his desk and moved his pinkie ring around on his finger with his thumb, examining it to see that he got the motion right. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps.’ He looked up from his palm. ‘Go on, Brunetti.’
‘I thought I’d begin with these things and see where they lead me.’
‘Yes, that sounds fair enough to me,’ Patta said. ‘Remember, I want to know about anything you do or find out.’ He consulted his Rolex Oyster. ‘I don’t want to keep you from getting busy with this, Brunetti.’
Brunetti stood, recognizing Patta’s lunch hour when it struck. He started towards the door, curious only about the way Patta would remind him to handle Brett with kid gloves.
‘And Brunetti,’ Patta said as Brunetti reached the door.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said, really curious, something he very seldom was with Patta.
‘I want you to handle Dottoressa Lynch with kid gloves.’ Ah, so that’s how he’d say it.
* * * *
Chapter Thirteen
Back in his office, the first thing Brunetti did after he opened the window was call Lele. There was no answer at his house, so Brunetti tried the gallery, where the painter picked up the phone after six rings. ‘Pronto.’
‘Ciao, Lele, it’s Guido. I thought I’d call and see if you’d managed to find out anything.’
‘About that person?’ Lele answered, making it clear that he couldn’t talk freely.
‘Yes. Is someone there?’
‘Ah, yes, now that you mention it, I think that’s true. Are you going to be in your office for a while, Signor Scarpa?’
‘Yes, I will be. For another hour or so.’
‘Good, then, Signor Scarpa. I’ll call you there when I’m free.’
‘Thanks, Lele,’ Brunetti said and hung up.
Who was it that Lele didn’t want to know he was talking with a commissario of police?
He turned to the papers in the file, making a note here and there. He had been in contact with the special branch of police that dealt with art theft on several occasions in the past, but at this point all he had to give them was Semenzato’s name and no proof of anything at all. Semenzato might indeed have a reputation that did not appear in official reports, the sort that never got written down.
Four years ago, he had dealt with one of the captains of the art branch in Rome, about a Gothic altarpiece stolen from the church of San Giacomo dell’Orio. Giulio something or other, but Brunetti couldn’t remember his surname. He reached for the phone and dialled Signorina Elettra’s number.
‘Yes, Commissario?’ she asked when he identified him
self.
‘Have you had any response from Heinegger or your friends at the bank?’
‘This afternoon, sir.’
‘Good. Until then, I’d like you to take a look in the files and see if you can find a name for me, a captain of the art theft bureau in Rome. Giulio something. He and I corresponded about a theft at San Giacomo dell’Orio. About four years ago. Perhaps five.’
‘Have you any idea how it would be filed, sir?’
‘Either under my name, since I wrote the original report, or under the name of the church, or perhaps under art theft.’ He thought for a moment and then added, ‘You might check the record of a certain Sandro — Alessandro, that is - Benelli, whose address used to be in San Lio. I think he’s still in prison, but there might be some mention of the captain’s name in there. I think he provided a deposition at the trial.’
‘Certainly, sir. Today?’
‘Yes, signorina, if you could.’
‘I’ll go down to the files and take a look now. Maybe I can find something before lunch.’
The optimism of youth. ‘Thank you, signorina,’ he said and hung up. As soon as he did, the phone rang, and it was Lele.
‘I couldn’t talk, Guido. I had someone in the gallery who I think might be useful to you in this.’
‘Who?’ When Lele didn’t answer, Brunetti apologized, remembering that he needed the information, not its source. ‘Sorry, Lele. Forget I asked that. What did he tell you?’
‘It seems that Dottor Semenzato was a man of many interests. Not only was he the director of the museum, but he was also a silent partner in two antique shops, one here and one in Milan. The man I was talking to works in one of the shops.’
Brunetti resisted the urge to ask which one. Instead, he remained silent, knowing that Lele would tell him what he thought necessary.
‘It seems that the owner of these shops — not Semenzato, the official owner — has access to pieces that never appear in the shops. The man I spoke to said that twice in the past certain pieces have been brought in and unpacked by mistake. As soon as the owner saw them, he had them repacked and taken away, said that they were for his private collection.’
‘Did he tell you what these pieces were?’
‘He said that one of them was a Chinese bronze, and the other was a piece of pre-Islamic ceramic. He also said, and I thought this might interest you, that he was fairly certain he had seen a photo of the ceramic in an article about the pieces taken from the Kuwait Museum.’
‘When did this happen?’ Brunetti asked.
‘The first time, about a year ago, and then three months ago,’ Lele answered.
‘Did he tell you anything else?’
‘He said that the owner has a number of clients who have access to this private collection.’
‘How did he know that?’
‘Sometimes, when he was talking to these clients, the owner would refer to pieces he had, but the pieces weren’t in the shop. Or he’d telephone one of these clients and tell him he was getting a particular item on a certain date, but then the piece would never come into the shop. But, later, it would sound like a sale had taken place.’
‘Why would he tell you this, Lele?’ Brunetti asked, though he knew he wasn’t supposed to.
‘We worked together in London, years ago, and I did him some favours then.’
‘And how did you know to ask him, of all people?’
Instead of being offended, Lele laughed. ‘Oh, I asked some questions about Semenzato, and someone told me to speak to my friend.’
‘Thanks, Lele.’ Brunetti understood, as do all Italians, how the whole delicate web of personal favours enwrapped the social system. It all seemed so casual: someone spoke to a friend, had a word with a cousin, and some information was exchanged. And with that information a new balance was struck between debit and credit. Sooner or later, everything was repaid, all debts called in.
‘Who’s the owner of these shops?’
‘Francesco Murino. He’s a Neapolitan. I did some business with him when he first opened his shop here, years ago, and he’s un vero figlio di puttana. If there’s anything crooked going on here, he’s in for his fair share.’
‘Is he the one who has the shop in Santa Maria Formosa?’
‘Yes, do you know him?’
‘Only by sight. He’s never been in any trouble, not that I know of.’
‘Guido, I told you he’s a Neapolitan. Of course he hasn’t been in any trouble, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t as crooked as a viper.’ The passion with which Lele spoke made Brunetti curious about the dealings he might have had with Murino in the past.
‘Did anyone say anything else about Semenzato?’
Lele made a noise of disgust, ‘You know how it is when a person dies. No one wants to tell the truth.’
‘Yes, someone else told me that, just this morning,’
‘What else did they tell you?’ Lele asked with what seemed like real curiosity.
‘That I should wait a couple of weeks, and then people will begin to tell the truth again.’
Lele laughed so loudly that Brunetti had to hold the phone away from his ear until he stopped. When he did, Lele said, ‘How right they are. But I don’t think it will take that long.’
‘Does that mean there’s more to tell about him?’
‘No, I don’t want to mislead you, Guido, but one or two people didn’t seem terribly surprised that he was killed like this.’ When Brunetti didn’t ask him what he meant, Lele added, ‘It would seem that he had connections with people from the South.’
‘Are they getting interested in art now?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, it seems drugs and prostitutes aren’t enough anymore.’
‘I guess we’d better double the guards in the museums from now on.’
‘Guido, who do you think they buy the paintings from?’
Was this to be yet another consequence of upward mobility, Brunetti wondered, the Mafia in competition with Sotheby’s? ‘Lele, how trustworthy are these people you’ve spoken to?’
‘You can believe what they say, Guido.’
‘Thanks, Lele. If you hear anything more about him, please let me know.’
‘Of course. And Guido, if these gentlemen from the South are involved in this, then you’d better be very careful, all right?’ It was a sign of the power it had already garnered here in the North that people were reluctant to pronounce the name of the Mafia.
‘Of course, Lele, and thanks again.’
‘I’m serious,’ Lele said before he hung up.
Brunetti replaced his phone and, almost without thinking, went and opened the window to allow some cold air into the room. Work on the fa ç ade of the church of San Lorenzo opposite his office had stopped for the winter, and the scaffolding stood there deserted. One large piece of the plastic wrapping that encased it had been torn loose and, even at this distance, Brunetti could hear it snapping angrily in the wind. Above the church and rolling in from the south, Brunetti could see the dark clouds that would surely bring more rain by the end of the afternoon.
He glanced at his watch. There was no time to visit Signor Murino before lunch, but Brunetti decided to stop by his shop that afternoon and see how he reacted to having a commissario of police come in and announce himself. The Mafia. Stolen art. He knew that more than half of the museums in the country were more or less permanently closed, but he had never before stopped to consider what this could mean in terms of pilfering, theft or, in the case of the Chinese exhibits, substitution. Guards were badly paid, yet their unions were so strong that they prevented volunteers from being allowed to work as guards in the museums. He remembered hearing, years ago, a suggestion that young men who chose two years of social service in lieu of a year and a half of military service be allowed to serve as museum guards. The idea had not even made it to the floor of the Senate.
Assuming that the substitution of false pieces was something Semenzato had a part in, who better to dispose of the
originals than an antique dealer? He would have not only the clientele and the expertise to make an accurate appraisal, but, if necessary, he would know how to make delivery without interference from either the police of the Finance Department or the Fine Arts Commission. Getting pieces into or out of the country was child’s play. A glance at the map of Italy showed how permeable the borders were. Thousands of kilometres of bays, coves, inlets, beaches. Or, for the well organized or well connected, there were the ports and the airports, through which anything could pass with impunity. It was not only those who guarded the museums who were badly paid.
