by Donna Leon
‘Don’t thank me until you know what I have to tell you,’ Carrara said but hung up before Brunetti could respond.
He rang down and asked Signorina Elettra if. she had received the records of the phone calls of La Capra and Semenzato and was glad to learn that not only had the Telecom office sent over copies, but as well as between their homes and offices in Italy she had also found a number of calls between those phones and the hotels in foreign countries when the other was staying there. ‘Would you like me to bring them up to you, sir?’
‘Yes, thank you, signorina.’
While he was waiting for her, he opened the file on Brett and dialled the number that was given there. He let the phone ring seven times, but there was no answer. Did this mean that she had taken his advice and left the city to go and stay in Milan? Perhaps that was what Flavia had called to tell him.
His musing was cut off by the arrival of Signorina Elettra, in sombre grey today; sombre, at least, until he glanced down and saw wildly patterned black stockings — were those flowers? — and red shoes with heels higher than any Paola had ever dared to wear. She came up to his desk and placed a brown folder in front of him. ‘I’ve circled the phone calls that correspond,’ she explained.
‘Thank you, signorina. Did you keep a copy of this?’
She nodded.
‘Good. I’d like you to get the phone listing for the antique shop of Francesco Murino, in Campo Santa Maria Formosa, and see if there’s a record that either Semenzato or La Capra made calls to him. I’d also like to know if he called either one of them.’
‘I took the liberty of calling AT&T in New York,’ Signorina Elettra said, ‘and asked if they would check to see if either of them has one of their international dialling cards. La Capra does. The man I spoke to said he’d fax us a list of his calls for the last two years. I might have it later this afternoon.’
‘Signorina, did you speak to him yourself?’ Brunetti asked, marvelling to himself. ‘English? A friend in Banca d’ltalia, and English, too?’
‘Of course. He didn’t speak Italian, even though he was working in the international section.’ Was Brunetti meant to be shocked by this lapse? If so, then he would be shocked, for, surely, Signorina Elettra was.
‘And how is it that you come to speak English?’
‘That’s what I did at Banca d’ltalia, Dottore. I was in charge of translation from English and French.’
He spoke before he could stop himself. ‘And you left?’
‘I had no choice, sir,’ she said, then, seeing his confusion, explained, ‘The man I worked for asked me to translate a letter to a bank in Johannesburg into English.’ She stopped speaking and bent down to pull out another paper. And was that all the explanation he was going to get?
‘I’m sorry, signorina, but I’m afraid I don’t understand. He asked you to translate a letter to Johannesburg?’ She nodded. ‘And you had to leave because of that?’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘Well, of course, sir.’
He smiled. ‘I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Why did you have to leave?’
She looked at him very closely, as if she’d suddenly realized he didn’t really understand Italian after all. Very clearly, she pronounced, ‘The sanctions.’
‘Sanctions?’ he repeated.
‘Against South Africa, sir. They were still in effect then, so I had no choice but to refuse to translate the letter.’
‘Do you mean the sanctions against their government?’ he asked.
‘Of course, sir. They were declared by the UN, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, I think they were. And because of that, you wouldn’t do the letter?’
‘Well, there’s no sense in declaring sanctions unless people are going to impose them, is there?’ she asked with perfect logic.
‘No, I imagine there isn’t. And then what happened?’
‘Oh, he became very unpleasant about it. Wrote a letter of reprimand. Complained to the union. And none of them defended me. Everyone seemed to believe that I should have translated the letter. So I had no choice but to resign. I didn’t think I could continue to work for such people.’
‘Of course not,’ he agreed, bowing his head over the file and vowing that he would see to it that Paola and Signorina Elettra never met.
‘Will that be all, sir?’ she asked, smiling down at him, hoping, perhaps, that he understood now.
‘Yes, thank you, signorina.’
‘I’ll bring up the fax when it comes in from New York.’
‘Thank you, signorina.’ She smiled and left the office. How had Patta found her?
There was no question about it: Semenzato and La Capra had spoken to each other at least five times in the last year; eight, if the calls Semenzato had made to hotels in various foreign countries at times when La Capra was travelling there had been to La Capra. Of course, it could be argued - and Brunetti had no doubt that a good defence lawyer would do so — that there was nothing at all unusual in the fact that these men knew each other. Both were interested in works of art. La Capra could have, quite legitimately, consulted Semenzato on any one of a number of questions: provenance, authenticity, price. He looked down at the papers and tried to work out a pattern between the phone calls and transfers of money into and out of the men’s accounts, but nothing emerged.
The phone rang. He picked it up and said his name. ‘I tried to call you earlier.’ He recognized Flavia’s voice instantly, noted again how low-pitched it was, how different from her singing voice. But that surprise was as nothing compared to what he felt at hearing her address him in the familiar ‘tu’.
‘I was seeing someone. What is it?’
‘Brett. She refuses to come to Milan with me.’
‘Does she give a reason?’
‘She says something about not feeling well enough to travel, but it’s just stubbornness. And fear. She doesn’t want to admit she’s afraid of these people, but she is.’
‘What about you?’ he asked, using ‘tu’ and discovering how right it sounded. ‘Are you leaving?’
‘I’ve got no choice,’ Flavia said but then corrected herself. ‘No, I do have a choice. I could stay if I wanted to, but I don’t. My children are coming home, and I’ve got to meet them. And I’ve got to be at La Scala on Tuesday for a piano rehearsal. I’ve cancelled once, but now I’ve said I’ll sing.’
He wondered how all of this was going to be connected to him, and Flavia quickly told him. ‘Do you think you could talk to her? Try to reason with her?’
‘Flavia,’ he began, intensely conscious of the fact that this was the first time he had called her by her first name, ‘if you can’t convince her to go, I doubt that anything I could say would change her mind.’ Then, before she could protest, he added, ‘No, I’m not trying to get out of doing it. I just don’t think it would work.’
‘What about protection?’
‘Yes. I can have a man put in the apartment with her.’ Almost without thinking, he corrected that, ‘Or a woman.’
Her response was immediate. And angry. ‘Just because we choose not to go to bed with men doesn’t mean we’re afraid of being in the same room with one.’
He was silent for so long that she finally asked, ‘Well, why don’t you say something?’
‘I’m waiting for you to apologize for being stupid.’
This time, it was Flavia who said nothing. Finally, to his considerable relief, her voice softened and she said, ‘All right, and for being rash, as well. I suppose I’ve got used to being able to push people around. And maybe I’m still looking for trouble about me and Brett.’
Apologies over, Flavia returned to the issue at hand. ‘I don’t know if she can be convinced to let someone stay in the apartment with her.’
‘Flavia, I have no other way to protect her.’ Suddenly, he heard a loud noise down the phone, something that sounded like heavy machinery. ‘What’s that?’
‘A boat.’
‘Where are you?’
&
nbsp; ‘On the Riva degli Schiavoni.’ She explained, ‘I didn’t want to call you from the house, so I went for a walk.’ Her voice changed. ‘I’m not far from the Questura. Are you allowed to accept visitors during the day?’
‘Of course,’ he laughed. ‘I’m one of the bosses.’
‘Would it be all right if I came over and saw you? I hate talking on the phone.’
‘Of course. Come when you want. Come now. I’ve got to wait for a phone call, but there’s no sense in your walking around in the rain all afternoon. Besides,’ he added, smiling to himself, ‘it’s warm here.’
‘All right. Do I ask for you?’
‘Yes, tell the officer at the door that you have an appointment, and he’ll bring you up to my office.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be there soon.’ She hung up without waiting for his goodbye.
As soon as he replaced the phone, it rang again, and he answered it to find Carrara.
‘Guido, your Signor La Capra was in the computer.’
‘Yes?’
‘It was the Chinese ceramics that made it easy to find him.’
‘Why?’
‘Two things. There was a celadon bowl that disappeared from a private collection in London about three years ago. The man they finally sent down for it said that he had been paid by an Italian to get that specific piece.’
‘La Capra?’
‘He didn’t know. But the person who turned him in said that La Capra’s name was used by one of the middle men who arranged the deal.’
‘ “Arranged the deal”?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Just like that, set up the robbery of a single piece?’
‘Yes. It’s getting more and more common,’ Carrara answered.
‘And the second?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Well, this one is only rumoured. In fact, we have it listed in with the “unconfirmed”.’
‘What is it?’
‘About two years ago, a dealer in Chinese art in Paris, a certain Philippe Bernadotte, was killed in a mugging while he was out walking his dog one night. His wallet was taken, and his keys. The keys were used to get into his house, but, strangely enough, nothing was stolen. But his papers had been gone through, and it looked like a number of them had been removed.’
‘And La Capra?’
‘The man’s partner could remember only that, a few days before he was killed, Monsieur Bernadotte had referred to a serious argument with a client who had accused him of selling a piece he knew was false.’
‘Was the client Signor La Capra?’
‘The partner didn’t know. All he remembered was that Monsieur Bernadotte repeatedly referred to the client as “the goat”, but at the time his partner thought it was a joke.’
‘Were Monsieur Bernadotte and his partner capable of selling a piece they knew to be false?’ Brunetti asked.
‘The partner, not. But it appears that Bernadotte had been involved in a number of sales, and purchases, that were open to question.’
‘By the art theft police?’
‘Yes. The Paris office had a growing file on him.’
‘But nothing was taken from his home after he was killed?’
‘It would seem not, but whoever killed him also had the time to remove whatever they wanted from his files and from his inventory lists.’
‘So it’s possible that Signer La Capra was the goat that he mentioned to his partner?’
‘So it would seem,’ agreed Carrara.
‘Anything else?’
‘No, but we’d appreciate learning anything else you have to tell about him.’
‘I’ll have my secretary send you what we’ve got, and I’ll let you know anything we find out about him and Semenzato.’
‘Thanks, Guido.’ And Carrara was gone.
What was it Count Almaviva sang? ‘E mi far à il destino ritrovar questo paggio in ogni loco! Just so, it seemed to be Brunetti’s destiny to find La Capra everywhere he looked. Somehow, though, Cherubino seemed significantly more innocent than did Signor La Capra. Brunetti had learned more than enough to convince him that La Capra was involved with Semenzato, possibly in his death. But all of it was entirely circumstantial; none of it would have the least value in a court of law.
He heard a knock at his door and called, ‘Avanti! A uniformed policeman opened the door, stood back and allowed Flavia Petrelli to enter. As she passed in front of the policeman, Brunetti saw the flash of the officer’s hand moving in a smart salute before he closed the door. Brunetti had not the least doubt about whom the gesture was intended to honour.
She wore a dark brown raincoat lined with fur. The chill of the early evening had brought colour to her face, which, again, was bare of make-up. She came quickly across the room and took his outstretched hand. ‘So this is where you work?’ she asked.
He came around his desk and took the coat which the heat in the room rendered unnecessary. While she looked about her, he put the coat on a hanger on the back of his door. He saw that the outside of the coat was wet, glanced back at her, and saw that her hair was wet as well. ‘Don’t you have an umbrella?’ he asked.
Unconsciously, she put her hand up to her hair and pulled it away, surprised to find it wet. ‘No, it wasn’t raining when I left the house.’
‘When was that?’ he asked, coming back across die room towards her.
‘After lunch. After two, I suppose.’ Her answer was vague, suggesting that she really couldn’t remember.
He pulled a second chair up beside the one that faced his desk and waited for her to sit before sitting opposite her. Even though he had seen her only a few hours ago, Brunetti was struck by the change in her appearance. This morning, she had seemed calm and relaxed, ready to join with him in an Italianate attempt to convince Brett to consider her own safety. But now she seemed stiff and on edge, and the tension showed in the lines around her mouth that, he was sure, hadn’t been there this morning.
‘How’s Brett?’ he asked.
She sighed and swept the fingers of one hand to the side in a dismissive gesture. ‘At times, it’s like talking to one of my children. She agrees with everything I say, admits that everything I say is right, and then decides to do precisely what she wants.’
‘Which, in this case, is what?’ Brunetti asked.
‘To stay here and not go to Milan with me.’
‘When are you leaving?’
‘Tomorrow. There’s an evening flight that gets in at nine. That gives me time to go and open up the apartment and then go back to the airport to meet the children in the morning.’
‘Does she say why she doesn’t want to go?’
Flavia shrugged, as if what Brett said and what was true were two separate things. ‘She says she won’t be frightened away from her own house, that she won’t run away and hide with me.’
‘Isn’t that her real reason?’
‘Who knows what her real reason is?’ she asked with something like anger. ‘It’s enough for Brett to want to do something or not to want to do it. She doesn’t need reasons or excuses. She does just what she wants.’ It was not lost on Brunetti that only another person with the same strength of will could find the quality so outrageous.
Though he was tempted to ask Flavia why she had come to see him, Brunetti asked, instead, ‘Is there any way you could convince her to go with you?’
‘You obviously don’t know her very well,’ Flavia said dryly, but then she smiled. ‘No, I don’t think there is. It’d probably be easier if someone told her not to go; then she’d be forced to do it, I suppose.’ She shook her head and repeated, ‘Just like my children.’
‘Would you like me to talk to her?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Do you think it would do any good?’
It was his turn to shrug. ‘I don’t know. I’m not very successful with my own children.’
She looked up, surprised. ‘I didn’t know you had children.’
‘It’s a natural enough thing for a man my age, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it
is,’ she answered, and considered her next remark before speaking. ‘It’s just that I know you as a policeman, almost as if you weren’t a real person.’ Before he could say it, she added, ‘Yes, I know, and you know me as a singer.’
‘Well, I don’t really, do I?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean? We met when I was singing.’
‘Yes, but the performance was over. And, since then, I’ve only heard you sing on discs. And I’m afraid it’s not the same.’
