by Donna Leon
He turned back to the report. The signora, it appeared, did not share her late husband’s interest in clothing. Nor, from what he read, did it seem that Alvise and Riverre thought highly of her taste. ‘Varese boots, only one pair. Black woolen coat, no label.’ They had, however, apparently been impressed by the library, which they described as ‘extensive, in three languages and what appears to be Hungarian.’
He turned another page. There were two guest rooms in the apartment, each with a separate bath. Fresh towels, empty closets, Christian Dior soap.
There was no evidence of Signora Wellauer’s daughter; nothing in the report suggested the presence in the house of the third member of the family. Neither of the two extra rooms held a teenager’s clothes or books or possessions of any kind. Knowing how he was forever finding proof of his own daughter’s existence under foot, Brunetti found this strange. Her mother had explained that she was going to school in Munich. But it was a remarkable child who managed to take all of her clutter along with her.
There was a description of the Belgian maid’s room, which the two officers appeared to have found too simply furnished, and of the maid, whom they had found subdued but helpful. The last room described was the Maestro’s office, where they had found ‘documents.’ Some, it seems, had been brought back and looked over by the German translator, who explained, in a page added to the report, that the bulk of them pertained to business and contracts. A datebook had been inspected and judged unimportant.
Brunetti decided to seek out the two authors of this document and thus spare himself the irritation of having to wait for them to respond to his request that they come up to his office. Since it was almost nine, he knew that he would find them down the street at the bar on the other side of the Ponte dei Greci. It was not the precise hour but the fact that it was before noon that made this conclusion inescapable.
Though Brunetti dreaded the assignment of the two men to any case he was working on, he couldn’t help liking them. Alvise was a squat man in his late forties, almost a caricature of the dark-skinned Sicilian, save that he came from Tarvisio, on the border with Austria. He was accepted as the resident expert on popular music, this because he had once, fifteen years ago, actually had a program autographed by Mina, the mythic queen of Italian popular singing. Over the years, this event had swelled and expanded—as had Mina—by repeated retelling, until Alvise now suggested, eyes bright with the glitter of satisfied desire, that far more had gone on between them. The retelling seemed not at all affected by the fact that the singer was a head taller than Alvise and was now almost twice his girth.
Riverre, his partner, was a red-haired Palermitano, whose only interests in life appeared to be soccer and women, in that order. The high point in his life to date was having survived the riot in the Brussels soccer stadium. He augmented his account of what he had done there, before the Belgian police arrived, with tales of his triumphs with women, usually foreigners, who, he claimed, fell like wheat before the sickle of his charms.
Brunetti found them, as he had expected, standing at the counter in the bar. Riverre was reading the sports newspaper, and Alvise was talking with Arianna, the woman who owned the bar. Neither noticed Brunetti’s arrival until he came up to the bar and ordered a coffee. At that, Alvise smiled in greeting and Riverre pulled his attention away from the paper long enough to greet his superior.
‘Two more coffees, Arianna,’ Alvise said, ‘all three on my bill.’
Brunetti recognized the maneuver, aimed at putting him in the other’s debt. By the time the three coffees arrived, Riverre stood with them, and the newspaper had somehow been transformed into a blue-covered case file, which now lay open on the counter.
Brunetti spooned in two sugars and swirled his spoon around. ‘Is it you two who went to the Maestro’s house?’
‘Yes, sir,’ brightly, from Alvise.
‘And what a house it is!’ chimed in Riverre.
‘I’ve just been looking at your report.’
‘Arianna, bring us some brioches.’
‘I read it with great interest.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Particularly your comments about his wardrobe. I take it you didn’t like those English suits.’
‘No, sir,’ replied Riverre, as usual not getting it. ‘I think they’re cut too loose in the leg.’
Alvise, reaching along the counter to open the file, accidentally nudged his partner in the arm, perhaps a bit harder than was necessary. ‘Anything else, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes. While you were there, did you notice any sign of the signora’s daughter?’
‘Is there a daughter, sir?’ This, predictably, from Riverre.
‘That’s why I’m asking you. Was there any sign of a child? Books? Clothes?’
Both showed signs of deep thought. Riverre stared off into space, which he seemed to find closer than most people did, and Alvise looked down at the floor, hands thrust into his uniform pockets. The requisite minute passed before they both answered, ‘No, sir,’ at the same time, almost as if they had practiced it.
‘Nothing at all?’
Again their separate displays, then the simultaneous response: ‘No, sir.’
‘Did you speak to the maid, the Belgian?’
Riverre rolled his eyes at the memory of the maid, suggesting that any time spent with such a stick of a woman was time wasted, even if she was a foreigner. Alvise contented himself with ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And did she tell you anything that might be important?’
Riverre drew in a breath, preparing himself to answer, but before he could begin, his partner said, ‘Nothing she actually said, sir. But I got the impression she didn’t like the signora.’
Riverre couldn’t let this pass and asked, with a lurid smile, ‘What’s not to like there?’ putting heavy emphasis on the last word.
Brunetti gave him a cool glance and asked his partner, ‘Why?’
‘It was nothing I could put my finger on,’ he began. Riverre snorted. So much for the effectiveness of his cool glance.
‘As I was saying, sir, it was nothing definite, but she seemed much more formal when the signora was there. Be hard for her to be more formal than she was with us, but it just seemed that way. She seemed to, I don’t know, get cooler when the signora was there, especially when she had to speak to her.’
‘And when was that?’
‘When we first went in. We asked her if it would be all right if we had a look around the apartment, at his things. From the way she answered us, I mean the signora, sir, it looked like she didn’t like the idea very much. But she told us to go ahead, and then she called the maid and told her to show us where his things were. It was then, when they were talking to each other, that the maid seemed, well, cold. Later, when she was talking to us, she seemed better. Didn’t warm up or anything—after all, she is Belgian—but she was better with us, more friendly, than she was with the other one.’
‘Did you speak to the signora again?’
‘Just before we were leaving, sir. We had the papers with us. She didn’t like it that we were taking them with us. It was just a look, but it’s the way she made us feel. We asked her if we could take the papers. We had to; it’s the regulation.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ chirped in Riverre.
‘What?’
‘She didn’t mind it when we looked through his clothing and closets. She sent the maid with us, didn’t even bother to come herself. But when we went into the other room, where the papers were, then she came along and told the maid to wait outside. She didn’t like us looking at that stuff, sir, papers and things.’
‘And what were they?’
‘They looked official, sir. It was all in German, and we brought it back here to be translated.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the report. What happened to the papers, after they were translated?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ answered Alvise. ‘Ei
ther they’re still down with the translator or they were sent back to her.’
‘Riverre, could you go and find out for me?’
‘Now, sir?’
‘Yes, now.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He sketched out something that resembled a salute and moved away from the bar with deliberate slowness.
‘And, Riverre,’ he called out after him. Riverre turned, hoping to be called back and spared the walk to the Questura and the two flights of stairs. ‘If the papers are there, have them sent up to my office.’
Brunetti picked up one of the brioches that lay on a plate in front of them and took a bite. He signaled to Arianna to make him another coffee. ‘While you were there,’ he asked Alvise, ‘did you notice anything else?’
‘What kind of things, sir?’ As though they were meant to see only those things they were sent to look for.
‘Anything. You mentioned the tension between the two women. Did either of them seem to act strangely?’
Alvise thought for a moment, took a bite from one of the brioches, and answered, ‘No, sir.’ Seeing that Brunetti was disappointed with this answer, he added, ‘Only when we took the papers.’
‘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.
