by David Hewson
“I have no idea, Uncle. It depends who the composer is and whether he will produce new works. Perhaps he is old....”
“Old! Old! Did that sound like an old man’s music? Why, someone’s trying to rewrite the rules beneath our noses, and none over the age of thirty would dream of doing that.”
“If you say so. But I wonder how many people would notice such a thing. They just hear delightful music, well played, and ask no such questions.”
Leo grinned slyly. “Perhaps they should. I asked Vivaldi a question.”
The blood froze still in my veins. I said nothing.
“I asked him why he stared at the nicely disguised violinist I had sent him—Rebecca ‘Guillaume,’ I believe he called her. Why, she seems to think herself a rosy-cheeked Gentile these days.”
I answered this after some decent pause for deliberation. “I believe neither of us should dwell on the issue of the Levis, Uncle. Or we might both find ourselves incriminated.”
In an instant his hand shot across the table, grabbed my collar, and dragged me over the food and drink until I was no more than an inch or two from his face. He was surprisingly strong, and I was so shocked I didn’t resist.
“Don’t play with me, boy! I talked to Vivaldi and asked him how long it took her to learn her part. He gave me that supercilious look of his and said, ‘Why, Scacchi. It must be a miracle indeed. A day or two, no more. It was almost as if she knew the piece before I gave her the notes.’ ”
He flung me back into my seat, where I remained, desperately trying to see a way around this inquisition.
“Do you think I’m a simpleton, Lorenzo? That manuscript you found ‘left outside the door’? And all the time you and the pretty thing have spent together.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“Hah! She’s the one. You know it full well. And let me tell you something. She can never claim authorship of that music. She can whine and plead and throw herself at the feet of the Doge himself, and the city will still tear her apart the moment it realises Rebecca ‘Guillaume’ has been duping them all along. Jewesses do not write music or taunt the Church in this world. Her only hope—for her music and her survival—is to throw herself on the mercy of one who will invent some subterfuge that keeps her hidden.”
It was obvious who Leo had in mind for this role, and I knew already what kind of master he made. My mind whirled.
“And you,” he snarled. “You call yourself my flesh and blood, and still go along with this deceit. One glance from a pretty Hebrew face and it’s to hell with all your loyalties, eh?”
The painting in the church across the rio came into my head once more. I marvelled I had once found it incomprehensible that an apprentice might harbour thoughts of murdering his master.
“Is there anything more you require of me, Uncle?” I replied.
“What do you have to offer?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Then off with you. I’ll speak to the Levis myself and see what may be done. As for your excursions with the lady, I think you may forget them. There’s plenty of work for you here. Start by sweeping out the cellar, for one thing. And mind the rats don’t bite. You stay within these doors until I say you may do otherwise.”
With that I retired to my room to watch the evening strollers in San Cassian and let my fury dissipate like smoke into the night. Leo is like the spider. He throws his web in dark corners, watches from the shadows, then pounces when his victims are ensnared. Yet in this vain confidence lies his undoing.
I listened while, two floors below, he drank wine, talking to himself, with the cold, metallic sound of his empty laughter echoing from time to time around the room. The red Veneto grape is my uncle’s only bed-fellow these days, and when this affair is consummated he sleeps. After midnight I heard the sound of snoring and was gone, out into the night, out to the ghetto.
40
The captain makes progress
GIULIA MORELLI SAT AT HER DESK IN FRONT OF A neatly stacked pile of reports, thinking about Ca’ Scacchi, Daniel Forster, and what had happened some weeks before in the apartment in Sant’ Alvise. All were, she felt, somehow linked. It was the third event— her nearness to death in the small, dark room—which enlarged her personal stake in discovering the thread which tied them together. The memory of that moment, of being on her knees opposite the dead caretaker, wounded and waiting to follow along the journey he had made, haunted her. It was, she felt, an imposition, a ghost. One that required exorcism, by whatever means were appropriate.
Scacchi’s housekeeper was lying; that much was obvious. So were both Englishmen, though in the case of the younger she found it impossible to grasp the reason. She had been inside his bedroom, seen the barely ruffled sheets there, and compared them with the tangled mass of fabric that was the woman’s bed. It was not hard to guess where he had really spent that night. Was the housekeeper lying to protect him? That seemed impossible. He was too convinced of her innocence, too anxious for Scacchi to recover sufficiently to exculpate her from the attack.
Massiter was a different matter. His name appeared in every one of the files on her desk, each as inconclusive as the next. That he partook in smuggling illicit objects could not be doubted. They had intelligence from myriad sources to suggest this was the case. But there were rumours, also, of tax evasion and outright fraud. Massiter’s name cropped up in too many conversations for its appearance to be coincidence. Yet not a shred of evidence had been found against him. Even so, an ambitious detective had, some four years earlier, gained authority to search his apartment near Salute. He came away empty-handed and now pushed a pen in Padua.
Massiter had friends everywhere, friends who stood in the dark. He would, she assumed, be constantly forewarned of any impending action against him and act accordingly. Nevertheless, some soft Achilles’ heel must exist, and she knew where it lay. If the rumours were correct, there had to be some lockup or small warehouse in the city or Mestre where he was able to store his contraband goods before moving them on. The hapless detective whose career now ebbed away in Padua had ransacked the city records, looking for some magazzino that had Massiter’s name on the deeds or rental contract and found nothing. Still, this illicit Aladdin’s cave must exist. Massiter dealt in real objects, solid artefacts. They could not be spirited through the city on wings.
She walked to the window and watched the crowds heading for the station. It was a close summer day. The city swarmed with tourists. Somewhere beyond the glass, no more than a mile or two from where she stood, must lie all the answers. And some, too, to questions which no one had asked for years. Giulia Morelli returned to her desk and opened the final file, the one marked “Susanna Gianni.” She recalled the way the records clerk had looked at her when she asked for it. This was a case which had lost none of its potency for those who had been touched by it. She could not forget that brief week of frantic activity a decade before when, for a short interlude, it seemed a vicious killer might be loose in the city. Then the sudden sense of finality which resulted from the discovery of the conductor’s body. She had been in the party which visited the Gritti Palace to look at his corpse. The room was so tidy, the position of the dead man so perfect. She had looked through his luggage and found some mild homosexual pornography and a phone number which proved to be that of a gay pimp in Mestre. She had opened his wardrobes and smelled the heavy, cloying scent on his clothes. Later she had spoken to those who had known him and confirmed what she already understood to be true: that Anatole Singer’s sexual tastes did not lie in women of any age, least of all a lovely teenager who had blossomed beneath his care.
But she had revealed none of this for a good reason, one which continued to haunt her. She had been there when they searched the conductor’s suite, had seen what was found and what was taken away. She had followed in the footsteps of the captain in charge, old Ruggiero, who was now comfortably retired to Tuscany. She had watched him catalogue every last item and seen the report book
before they left the hotel. There had been no suicide note. Every one of them knew as much; every one of them acquiesced when Ruggiero later produced it from nowhere and declared the case closed. She had never once taken a penny in bribes or as much as a free drink from a neighbourhood bar. Yet, through that single act of acceptance, Giulia Morelli continued to feel as stained as the grubbiest of Veneto cops whose palm stood open, always.
She stared at the typed report in front of her and started to read it again, even though by now she felt she knew it by heart. Almost an hour later, when her head was beginning to ache from the pointless effort, there was a knock on the door. One of the uniformed sergeants stood there, looking wary.
“Yes?”
He shuffled, uncomfortable in her presence, as so many of them were. “You said you wanted us to trawl for something on that killing.”
He had a file in his hand. She felt her spirits rise a little. “I did.”
“We picked up some cheap little hood lifting an American’s wallet in San Marco this morning.”
“Well?”
“When I asked him if he knew anything about what happened at the Scacchi place, he went white. Really white. Like he couldn’t believe it. There’s something there. Hell, I don’t know what.”
She walked to the door, took the file, and followed him down two flights of steps to the interview room, reading all the way.
“You know this man?”
“Rizzo? Sure. Minor league. Pickpocket. Errand boy.”
The sergeant was about thirty, tall and straight-backed, with a plain, pale face. He looked trustworthy. The new crop always did.
“Did he have any...associations?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he replied. “He doesn’t belong to any of the local packs, if that’s what you mean.”
It wasn’t, but she let that pass. “So what else do you know?”
“You mean apart from him going white like that? You need something else?”
She just stared and waited for an answer. The sergeant shrugged. “When we picked him up, he had a bankbook in his pocket that showed he’d deposited forty thousand U.S. dollars just on Friday.”
They stopped outside the interview room door. “Do you know where he was around three-thirty this morning?”
He smiled at that one. “Oh, yes. Here. We picked him up at three trying to roll this guy in San Marco. Odd. This jerk looks more professional than that. Maybe something’s worrying him. This is some small-time neighbourhood jerk. He doesn’t go around breaking into big houses and killing people. It’s beyond his imagination.”
“Is he married?”
“Complete loner. He’s got some fixed-rent place near the old ghetto. Nothing there except a few things that’ll never get back to the owners, wherever they are. Hey, it’s not a big deal. If it weren’t for the money and the way he came over all queer, I wouldn’t even have bothered you.”
She touched the sleeve of his shirt and was amused that he almost jumped at her touch. “Thanks anyway. I’m grateful. Are you going to charge him?”
“You bet I’m going to charge him. Why do you think we do this? For the pleasure of their company?”
“I was just thinking...”
“Yeah, yeah. I know what you were thinking.”
“If it makes sense to wait awhile. Let him think he’s trading something ...”
“If . . . You make the case to me. You tell me why I should let him go.”
She nodded. There was a decision here she would one day have to face: finding someone to trust, someone with whom she could share her ideas.
“What’s your name, Sergeant?” she asked.
“Biagio.”
“Well, thanks.” Giulia Morelli pushed open the door and walked into the interview room, took one look at the man, waved at the cigarette smoke that made the atmosphere opaque, then strode to the window and threw it open, letting in the faint smell of fumes from the nearby car park. She stared at the grey landscape until she had stopped trembling. She had trained herself to ignore instinct. Facts were all that mattered. Yet, crazy as she knew it to be, Giulia Morelli found it impossible to shake the idea that this was the killer she had last met in the Sant’ Alvise apartment. Then it came to her. There was the stink of that dread room in Sant’ Alvise: cheap, strong cigarettes, African maybe, and the rank odour of sweaty fear. Such a small fact, and one which meant nothing in law.
“Put that out,” she barked at the figure on the other side of the table.
“What?”
She reached over, grabbed the cigarette from his mouth, and stubbed it out on the plain plastic top of the table. Rizzo looked shocked.
“Hey!”
She stared into his eyes. It had been dark in the apartment. She had never looked closely at the figure that hovered over the caretaker’s dead body. Nevertheless, there was the smell, and something about his presence too. She was sure it was him.
“You remember me?”
He scowled. “Never had the pleasure. So what is this?”
There was time, she knew. As much as she wanted. There was no point in tackling the issue head-on. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?” she barked. “Forty thousand dollars in the bank and you try to roll some American in full sight of a couple of cops. Jesus. If there was a law against being dumb, you’d get life.”
Rizzo’s narrow eyes opened a little wider. There was an expression of relief on his face, and she understood why. He had been expecting to be quizzed about a murder, and found himself faced with a simple mugging instead. The man was off guard.
“You listen to me ...” he objected. His voice had a coarse city croak.
“All in good time!” He went quiet when she yelled at him. She looked at the sergeant. “You’ve got his possessions. Give them here.”
Biagio smiled, enjoying the show, then brought a red plastic tray to her. She picked up the bankbook, glanced at it, then threw it on the floor.
“Bitch!” Rizzo screamed. “That’s my money.”
“It’s going to buy you a lot in jail,” she hissed.
Rizzo held out his hands to the sergeant. “Look. I give in. Take away the crazy witch and bring me a normal cop. The American just asked for it. OK?”
“No such luck,” she said, then picked up his mobile phone, one of the tiny ones the young liked so much. She pressed the button. It burst into life with a beep.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.
“Calling my cousin in New York. You don’t mind, do you? These things are just so pretty you have to play with the buttons. Oh, look! You’re not such a loner at all!”
Rizzo’s eyes were back to being slits again. He looked pale. Not quite the white shade the sergeant had spoken of, but she got the message anyway. “What do you mean?” he asked.
She shook her head. “These uniform people. They go all over your flat and think you’re just some solitary, antisocial scum. Just because you don’t know anyone and the only girlfriends you’ve got live in those magazines you keep by the bed.”
He didn’t say anything. Deep in her head Giulia Morelli let a little whisper run around the long, dark corridors there, one that said: Get lucky, get lucky, get lucky.
“But we know different, don’t we? Look. This loner’s got four people he loves so much he keeps their numbers right there all the time just so he can call them when he feels like it.”
She pointed the face of the phone at him. “Who are they, Rizzo?”
“Relatives,” he grumbled. “Friends.”
“Right.” She looked at the numbers and tried to keep hoping. The first two were in Mestre. The third was in Rome. Only the last was local.
“Do you think we should call them?”
“If you want. My folks live in Mestre. They’re divorced. Two numbers, OK? And I got a friend in Rome.”
“And the last?”
He didn’t reply. She pressed the key, waited for a few rings until someone answered, then killed the call without saying a
word. Rizzo was grinning at her.
“Listen,” he said. “I like pizza. You call, they come. Real cheap too. I can recommend it, though I guess you cops never like to pay for anything, do you?”
She listened to the sound of traffic outside the window and wished there were a better place to work. It was the absence of cars that made her stay in the city. Then she stabbed at the buttons again.
“You had pizza last night, Rizzo.”
“Maybe.” He’d turned surly again.
“No, that was a statement. Not a question. Look.” She turned the face of the phone to him again. “It shows the last ten numbers you dialled. And when.”
“Right.” He was pale once more. She tapped at the keys, listened to the call go through, then once again hung up without speaking.
“Bank,” she said, then dialled again.
Rizzo swore and glanced at the sergeant. “This is private, man,” he moaned. “There are laws about this stuff.”
“Wow,” Giulia Morelli said gleefully. “You bet too? All that money’s not enough for you, Rizzo? You still have to play the horses? That is sad, surely. It shows an undue obsession with material objects.”
She looked at the list of numbers again. Rizzo’s social life was not wonderful. There was only one other unique entry. The rest were repeat calls to the bank. She pressed the button, listened for a good thirty seconds, then hung up. Giulia Morelli pulled her chair up to the desk, put her elbows on the blue plastic, and smiled.
“How do you know Hugo Massiter?” she asked. “What do you do for him?”
His head jerked from side to side. “Who? I don’t believe this woman. What kind of stupid game do you think you’re playing?”
“How do you know Hugo Massiter?” she repeated. “What do you do for him?”
He slammed his hands on the table. She didn’t blink.
“Enough,” he said. “Just charge me or let me go. I don’t care. I just want this bitch out of my face. Trying to play these stupid tricks.”
