Death in a Strange Country by Donna Leon
‘And how might I do that, sir?’
Patta peered at him, then back at the paper. ‘I’m assigning you to the investigation of this break-in on the Grand Canal.’ Brunetti was certain that the location of that crime, and the suggestion it made about the wealth of the victim, was more than enough to make it seem, to Patta, far more important in real terms than mere murder, especially when that victim was not even an officer.
‘And what about the American, sir?’
‘We’ll go through the usual procedures. We’ll see if any of our bad boys talk about it or suddenly seem to have more money than they should.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘The Americans are looking into it, as well,’ Patta said, as if that put an end to it.
‘I beg your pardon, sir. How can the Americans look into something here in Venice?’
Patta narrowed his eyes. ‘They have their ways, Brunetti. They have their ways.’
Brunetti was in no doubt as to that, but he was in some doubt as to whether those ways would necessarily be directed towards finding the murderer. ‘I’d prefer to continue with this, sir. I don’t believe it was a mugging.’
‘I’ve decided it was, Commissario, and that’s how we’re going to treat it.’
‘What does that mean, sir?’
Patta tried astonishment. ‘It means, Commissario, and I want you to pay attention to this, it means precisely what I said, that we are going to treat it as a murder that happened during a robbery attempt.’
‘Officially?’
‘Officially,’ Patta repeated, then added, with heavy emphasis, ‘and unofficially.’
There was no need for Brunetti to ask what that meant.
Gracious in his victory, Patta said, ‘Of course, your interest and enthusiasm in this will be appreciated by the Americans.’ Brunetti thought it would make more sense for them to appreciate success, but this was not an opinion that could be offered now when Patta was at his most quixotic and had to be handled with greatest delicacy.
‘Well, I’m still not convinced, sir,’ Brunetti began, letting doubt and resignation struggle in his voice. ‘But I suppose it’s possible. I certainly found nothing about him that would suggest anything else.’ That is, if he discounted the odd few hundred million in cocaine.
‘I’m glad you see it that way, Brunetti. I think it shows that you’re growing more realistic about police work.’ Patta looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘They had a Guardi.’
Brunetti, left behind by his superior’s chamois-like leap from one subject to another, could only ask, ‘A what?’
‘A Guardi, Commissario. Francesco Guardi. I would think you’d at least recognize the name: he’s one of your most famous Venetian painters.’
‘Oh, sorry, sir. I thought it was a kind of German television.’
Patta gave a firm and disapproving ‘No,’ before he looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘All I have is a list from Signor Viscardi. A Guardi, a Monet, and a Gauguin.’
‘Is he still in hospital, this Signor Viscardi?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, I believe so. Why?’
‘He seems pretty certain about which paintings they had, even if he didn’t see the men who took them.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, sir,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Maybe he had only three paintings.’ But if all he had were three paintings, this case would not have moved so quickly to the top of Patta’s list. ‘What does Signor Viscardi do in Milan, if I might ask?’
‘He directs a number of factories.’
‘Directs, or owns and directs?’
Patta made no attempt to disguise his irritation. ‘He’s an important citizen, and he has spent an enormous amount of money on the restoration of that palazzo. He’s an asset to the city, and I think we should see that, if nothing else, the man is safe while he’s here.’
‘He and his possessions,’ Brunetti added.
‘Yes, and his possessions.’ Patta repeated the word but not the dry tone. ‘I’d like you to see to this investigation, Commissario, and I expect Signor Viscardi to be treated with every respect.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ Brunetti got up to leave. ‘Do you know what sort of factories he directs, sir?’
‘I believe they manufacture armaments.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And I don’t want you bothering the Americans any more, Brunetti. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ It certainly was clear, but the reason was not.
‘Good, then get to it. I’d like this sorted out as quickly as possible.’
Brunetti smiled and left Patta’s office, wondering what strings had been pulled, and by whom. With Viscardi, it was pretty easy to figure out: armaments, enough money to buy and restore a palazzo on the Grand Canal – the mingled odours of money and power had come wafting out of every phrase Patta spoke. With the American, the scents were less easy to trace back to their source, but that difficulty made them no less tangible than the others. But it was clear that the word had been passed to Patta: the death of the American was to be treated as a robbery gone wrong, nothing more. But from whom?
Instead of going up to his office, he went back down the stairs and into the main office. Vianello had returned from the hospital and was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, telephone pressed to his ear. When he saw Brunetti come in, he cut the conversation short and hung up.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said.
Brunetti leaned against the side of Vianello’s desk. ‘This Viscardi, how did he seem when you spoke to him?’
‘Upset. He’d been in a ward all night, had just managed to get himself put into a private room …’
Brunetti interrupted. ‘How’d he manage that?’
Vianello shrugged. The Casinò was not the only public institution in the city that carried a ‘Non Nobis’ sign in front of it. The hospital’s, although visible only to the wealthy, was no less real. ‘I suppose he knows someone there or knows someone to call. People like him always do.’ From Vianello’s tone, it didn’t sound like Viscardi had made a hit.
‘What’s he like?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello smiled, then grimaced. ‘You know. Typical Milanese. Wouldn’t say ‘R’ if he had a mouthful of them,’ he said, eliding all of the ‘R’s in the sentence, imitating perfectly this Milanese affectation in speech, so popular among the most arriviste politicians and the comedians who delighted in mocking them. ‘First thing he did was tell me how important the paintings are, which, I suppose, means how important he is. Then he complained about having to spend the night in a ward. I think that meant he was afraid of picking up some low-class disease.’
‘Did he give you a description of the men?’
‘He said that one of them was very tall, taller than I am.’ Vianello was one of the tallest men on the force. ‘And the other one had a beard.’
‘How many were there, two or three?’
‘He wasn’t sure. They grabbed him when he went in, and he was so surprised that he didn’t see, or he doesn’t remember.’
‘How badly is he hurt?’
‘Not bad enough for a private room,’ Vianello said, making no attempt to disguise his disapproval.
‘Could you be a bit more specific?’ Brunetti asked with a smile.
Vianello took no offence and answered, ‘He’s got a black eye. That will get worse today. Someone really gave him a good shot there. And he’s got a cut lip, some bruises on his arms.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I agree; hardly seems like the sort of thing to require a private room. Or a hospital at all.’
Vianello responded immediately to Brunetti’s tone. ‘Are you thinking what I think you are, sir?’
‘Vice-Questore Patta knows what the three missing paintings are. What time did the call come in?’
‘Just a little past midnight, sir.’
Brunetti looked at his watch
‘Sorry, sir, I don’t know about that sort of thing. But do the names mean money?’
Brunetti gave a very affirmative nod. ‘Rossi told me that the place was insured. How’d he come to know that?’
‘The agent called us at about ten and asked if he could go and have a look at the palazzo.’
Vianello took a pack of cigarettes from his desk and lit one. ‘Rossi told me these Belgian kids think Ruffolo was there.’ Brunetti nodded. ‘Ruffolo’s just a little runt of a guy, isn’t he, sir? Not very tall at all.’ He blew out a thin stream of smoke, then waved it away.
‘And he certainly didn’t grow a beard while he was in prison,’ Brunetti observed.
‘So that means that neither of the men Viscardi says he saw could have been Ruffolo, doesn’t it, sir?’
‘That certainly would seem to be the case,’ Brunetti said. ‘I asked Rossi to go over to the hospital and ask Viscardi if he recognizes a picture of Ruffolo.’
‘Probably won’t,’ Vianello remarked laconically.
Brunetti pushed himself away from the desk. ‘I think I’ll go and make a few phone calls. If you’ll excuse me, officer.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ Vianello said, then added, ‘Zero two,’ giving Brunetti the dialling prefix for Milan.
14
In his office, Brunetti took a spiral-bound notebook from his desk and began to leaf through it. For years he had been telling himself, then promising himself, that he would take the names and numbers in this book and arrange them in some sort of order. He renewed the vow each time, such as now, he had to hunt through it for a number he had not called in months or years. In a way, paging through it was like strolling through a museum in which he saw many familiar paintings, allowing each to summon up the flash of memory before he passed on in search of the one he had come to see. Finally he found it, the home number of Riccardo Fosco, the Financial Editor of one of the major weekly news magazines.
Until a few years ago, Fosco had been the bright light of the news media, unearthing financial scandals in the most unlikely places, had been one of the first to begin asking questions about the Banco Ambrosiano. His office had become the centre of a web of information about the real nature of business in Italy, his columns the place to look for the first suggestions that something might not be right with a company, a buy-out, or a takeover. Two years ago, as he emerged from that same office at five in the afternoon, on his way to meet friends for a drink, someone in a parked car opened up with a machine gun, aimed carefully at his knees, shattering them both, and now Fosco’s home was his office, and walking was something he did only with the help of two canes, one knee permanently stiffened and the other with a range of motion of only thirty degrees. No arrest had ever been made in the crime.
‘Fosco,’ he said, answering as he always did.
‘Ciao, Riccardo. It’s Guido Brunetti.’
‘Ciao, Guido. I haven’t heard from you in a long time. Are you still trying to find out about the money that was supposed to save Venice?’
It was a long-standing joke between them, the ease with which the millions of dollars – no one ever knew exactly how much – that had been raised by UNESCO to ‘save’ Venice had disappeared in the offices and deep pockets of the ‘projectors’ who had rushed forward with their plans and programmes after the devastating flood of 1966. There was a foundation with a full working staff, an archive full of blueprints, there were even fund-raising galas and balls, but there was no more money, and the tides, unimpeded, continued to do whatever they chose with the city. This story, with threads leading to the UN, to the Common Market, and to various governments and financial institutions, had proven too complicated even for Fosco, who had never written about it, fearing that his audience would accuse him of having turned to fiction. Brunetti, for his part, had worked on the assumption that, since most of the people who had been involved in the projects were Venetian, the money had indeed gone to save the city, though perhaps not in the manner originally intended.
‘No, Riccardo, it’s about one of yours, a Milanese. Viscardi. I don’t even know his first name, but he’s in armaments, and he’s just finished spending a fortune restoring a palazzo here.’
‘Augusto,’ Fosco replied instantly, then repeated the name for the sheer beauty of it, ‘Augusto Viscardi.’
‘That was qulck,’ Brunetti said.
‘Oh, yes. Signor Viscardi’s is a name I hear quite often.’
‘And what sort of things do you hear?’
‘The munitions factories are out in Monza. There are four of them. The word is he had enormous contracts with Iraq, in fact, with a number of countries in the Middle East. Somehow, he managed to continue deliveries even during the war, through the Yemen, I think.’ Fosco paused for a moment, then added, ‘But I’ve heard that he had trouble during the war.’
‘What sort of trouble?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Well, not enough to do him serious harm, or at least that’s what I heard. None of those factories closed during the war, and I don’t mean only his. From what I’ve heard, the whole zone remained at full production. There’ll always be someone to buy what they make.’
‘But what was the trouble he had?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to make some calls out here. But the rumours were that he got hit pretty hard. Most of them make sure the payments are made in some place safe like Panama or Lichtenstein before they make delivery, but Viscardi had been doing business with them for so long – I think he even went there a few times, talked to the boss man – that he didn’t bother, sure he’d be given best-dealer treatment.’
‘And that didn’t happen?’
‘No, that didn’t happen. A lot of the stuff got blown up before it was delivered. I think a whole shipload might have been hijacked by pirates in the Gulf. Let me call around, Guido. I’ll get back to you soon, within an hour.’
‘Is there anything personal?’
‘Nothing I’ve heard, but I’ll ask.’
‘Thanks, Riccardo.’
‘Can you tell me what this is about?’
Brunetti saw no reason why he couldn’t. ‘His place was robbed last night, and he walked in on the robbery. He couldn’t identify the three men, but he knew what three paintings they took.’
‘Sounds like Viscardi,’ Fosco said.
‘Is he that stupid?’
‘No, he’s not stupid, not at all. But he is arrogant, and he’s willing to take chances. It’s those two things that have made him his fortune.’ Fosco’s voice changed. ‘Sorry, Guido, I’ve got a call on another line. I’ll call you later this morning, all right?’
‘Thanks, Riccardo,’ he repeated, but before he could add, ‘I appreciate it,’ the line was dead.
The secret of police success lay, Brunetti knew, not in brilliant deductions or the psychological manipulation of suspects but in the simple fact that human beings tended to assume that their own level of intelligence was the norm, the standard, and to work on that assumption. Hence the stupid were quickly caught, for their idea of what was cunning was so lamentably impoverished as to make them obvious prey. This same rule, unfortunately, made his job all the more difficult when he had to deal with criminals possessed of intelligence or courage.
During the next hour, Brunetti called down to Vianello and got the name of the insurance agent who had asked to inspect the scene of the crime. When he finally found the man at his office, he assured Brunetti that the paintings were all genuine and had all disappeared in the robbery. Copies of papers of authenticity were on his desk, even as they spoke. The current value of the three paintings? Well, they were insured for a total of five billion lire, but their current real market value had perhaps increased in the last year, with the rise in prices for Impressionists. No, there had never been a robbery before. Some jewellery had also been taken, but it was nothing in value when compared to the paintings: a few hundred million lire. Ah, how sweet the
By the time he was finished talking to the agent, Rossi was back from the hospital, telling him that Signor Viscardi had been very surprised to see the picture of Ruffolo. He had quickly overcome that emotion, however, and said that the photo bore no resemblance to either of the two men he had seen, now insistent, upon further reflection, that there had been only two.
‘What do you think?’ Brunetti asked.
There was no uncertainty in Rossi’s voice when he answered, ‘He’s lying. I don’t know what else he’s lying about, but he’s lying about not knowing Ruffolo. He couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d shown him a picture of his own mother.’
‘I guess that means I’ll go over and have a talk with Ruffolo’s mother,’ Brunetti said.
‘Would you like me to go down to the supply room and get you a bullet-proof vest?’ Rossi asked with a laugh.
‘No, Rossi, the widow Ruffolo and I are on the best of terms now. After I spoke up for him at the trial, she decided to forgive and forget. She even smiles when she sees me on the street.’ He didn’t mention that he had gone to see her a few times during the last two years, apparently the only person in the city who had.
‘Lucky you. Does she talk to you, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘In Siciliano?’
‘I don’t think she knows how to speak anything else.’
‘How much do you understand?’
‘About half,’ Brunetti answered, then added, for truth’s sake, ‘but only if she talks very, very slowly.’ Though Signora Ruffolo could not be said to have adapted to life in Venice, she had, in her own way, become part of the police legend of the city, a woman who would attack a commissario of police to protect her son.