Death in a Strange Country by Donna Leon
‘That sounds very much like a threat, Signor Viscardi.’
‘Don’t be melodramatic, Dottor Brunetti. It would be better to call it a suggestion. Further, it is a suggestion in which your father-in-law joins me. I know I speak for him when I say that you would be wise not to ask those questions. I repeat, no good will come to anyone who asks them.’
‘I’m not sure that I would expect much good at all to come of anything that has to do with your business dealings, Signor Viscardi.’
Viscardi suddenly pulled some loose bills from his pocket and threw them onto the counter, not bothering to ask how much the wine cost. Saying nothing to Brunetti, he turned and walked to the door of the bar. Brunetti followed him. Outside, it had begun to rain, the wind-shoved sheets of autumn. Viscardi paused at the door but only long enough to pull up the collar of his coat. Saying nothing, not bothering to glance back at Brunetti, he stepped out into the rain and quickly disappeared around a corner.
Brunetti stood in the doorway for a moment. Finally, seeing no other way, he reached down and unwrapped La Repubblica from around the umbrella, exposing its full length. He refolded the newspaper into a more easily handled shape and stepped out into the rain. He pressed the release and slid the umbrella open, looked up and saw it extend its plastic protection over him. Elephants, happy, dancing pink elephants. With the taste of the sour wine in his mouth, he hurried towards home and lunch.
24
Brunetti went back to the Questura in the afternoon after first demanding his black umbrella from Paola. He answered correspondence for an hour or so but left early, saying he had a meeting, even though the meeting was with Ruffolo and was more than six hours away. When he got home, he told Paola about the midnight meeting, and she, who remembered talk of Ruffolo from the past, joined Brunetti in treating it as a lark, a stab at melodrama clearly brought on by Ruffolo’s having watched too much television during his last imprisonment. He hadn’t seen Ruffolo since the last time he had testified against him and imagined that he would find him much the same: good-tempered, flap-eared, and careless, in far too great a hurry to get on with the business of his life.
At eleven, he went out onto the balcony, looked up at the sky, and saw the stars. Half an hour later, he left the house, assuring Paola that he would probably be home by one and telling her not to bother waiting up for him. If Ruffolo gave himself up, they would have to go down to the Questura, and then there would be the business of writing up a statement and having Ruffolo sign it, and that could take hours. He said he would try to call her if this happened, but he knew she was so accustomed to his being out at odd hours that she would probably sleep through the call, and he didn’t want to wake the children.
The number five stopped running at nine, so he had no choice but to walk. He didn’t mind, especially on this splendid moonlit night. As so often happened, he gave no conscious thought to where he was going, simply allowed his feet, made wise by decades of walking, to take him there the shortest way. He crossed Rialto, passed through Santa Marina and down towards San Francesco della Vigna. As always at this hour, the city was virtually deserted; he passed a night watchman, slipping little orange paper rectangles into the gratings in front of shops, proof that he had gone by in the night. He passed a restaurant and glanced in to see the white-jacketed staff crowded around a table, having a last drink before going home. And cats. Sitting, lying, serpentining themselves around fountains, padding. No hunting for these cats, though rats there were in plenty. They ignored him, knowing the precise hours of the people who came to feed them, certain that this stranger was not one of them.
He passed along the right side of the church of San Francesco della Vigna, then cut to the left and back to the Celestia vaporetto stop. Clearly outlined ahead of him he saw the metal-railed walkway and the steps leading up to it. He climbed them and when he got to the beginning of the walkway, he looked ahead at the bridge that rose up, like the hump on a camel, over the opening in the Arsenale wall that let the number five boat cut through the middle of the island and come out in the Bacino of San Marco.
The top of the bridge, he could see clearly, was empty. Not even Ruffolo would be so foolish as to make himself visible to any passing boat, not when the police were looking for him. He had probably jumped down onto the small beach on the other side of the bridge. Brunetti started towards the bridge, allowing himself a flash of irritation that he found himself here, walking around in the evening chill when any sensible person would be at home in bed. Why did crazy Ruffolo have to see an important person? He wants to see an important person, let him come into the Questura and talk to Patta.
He passed the first of the small beaches, no more than a few metres long, and glanced down onto it, looking for Ruffolo. In the ensilvering light of the moon, he could see that it was empty, but he could also see that its surface was covered with fragments of discarded bricks, shards of broken bottles, all covered with a layer of slimy green seaweed. Signorino Ruffolo had another thought coming if he believed that Brunetti was going to jump down onto that other filth-covered beach to have a little chat with him. He’d already lost one pair of shoes this week, and it wasn’t going to happen again. If Ruffolo wanted to talk, he could climb back up onto the walkway or he could stay down there and see that he spoke loud enough for Brunetti to hear.
He climbed the stairs on his side of the cement bridge, stood on the top for a moment, then walked down the stairs on the other side. Ahead of him, he saw the small beach, its far side hidden by a curve in the massive brick wall of the Arsenale that rose up ten metres above Brunetti’s head on his right.
A few metres from the island, he stopped and called in a low voice, ‘Ruffolo. It’s Brunetti.’ There was no answer. ‘Peppino, it’s Brunetti.’ Still no answer. The moonlight was so strong that it actually cast a shadow, hiding the part of the little island that lay under the walkway. But the foot was visible, one foot, wearing a brown leather shoe, and above it a leg. Brunetti leaned over the railing, but all he could see was the foot and the part of the leg that disappeared into the shadow under the walkway. He climbed over the railing, dropped to the stones below, slipped as he landed in seaweed, and broke his fall with both hands. When he stood, he could see the body more clearly, though the head and shoulders rested in the shadows. That didn’t matter at all; he knew who it was. One arm lay flung out beyond the body, hand just at the edge of the water, tiny waves lapping at it delicately. The other arm was crumpled under the body. Brunetti bent down and felt at the wrist, but he could find no pulse. The flesh was cold, damp with the moisture that had risen up from the laguna. He moved a step closer, slipping into the shadow, and placed his hand at the base of the boy’s neck. There was no pulse. When he stepped back into the moonlight, Brunetti saw that there was blood on his fingers. He stooped down at the edge of the water and waved his hand back and forth quickly in the water of the laguna, water so filthy that the thought of it usually disgusted him.
Standing, he dried his hand on his handkerchief, then took a small pencil flash from his pocket and bent back under the walkway. The blood came from a large open wound on the left side of Ruffolo’s head. Not far from him there lay a conveniently-placed rock. Just think of that; it looked precisely like he had jumped from the walkway, slipped on the slick rocks, and fallen backwards to smash his head in the fall. Brunetti had little doubt that there would be blood on the rock, Ruffolo’s blood.
Above him, he heard a soft footfall, and he ducked instinctively under the walkway. Even as he did, the stones and bricks shifted around under his feet, sending off a noise that deafened him. He crouched low, back placed up against the seaweed-covered sea wall of the Arsenale. Again, he heard the footsteps, now directly above his head. He drew his pistol.
‘Commissario Brunetti?’
His panic receded, pushed back by that familiar voice. ‘Vianello,’ Brunetti said, coming out from under the walkway, ‘what the Devil are you doing here?’
Vianello’s head appeared a
‘I’ve been behind you, sir, since you went past the church, about fifteen minutes ago.’ Brunetti had heard and seen nothing, even though he had believed all his senses fully alert.
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘No, sir. I’ve been down there, reading the timetable at the boat stop, trying to look like I missed the last boat and couldn’t understand when the next one came. I mean, I had to have some excuse to be here at this time of night.’ Vianello suddenly stopped speaking, and Brunetti knew he had seen the leg sticking out from under the walkway.
‘That Ruffolo?’ he asked, surprised. This was too much like those Hollywood movies.
‘Yes.’ Brunetti moved away from the body and stood directly under Vianello.
‘What happened, sir?’
‘He’s dead. It looks like he fell.’ Brunetti grimaced at the precision of the words. That’s exactly what it looked like.
The policeman knelt and stretched his hand out to Brunetti. ‘You want a hand up, sir?’
Brunetti glanced up at him and then down at Ruffolo’s leg. ‘No, Vianello, I’ll stay here with him. There’s a phone down at the Celestia stop. Go and call for a boat.’
Vianello moved off quickly, amazing Brunetti with the racket his feet made, echoing all through the space under the walkway. How silently he must have come, if Brunetti hadn’t heard him until he was directly overhead.
Left alone, Brunetti took his flashlight out of his pocket again and bent back over Ruffolo’s body. He wore a heavy sweater, no jacket, so the only pockets were those in his jeans. In his back pocket, he had a wallet. It held the usual things: identity card (Ruffolo was only twenty-six), driver’s licence (not a Venetian, he had one), twenty thousand lire, and the usual assortment of plastic cards and scraps of paper with phone numbers scribbled on them. He’d look at them later. He wore a watch, but there was no change in his pockets. Brunetti slipped the wallet back into Ruffolo’s pocket and turned away from the body. He looked out over the shimmering water, off to where the lights of Murano and Burano were visible in the distance. The moonlight lay softly upon the waters of the laguna, and no boats moved upon it to disturb its peace. A single glimmering sheet of silver connected the mainland with the outer islands. It reminded him of something Paola had read to him once, the night she told him she was pregnant with Raffaele, something about gold being beaten to a fine thinness. No, not fine, airy; that was the way they loved one another. He hadn’t really understood it then, too excited with the news to try to understand the English. But the image struck him now, as the moonlight lay upon the laguna like silver beaten to airy thinness. And Ruffolo, poor, stupid Ruffolo, lay dead at his feet.
The boat was audible a long way off, and then it came shooting out of the Rio di Santa Giustina, blue light twirling around on the forward cabin. He turned on his flashlight and pointed it in their direction, giving them a beacon for approaching the beach. They got as close as they could, and then two policemen had to put on high waders and walk in the low water up to the island. They brought Brunetti a third pair, and he slipped them on over his shoes and trousers. He waited on the small beach while the others came, trapped there with Ruffolo, the presence of death, and the smell of rotting seaweed.
By the time they took photos of the body, removed it, and went back to the Questura to make out a full report, it was three in the morning. Brunetti was preparing to go home when Vianello came in and put a neatly typewritten sheet of paper on his desk. ‘If you’d be kind enough to sign this, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll see that it gets where it’s supposed to go.’
Brunetti looked down at the paper and saw that it was a full report of his plan to meet Ruffolo, but it was phrased in the future tense. He looked at the top of the sheet and saw that it bore yesterday’s date and was addressed to Vice-Questore Patta.
One of the rules that Patta had introduced to the Questura when he took up his command there some years ago was one that ordered the three commissarios to have on his desk, before seven-thirty in the evening, a complete report of what they had accomplished that day and a projected idea of what they would do the following day. Since Patta was never to be seen in the Questura that late, and was certainly not to be seen before ten in the morning, it would have been an easy thing to slip it on his desk, were it not for the fact that there were only two keys to Patta’s office. He kept one on a gold key chain attached to the bottom buttonhole of the vests of the three-piece British suits he affected. The other was in the charge of Lieutenant Scarpa, a leather-faced Sicilian whom Patta had brought up with him from Palermo and who was fiercely loyal to his superior. It was Scarpa who locked the office at seven-thirty and unlocked it at eight-thirty each morning. He also checked to see what was on his superior’s desk when he unlocked the office.
‘I appreciate it, Vianello,’ Brunetti said when he read the first two paragraphs of the report, which explained in detail what he intended to do in meeting Ruffolo and why he thought it important that Patta be kept informed. He smiled tiredly and held it out without bothering to read the rest. ‘But I think there’s no way to keep him from finding out that I did this on my own, that I had no intention of telling him about it.’
Vianello didn’t move. ‘If you’d just sign the report, sir, I’ll take care of it.’
‘Vianello, what are you going to do with this?’
Ignoring the question, Vianello said, ‘He kept me on burglary for two years, didn’t he, sir? Even when I asked for a transfer.’ He tapped the back of the papers. ‘If you’ll just sign it, sir, it’ll be on his desk tomorrow morning.’
Brunetti signed the paper and handed it back to Vianello. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll tell my wife to call you if she ever locks herself out of the apartment.’
‘Nothing easier. Good night, sir.’
25
Even though he didn’t get to sleep until after four, Brunetti still managed to arrive at the Questura at ten. He found notes on his desk telling him that the autopsy on Ruffolo was scheduled for that afternoon, that his mother had been informed of her son’s death, and that Vice-Questore Patta would like Brunetti to see him in his office when he came in.
Patta here before ten. Let angelic hosts proclaim!
When he went into Patta’s office, the Cavaliere looked up and, Brunetti blamed it on his own lack of sleep, seemed to smile at him. ‘Good morning, Brunetti. Please have a seat. You really didn’t have to get here this early, not after your exploits of last night.’ Exploits?
‘Thank you, sir. It’s nice to see you here so early.’
Patta ignored the remark and continued to smile. ‘You did very well with this Ruffolo thing. I’m glad you finally came to see it the same way I did.’
Brunetti had no idea what he was talking about, so he chose the course of greatest wisdom. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘That just about ties it up, doesn’t it? I mean, we don’t have a confession, but I think the Procuratore will see the case the way we do and believe that Ruffolo was on his way to try to make a deal. He was foolish to bring the evidence with him, but I’m sure he thought all you were going to do was talk.’
None of the paintings had been on that tiny beach; Brunetti was sure of that. But he might have had some of Signora Viscardi’s jewellery hidden somewhere on him. All Brunetti had done was check his pockets, so it was possible.
‘Where was it?’ he asked.
‘In his wallet, Brunetti. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it. It was in the list of the things he had on him when we found his body. Didn’t you stay long enough to make out the list?’
‘Sergeant Vianello took care of that, sir.’
‘I see.’ At the first sign of what was an oversight on Brunetti’s part, Patta’s mood grew even sweeter. ‘Then you didn’t see it?’
‘No, sir. I’m sorry, but I must have overlooked it. The light was very bad out there last night
‘The Americans are sending someone here to take a look at it today, but I don’t think there’s any doubt. Foster’s name is on it, and Rossi tells me the photo looks like him.’
‘His passport?’
Patta’s smile was broad. ‘His military identification card.’ Of course. The plastic cards that were in Ruffolo’s wallet, that he had stuffed back inside without bothering to examine. Patta continued, ‘It’s sure proof that Ruffolo was the one who killed him. The American probably made some sort of false move. Foolish thing to do when a man has a knife. And Ruffolo would have panicked, so soon out of prison.’ Patta shook his head at the rashness of criminals.
‘Coincidentally, Signor Viscardi called me yesterday afternoon to tell me that it’s possible the young man in the photograph might have been there that night. He said he was too surprised at the time to think clearly.’ Patta pursed his lips in disapproval as he added, ‘And I’m sure the treatment he received at the hands of your officers didn’t help him remember.’ His expression changed, the smile reblossomed. ‘But that’s all in the past, and he certainly seems to bear no ill will. So it seems those Belgian people were right, and Ruffolo was there. I assume he didn’t get much money from the American and thought he’d try to arrange a more profitable robbery.’
Patta was expansive. ‘I’ve already spoken to the Press about this, explaining that we were in no doubt from the very beginning. The murder of the American had to be a random thing. And now, thank God, that’s proved.’ As he listened to Patta so blandly lay Foster’s murder at Ruffolo’s door, Brunetti saw that Doctor Peters’ death would never be seen as anything other than an accidental overdose.