A Venetian Reckoning (5 page)

Vianello shook his head. 'I've never
heard anything.’ 'Wife?'

‘I think I've read about her. Wants
to save the rain forest. Or is that the Mayor's wife?' 'I think it is.'

'Then one of those things. Saving
something. Africa, maybe.' Here Vianello snorted, whether at Signora Trevisan
or at the likelihood of Africa's being saved, Brunetti wasn't sure.

'Can you think of anyone who might
know something about him?' Brunetti asked.

'Family? Business partners? People
who work in his office?’ Vianello suggested. Seeing Brunetti's response, he
added, 'Sorry I can't think of anything better. I don't remember anyone I know
ever mentioning him.’

'I'll speak to his wife, but not
before the afternoon. I'd like you to go to his office this morning and see
what the general feeling is about his death.’

'You think they'll be there? The day
after he's killed?'

'It will be interesting to find out
if they are,’ Brunetti said. 'Signorina Elettra said she heard something about
his being involved in a business deal in Poland, or perhaps Czechoslovakia. See
if anyone there knows anything about that. She thinks there was something in the
paper, but she can't remember what it was. And ask about the usual things.'
They had worked together for so long that Brunetti didn't have to specify what
the usual things were: a disaffected employee, an angry business associate, a
jealous husband, his own jealous wife. Vianello had the knack of getting people
to talk. Especially if they were Venetians, the people he interviewed
invariably warmed to this large, sweet-tempered man who gave every appearance
of speaking Italian reluctantly, who was only too glad to lapse into their
common dialect, a linguistic change that often carried its speakers along to
unconscious revelation. 'Anything eke, sir?'

'Yes. I'm going to be busy this
morning, and I’ll try to see the widow this afternoon, so I'd like you to send
someone down to the station to talk to the conductor who found the body. Find
out if the conductors on the train saw anything.' Before Vianello could
protest, Brunetti said, 'I know, I know. If they bad, they would have said
something by now. But I want them to be asked about it, anyway.’

'Yes, sir.'

'And I'd like to see a list of the
names and addresses of all the people who were on the train when it stopped,
and transcripts of whatever they said when they were questioned.'

'Why didn't they rob him, sir?'

'If that was the reason, then someone
could have come along the corridor and scared him away before he had time to
search the body. Or else whoever did it wanted us to realize it wasn't a
robbery.'

That doesn't make much sense, does
it?' Vianello asked. 'Wouldn't it be better for them to have us believe it was
a robbery?'

That depends on why they did it.'

Vianello considered this for a moment
and men answered, 'Yes, I suppose so,' but he said it in a tone that suggested
he wasn't very convinced. Why would anyone want to give such an advantage to
the police?

Not willing to spend the time
pondering his own question, Vianello got to his feet, saying, 'I’ll go over to
his office now, sir, and see what I can learn. Will you be back here this
afternoon?'

'Probably. It depends on what time I
can see the widow. I’ll leave word.’

'Good. Then I’ll see you this
afternoon,' Vianello said and left the office.

Brunetti turned back to the file,
opened it, and read off the phone number listed for Trevisan s house. He
dialled the number. It rang ten times before it was answered.

'Pronto?
a
male voice said.

'Is this the home of Avvocato
Trevisan?' Brunetti asked.

'Who's calling, please?’

This is Commissario Guido Brunetti.
I'd like to speak to Signora Trevisan, please.'

'My sister isn't able to come to the
phone’

Brunetti flipped back to the page in
the file that listed Signora Trevisan's maiden name and said, 'Signor Lotto,
I'm sorry to bother you at a time like this, even sorrier to bother your
sister, but it is imperative that I speak to her as soon as possible.'

'I'm afraid that's impossible,
commissario. My sister is under heavy sedation and can see no one. She's been
destroyed by this.'

'I realize the pain she must be
suffering, Signer Lotto, and I extend my most sincere condolences. But we need
to speak to someone in the family before we begin our investigation.’

'What sort of information do you
need?'

'We need to get a clearer idea of Avvocato
Trevisan's life, of his business dealings, his associates. Until we have some
idea of this, we'll have no idea of what might have motivated this crime.'

'I thought it was a robbery,' Lotto
said.

'Nothing was taken from him.'

'But there's no other reason to kill
my brother-in-law. The thief must have been scared away.'

"That's entirely possible,
Signor Lotto, but we'd like to speak to your sister, if only to rule out other
possibilities and thus allow ourselves to follow the idea of a robbery.'

'What other possibilities could there
be?' Lotto asked angrily. ‘I assure you, there was nothing in my
brother-in-law's life that was in any way unusual.'

‘I have no doubt of that's being
true, Signor Lotto, but still I must speak to your sister.'

There was a long pause and then Lotto
asked, 'When?'

This afternoon,' Brunetti said and
kept himself from adding, 'if possible’.

There was another long pause. 'Writ,
please,' Lotto said and set the phone down. He was gone so long that Brunetti
took a piece of paper from his drawer and began to write 'Czechoslovakia' on
it, trying to remember how the word was spelled. He was on his sixth version
when the phone was picked up again and Lotto said, 'If you come at four this
afternoon, either I or my sister will speak with you.'

'Four o'clock,' Brunetti repeated and
then gave a terse, 'I’ll see you then,' before saying goodbye and hanging up.
From long experience, he knew how unwise it was to seem grateful to any
witness, no matter how sympathetic they might be.

He glanced down at his watch and saw
that it was well past ten. He called the Ospedale Civile but, after speaking to
five different people at three different extensions, got no information about
the autopsy. He often thought that the only safe procedure a person could
undergo at the Ospedale Civile was an autopsy: it was the only time when a
patient ran no risk.

With that opinion of medical prowess
in mind, he left his office to go and talk to Dottoressa Zorzi.

7

Brunetti turned right when he left
the Questura, up towards the Bacino of San Marco and the Basilica. He was
startled to find himself in full sunlight; earlier that morning, he had been so
surprised by the news of Trevisan's murder that he had ignored the day given to
the city, filled with the light of early winter and now, in mid-morning, so
warm he regretted having worn his raincoat.

Few people were out, and those who
were all seemed lifted almost to joy by the unexpected sun and warmth. Who
would believe that, only yesterday, the city had been wrapped in fog and the
vaporetti forced to use their radar for the short ride out to the Lido? Yet
here he was, wishing for sunglasses and a lighter suit, and when he walked out
to the waterside, he was momentarily blinded by the reflected light that came
flashing up from the water. Opposite him, Brunetti could see the dome and tower
of San Giorgio - yesterday they hadn't been there - looking as though they had
somehow crept into the city during the night. How straight and fine the tower
looked, unencumbered by the scaffolding that had imprisoned the tower of San Marco
for the last few years, turning it into a pagoda and making Brunetti suspect
that the city administration had gone and sold the city outright to the
Japanese, who had begun this way to make them-selves feel more at home.

He turned right and walked up towards
the Piazza, and Brunetti found himself, to his own vast surprise, looking
kindly upon the tourists who strolled past him, mouths agape and steps slowed
by wonder. She could still knock them down, this old whore of a city, and
Brunetti, her true son, protective of her in her age, felt a surge of mingled
pride and delight and hoped that those people who walked by would see him and
somehow know him for a Venetian and, in that, part heir to and part owner of
all of this.

The pigeons, usually stupid and hateful,
appeared almost charming to him as they bobbed up and down at the feet of their
many admirers. Suddenly, for no reason, hundreds of them flocked up, swirled
around, and settled back right where they had been, to continue with their
bobbing and pecking. A stout woman stood with three of them on her shoulder,
her face turned away in delight or horror, while her husband photographed her
with a video recorder the size of a machine gun. A few metres away, someone
opened a small bag of corn and threw it out in a wide circle, and again the
pigeons swirled up and around, then settled to feed in the centre of the corn.

He went up the three low steps and
through the etched-glass double doors of Florian's. Though he was ten minutes
early, Brunetti looked through the small rooms on the right and then through
those on the left, but he saw no sign of Dottoressa Zorzi.

When a white-jacketed waiter
approached him, Brunetti asked for a table near one of the front windows. Part
of him, this splendid day, wanted to sit with an attractive young woman by a
window at Florians, and another part of him wanted to be seen sitting with an
attractive young woman by a window at Florian's. He pulled out one of the
delicate, curve-backed chairs and took a seat, then turned it to allow himself
a better sight of the Piazza.

As it had been for as long as
Brunetti could remember, the facade of the Basilica was partially covered by
wooden scaffolding. Had he once, as a child, had a clear view of the whole
thing? Probably not.

'Good morning, commissario,' he heard
from behind him, and he stood to shake hands with Dottoressa Barbara Zorzi. He
recognized her instantly. Slender and straight, she greeted him with a warm
handshake that was surprisingly strong. Her hair, he thought, was shorter than
it had been last time, cut in a cap of tight dark curls that fitted close to
her head. Her eyes were as dark as eyes could be: there was almost no
difference between pupil and iris. The resemblance to Elettra was there, the
same straight nose, full mouth, and round chin, but the element of ripeness
that filled her sister had been toned down to a more sombre, tranquil beauty.

'Dottoressa, I'm glad you could spare
the time,’ he said, reaching out to help her off with her coat. She smiled in
response to this and placed a squat brown learner bag on a chair near the
window. He folded her coat and placed it on the back of the same chair and,
looking at the bag, said, 'The doctor who used to come to see us when we were
boys carried a bag just like that’

'I suppose I should be more modern
and carry a leather briefcase’ she said, 'but my mother gave me that as a
present when I took my degree, and I've carried it ever since.’

The waiter came to the table, and
they both ordered coffee. When he was gone, the doctor asked, 'How is it I can
help you?'

Brunetti decided there was nothing to
be gained in disguising how he came by the information and so began by saying,
'Your sister told me that Signora Trevisan used to be a patient of yours.'

'And her daughter,' the doctor added,
reaching towards the brown bag, from which she took a crumpled package of
cigarettes. While she was still groping around in the bottom of the bag for her
lighter, a waiter appeared on her left and leaned forward to light her
cigarette.
'Grazie’
she
said, turning her head towards the flame as if accustomed to this sort of
service. Silently, the waiter moved away from their table.

She drew greedily at the cigarette,
flipped the bag closed, and looked up at Brunetti. 'Am I to take it this is
somehow related to his death?'

'At this point in our investigation,'
Brunetti said, 'I'm not sure what is and what isn't related to his death.' She
pursed her lips at this, and Brunetti realized how artificial and formal he had
sounded. That's the truth, doctor. As of the moment, we have nothing, nothing
aside from the physical evidence surrounding his death.' 'He was shot?'