Death in a Strange Country (24 page)

‘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 quick,’
Brunetti said.

‘Oh, yes. Signer 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 world in which a few hundred million
lire were viewed as nothing.

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.

Soon after Rossi left,
Fosco called back. ‘Guido, I spoke to a few people here. The word is that he
lost a fortune in the Gulf business. A ship that was carrying an entire cargo -
and no one knew what was in the cargo - disappeared, probably taken by pirates.
Because the boycott was in effect, he couldn’t get insurance.’
     
                     
                     

‘So he lost the whole
lot?’
 
                     
                   

‘Yes.’
     
                     
                     
                       

‘Any idea how much?’
     
                     
                   

‘No one’s sure. I’ve
heard estimates that range from five to fifteen billion, but no one could give
me an exact amount. In any case, the word is that
he managed to hold
things together for a while, but now he’s got serious cash-flow problems. One
friend of mine at
Corriere
said Viscardi’s really got nothing to worry
about because he’s tied into some sort of government contract. And he’s got
holdings in other countries. My contact wasn’t certain where. Do you want me to
try to find out more?’
 
       

Signor Viscardi was
beginning to sound to Brunetti like any one of the rising generation of
businessmen, those who had replaced hard work with boldness, and honesty with
connections. ‘No, I don’t think so, Riccardo. I just wanted to get an idea of
whether he’d try something like this.’

‘And?’

‘Well, it looks like he
might be in a position to want to give it a try, doesn’t it?’

Fosco offered a bit more
information. ‘The word is that he’s very well connected, but the person I spoke
to wasn’t sure just how. Do you want me to ask around some more?’

‘Did it sound like it
might be Mafia?’ Brunetti asked.

‘It looks that way.’
Fosco gave a resigned laugh. ‘But when doesn’t it? It seems, though, that he’s
also connected to people in the government.’

Brunetti resisted, in his
turn, the temptation to ask when didn’t it sound that way and, instead, asked, ‘What
about his personal life?’

‘He’s got a wife and a
couple of kids here. She’s some sort of den mother for the Knights of Malta - you
know, charity balls and visits to hospitals. And a mistress in Verona; I think
it’s Verona. Some place out your way.’

‘You said he’s arrogant.’

‘Yes. A few people I
spoke to say he’s more than that.’

‘What does that mean?’
Brunetti asked.

‘Two said he could be
dangerous.’

‘Personally?’

‘You mean, will he pull a
knife?’ Fosco asked with a laugh.

‘Something like that.’

‘No, that’s not the
impression I got. Not personally, at any rate. But he likes to take chances; at
least that’s the reputation he has here. And, as I said, he’s a very
well-protected man, and he has no hesitation about asking his friends to help
him.’ Fosco paused for a moment and then added, ‘One
person I spoke to
was even more outspoken, but he wouldn’t tell me anything exact. He just said
that anyone who dealt with Viscardi should be very careful.’

Brunetti decided to treat
this last lightly and said, ‘I’m not afraid of knives.’

Fosco’s response was
immediate. ‘I used not to be afraid of machine guns, Guido.’ Then, embarrassed
at the remark; he added, ‘I mean it, Guido, be careful with him.’

‘All right, I will. And
thanks,’ he said, then added, ‘I still haven’t heard anything, but when I do, I’ll
let you know,’ Most of the police who knew Fosco had put out the word that they
were interested in knowing who had done the shooting and who had done the
sending, but whoever it was had been very cautious, knowing how well-liked
Fosco was with the police, and years had passed in silence. Brunetti believed
it was hopeless, but he still asked the occasional question, dropped a hint
here and there, spoke vaguely to suspects about the chance of a trade-off in
exchange for the information he wanted. But, in all these years, he had never
got close.

‘I appreciate it, Guido.
But I’m not so sure it’s all that important any more.’ Was this wisdom or
resignation he was hearing.

‘Why?’

‘I’m getting married.’ Love,
then, better than either.

‘Congratulations,
Riccardo. Who?’

‘I don’t think you know
her, Guido. She works on the magazine, but she’s just been here a year or so.’

‘When is it?’

‘Next month.’

Brunetti didn’t bother
with false promises to try to attend, but he spoke from the heart when he said,
‘I hope you’ll both be happy, Riccardo.’

‘Thanks, Guido. Look, if
I hear anything more about this guy, I’ll call, all right?’

‘I’d appreciate it.’ With
more good wishes for the future, Brunetti said goodbye and hung up; Could it be
this simple? Could his business losses have driven Viscardi to organize
something as rash as a fake robbery? Only a stranger to Venice could have
chosen Ruffolo, a young man infinitely better at being caught than at being
criminal. But perhaps the fact that he was so recently out of prison had served
as sufficient recommendation.

There was nothing more he
could do here today, and Patta would be the first to scream police brutality if
a millionaire was questioned on the same day by three different policemen,
especially if the questioning took place while the man was still in hospital.
There was no sense in going to Vicenza on a day when the American offices would
be closed, though it might be easier to defy Patta’s order if he went in his
own time. No, let the doctor swim towards the bait until next week, when he
could easily give another gentle tug on the line. For today, he would drop his
line in Venetian waters and go after different prey.