Death in a Strange Country (42 page)

‘Of course I have. What
do you think I’ve been doing all morning? Like me, he believes it’s an open-and-shut
case. Ruffolo killed the American in a robbery attempt, then tried to make more
money by robbing the Viscardi
palazzo.’

Brunetti tried one last
time to interject some sense into this. ‘They’re very different sorts of crime,
a mugging and the theft of paintings.’

Patta’s voice grew
louder. ‘There’s evidence that he was involved in both crimes, Commissario.
There’s the identification card, and there are your Belgian witnesses. You were
willing enough to believe in them before, that they saw Ruffolo the night of
the robbery. And now Signor Viscardi thinks he remembers Ruffolo. He’s asked to
take another look at the photo, and if he recognizes him, there will be no
doubt. There’s more than enough evidence for me, and more than enough to
convince the Procuratore.’

Brunetti pushed his chair
back abruptly and stood. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

‘I thought you’d be more
pleased, Brunetti,’ Patta said with real surprise. ‘This closes the case of the
American, but it will make it harder to find Signor Viscardi’s paintings and
see that they’re returned to him. You’re not exactly a hero, since you didn’t
bring Ruffolo in. But I’m sure you would have, if only he hadn’t fallen from
the walkway. I’ve mentioned your name to the Press.’

That was probably harder
for Patta to do than it would be for him to give Brunetti his own firstborn son.
Take the gift as given. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Of course, I made it
clear that you were following my suggestions, mind you, that I’d been
suspicious of Ruffolo from the very first. After all, he was let out of prison
only a week before he killed the American.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Patta grew expansive. ‘It’s
unfortunate that we haven’t found Signor Viscardi’s paintings. I’ll try to stop
by to see him sometime today to tell him about this myself.’

‘He’s here?’

‘Yes, when I spoke to him
yesterday, he mentioned he would be coming to Venice today. He said he was
willing to stop by and take another look at that photograph. As I told you,
that would remove all doubts.’

‘Do you think he’ll be
bothered that we didn’t get the paintings back?’

‘Oh,’ Patta said, dearly
having considered this. ‘Of course he will be. A person who has a collection
feels that way about their paintings. Art comes alive to some people.’

‘I suppose that’s the way
Paola feels about that Canaletto.’

‘That what?’ Patta asked.

‘Canaletto. He was a
Venetian painter. Paola’s uncle gave us one of his paintings as a wedding
present. Not a very big one, sir. But she seems very attached to it. I keep
telling her to put it in the living room, but she likes to keep it in the
kitchen.’ As revenge, it wasn’t much, but it was something.

Patta’s voice was
strangled. ‘In the kitchen?’

‘Yes, I’m glad you think It’s
a strange place to keep it, sir. I’ll tell her you think so, too. I think I’ll
go down and see what Vianello’s done. He had a few things he has to take care
of for me.’

‘Fine, Brunetti. I wanted
to compliment you on a job well done. Signor Viscardi was very pleased.’

‘Thank you, sir,’
Brunetti said, moving towards the door.

‘He’s a friend of the
mayor’s, you know.’

‘Ah,’ Brunetti said, ‘no,
I didn’t know that, sir.’ But he should have.

Downstairs, Vianello was
at his desk. He looked up when Brunetti came in and smiled. ‘I hear you’re a
hero this morning.’

‘What else was in that
paper I signed last night?’ Brunetti asked with no prelude.

‘It said that you thought
Ruffolo was involved with the death of the American.’

‘That’s ridiculous. You
know what Ruffolo was like. He would have cut and run if anyone had so little
as yelled at him.’

‘He’d just done two years
inside, sir. It’s possible he changed.’

‘Do you really think
that?’

‘It’s possible, sir.’

‘That’s not what I asked
you, Vianello. I asked you if you believed he did it.’

‘If he didn’t, then how
did the American’s identity card get into his wallet?’

‘You believe it, then?’

‘Yes. At least I think it’s
possible. Why don’t you believe it, sir?’

Because of the Count’s
warning - Brunetti could only now see it as the warning it had been - about the
connection between Gamberetto and Viscardi. He saw now, as well, that Viscardi’s
threat had had nothing to do with Brunetti’s investigation of the robbery at
the
palazzo.
It was his investigation into the murders of the two
Americans that Viscardi had warned him away from, murders with which poor,
stupid Ruffolo had nothing to do, murders which he knew, now, would go forever
unpunished.

His thoughts turned from
the two dead Americans to Ruffolo, finally hitting what he thought was the big
time, boasting to his mother about his important friends. He had robbed the
palazzo,
even done what the important man told him to do, roughed him up a little,
though that was not at all like Ruffolo. When had Ruffolo learned that Signor
Viscardi was involved in far more than stealing his own paintings? He had
mentioned three things that would interest Brunetti - they must have been the
paintings — yet, in his wallet, there had been only one. Who had put it there?
Had Ruffolo somehow come into possession of the identity card and kept it to
use as a bargaining chip in his conversation with Brunetti? Worse, had he tried
to threaten Viscardi with his knowledge of it and what it meant? Or had he
merely been an innocent, ignorant pawn, one of the countless little players in
the game, like Foster and Peters, used for a while and then tossed away when
they learned something that would threaten the major players? Had the card been
slipped into his wallet by the same person who had used the rock to kill him?

Vianello still sat at his
desk, looking at him strangely, but there was no answer Brunetti could give
him, none that he would believe. Because he was almost a hero, he went back
upstairs, closed the door to his office, and looked out of the window for an
hour. A few workers had finally appeared on the scaffolding of San Lorenzo, but
there was no way of telling what they were doing. None of them ever went as
high as the roof, so the tiles remained untouched. Nor did they appear to be
carrying tools of any sort. They walked along the various layers of
scaffolding, climbed up and down between them on the several ladders that
connected them, came together and spoke to one another, then separated and went
back to climbing the ladders. It was very much like watching the busy activity
of ants: it appeared to have a purpose, if only because they were so energetic,
but no human was capable of understanding that purpose.

His phone rang, and he
turned away from the window to answer it. ‘Brunetti.’

‘Commissario Brunetti.
This is Maggiore Ambrogiani at the American base in Vicenza. We met some time
ago in regard to the death of that soldier in Venice.’

‘Ah yes, Maggiore,’
Brunetti said after a pause long enough to suggest to whoever was listening in
that he recalled the Maggiore only with difficulty. ‘How can I help you?’

‘You’ve already done
that, Signer Brunetti, at least for my American colleagues, by finding the
murderer of that young man. I’ve called to give you my personal thanks and
extend those of the American authorities here at the base.’

‘Ah, that’s most kind of
you, Maggiore. I do appreciate it. Of course, anything we can do to be of
assistance to America, especially the agencies of its government, is gladly
done.’

‘How nicely put, Signer
Brunetti. I’ll be sure to convey your exact words to them.’

‘Yes, do that, Maggiore.
Is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘Wish me good luck, I
suppose,’ Ambrogiani said with an artificial laugh.

‘Gladly, Maggiore, but
why?’

‘I’ve been given a new
assignment.’

‘Where?’

‘Sicily.’ Ambrogiani’s
voice was absolutely level and without emotion when he pronounced the name.

‘Ah, how very nice for
you, Maggiore. I’m told it has an excellent climate. When will you be going?’

‘This weekend.’

‘Ah, as soon as that?
When will your family be joining you?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not
going to be possible. I’ve been given command of a small unit in the mountains,
and it’s not possible for us to bring our families with us.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,
Maggiore.’

‘Well, ifs all in the
nature of the service, I suppose.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.
Anything else we can do for you here, Maggiore?’

‘No, Commissario. Again,
I extend my thanks and those of my American colleagues.’

‘Thank you, Maggiore. And
good luck,’ Brunetti said, the only honest words he had said in the conversation.
He hung up and went back to examining the scaffolding. The men were no longer
on it. Had they, he wondered, been sent to Sicily, as well? How long does one
survive in Sicily? A month? Two? He forgot how long Ambrogiani had said he had
until he could retire. Brunetti hoped he made it that long.

He thought again of those
three young people, all gone to their violent deaths, pawns tossed aside by a
brutal hand. Until now, that hand could have been Viscardi’s alone, but
Ambrogiani’s transfer meant that other, more powerful, players were involved,
players to whom both he and Ambrogiani could just as easily be swept from the
board. He recalled the lettering on one of those death-filled plastic bags, ‘Property
of US Government’. He shivered.

He had no need to check
the file for the address. He left the Questura and walked towards the Rialto,
seeing nothing, insensible to what he passed. At Rialto, suddenly overcome with
weariness at the thought of walking any further, he waited for the number one
vaporetto and got off at the second stop, San Stae. Though he had never been
there, his feet guided him to the door; Vianello had told him — it seemed
months ago -where it was. He rang the bell, gave his name, and the door snapped
open.
 
               

The courtyard was small,
devoid of plants, the steps leading up from it a dull grey. Brunetti reached
the top of the stairs and raised his hand to knock on the wooden door, but
Viscardi opened it before he could do so.

The mark under his eye
was lighter, the bruising almost entirely gone. The smile, however, was the
same. ‘What a pleasant surprise to see you, Commissario. Do come in.’ He held
out his hand, but when Brunetti ignored it, he lowered it as if naturally and
used it to pull back the door.

Brunetti stepped into the
entrance hall and allowed Viscardi to close the door behind him. He felt a
compelling desire to strike this man, to do some sort of physical violence to
him, hurt him somehow. Instead, he followed Viscardi into a large, airy salon
that looked out across what must be a back garden.

‘What may I do for you,
Commissario?’ Viscardi asked, still maintaining his politeness, but not to the
point of offering Brunetti either a seat or a drink.

‘Where were you last
night, Signor Viscardi?’

Viscardi smiled, letting
his eyes grow soft and warm. The question surprised him not in the least. ‘I
was where any decent man is at night, Dottore: I was at home with my wife
and children.’

‘Here?’

‘No, I was in Milan. And
if I might anticipate your next question, there were other people there, two
guests and three servants.’