A Venetian Reckoning (21 page)

‘I have no idea. Whatever they
decided on.'

‘I see,' Brunetti said and then
asked, voice entirely conversational, 'And Signora Trevisan?'

Martucci's silence showed that he had
been expecting the question. 'What about her?'

'Did she retain any interest in the
business?’ 'That would depend upon the stipulations of Carlo's will.'

'You didn't draw it up?'

'No, he did that himself?

'And you have no idea of its
contents?'

'No, of course not. Why should I?'

‘I thought that, as his partner...'
Brunetti began and allowed a vague, encompassing flourish of his hands to
complete the sentence for him.

‘I was not his partner and would not
have been so until the beginning of next year.'

'Yes, of course,' Brunetti agreed. ‘I
thought that, given your association, you might have had some idea of the
contents.'

'None at all.'

‘I see.' Brunetti got to his feet. ‘I
think that will be all for now, Signor Martucci. I'm very grateful for your
co-operation.'

'That's all?' Martucci asked as he
stood. 'I can go?'

'Of course,' Brunetti said and then,
as if in proof of his good faith, went to the door and held it open for the
lawyer. After mutual goodbyes, the lawyer left the office. Brunetti and Vianello
waited a few minutes and then left the building, heading back towards Venice.

By the time the police launch
delivered them to the landing in front of the Questura, Brunetti and Vianello
had agreed that, though Martucci had seemed prepared for questions about
Signora Trevisan and had responded to them coolly, the questions about her late
husband and their partnership had obviously made him nervous.

VianeHo had worked with Brunetti for
so long that he didn't have to be told to run the usual checks - neighbours,
friends, wife - on Martucci's story to see if there was any confirmation of his
presence in his own home the previous night. The autopsy hadn't been performed
yet, and because of the intense heat in the car and its effects upon the body,
the exact time of death would be difficult to determine.

As they were crossing the broad
entrance hall of the Questura, Brunetd stopped in his tracks and turned to
Vianello. The gas tank;' he said suddenly.

'What, sir?' he asked.

'The gas tank. Have them measure how
much gas is left in it, and then find out, if you can, when he last gpt it
filled. That might give some idea of how long the motor ran. Might help them
calculate when he was shot'

Vianello nodded. It might not narrow
things down much, but if the autopsy failed to give a clear indication of the
time of death, it might help. Not that at this point, there was any compelling
need to ascertain the time of death.

Vianello went off on his errand, and
Brunetti went up the steps towards his office. Before he got to the top of the
steps, however, he met Signora Elettra, emerging from the end of the corridor
and turning down the steps towards him. 'Oh, there you are, commissario. The
Vice-Questore has been asking for you.' Brunetti stopped and gazed up at her as
she descended the steps towards him. A long saffron scarf, as light as
gossamer, trailed behind her, borne aloft at the level of her shoulders by the
streams of hot air that flowed up the staircase. If the Nike of Samothrace had stepped
from her pedestal, regained her head, and begun to descend the steps of the
Louvre, she would have looked much like this.

'Um?' Brunetti said as she reached
him.

The Vice-Questore, sir. He said he'd
like very much to speak to you.'

'Like very much to,' Brunetti found
himself repeating, impressed by the phrasing of the message. Paola often joked
about a Dickens character who predicted the arrival of bad things by announcing
that the wind was coming from a certain quarter; Brunetti could never remember
which character, or which quarter, but he did know that, when Patta 'would
like' to talk to him, the wind could be said to be coming from that same
quarter.

‘Is he in his office?' Brunetti
asked, turning and going back down the stairs beside the young woman.

'Yes, he is, and he's spent much of
the morning on the phone.' This, too, was often a sign of a looming storm.

'Avanti!
Vice-Questore Patta called in response to
Brunetti's knock. 'Good morning, Brunetti,' he said when his subordinate
entered the office. 'Have a seat, please. There are a few things I'd like to
discuss with you.' Three civil remarks from Patta even before he sat down put
Brunetti immediately on his guard.

He crossed the room and took his
usual seat. 'Yes, sir?' Brunetti asked, taking his notebook from his pocket,
hoping thus to display the seriousness with which he wanted Patta to believe he
treated this meeting.

'I'd like you to tell me what you
know about the death of Rino Favero.' 'Favero, sir?'

'Yes, an accountant in Padua who was
found dead in his garage last week.' Patta waited a length of time he would
consider a pregnant pause and added, 'A suicide.'

'Ah, yes, Favero. I was told that he
had Carlo Trevisan's phone number written in his address book.'

'I'm sure he had many phone numbers
written in his address book,' Patta said.

Trevisan's was listed without a
name.'

'I see. Anything else?'

'There were some other numbers. We're
trying to check them.'

'We, commissario? We?' Patta's voice
was rilled with nothing more than polite curiosity. A person less familiar
with the Vice-Questore would hear only that, not the implied menace.

"The police in Padua, that is.'

'And have you found out what these
numbers are?'

'No, sir.'

'Are you investigating Favero's
death?'

'No, sir,' Brunetti replied honestly.

'Good.' Patta looked down at his desk
and placed a telephone memo to one side, then looked at the paper below it.
'And Trevisan? What have you to report there?'

'There's been another killing,'
Brunetti said.

'Lotto? Yes, I know. You think
they're related?’

Brunetti took a long breath before
answering. The two men were business partners and were killed in the same way,
perhaps with the same weapon, and Patta asked if the crimes were related. 'Yes,
sir. I do.'

'I think, then, that you had best
devote your time and energies to investigating their deaths and leave this
business of Favero to the people in Padua, where it belongs.' Patta moved a
second piece of paper to the side of his desk and glanced down at a third.

'Is there anything else, sir?'
Brunetti asked.

'No, I think that will be all,' Patta
said, not bothering to look up.

Brunetti put the notebook in his
pocket, got up, and left the office, unsettled by Patta s civility. Outside, he
stopped at Signorina Elettra's desk. 'You have any idea who he's been talking
to?'

'No, I don't, but he's having lunch
at Do Forni,' she said, naming a restaurant once famous for its food, now for
its prices.

'Did you make the reservation for
him?'

'No, I didn't. In fact, one of those
phone calls must have contained a better invitation because he asked me to
cancel his own reservation at Corte Sconto,’ she said, naming a restaurant of
similar cost. Before Brunetti could muster the bravado to ask an employee of
the police to compromise her principles, Signorina Elettra suggested, 'Perhaps
I could call this afternoon and ask if they've found the Vice-Questore's
notebook. Since he never carries one, that's unlikely. But I'm sure they'll
tell me who he was sitting with if I explain I'd like to call whoever he was
with and ask if they found it'

'I'd be very grateful’ Brunetti said.
He had no idea if this information would be important in any way, but he had,
over the years, found it useful to have an idea of what Patta was doing and
whom he was seeing, especially during those rare periods when Patta chose to
treat him politely.

20

An hour after Brunetti returned to
his office, he received a phone call from della Corte, at a phone booth in
Padua. At least that's what it sounded like to Brunetti, who at times had
difficulty hearing what the other man said, so loud was the noise of horns and
traffic that followed his voice down the line.

'We've found the restaurant where he
had dinner the night he died,' della Corte said, and Brunetti needed no
explanation to know that the pronoun referred to Favero.

Brunetti jumped over questions of where
and how the police had found out and asked the only question that had bearing
on the case: '"was he alone?'

'No,' della Corte said eagerly. 'He
was with a woman, about ten years younger than himself. Very well dressed and,
from what the waiter said, very attractive.'

'And?' Brunetti insisted, realizing
how little help that description would be in recognizing her.

'One second,' della Corte said.
'Here, I've got it. She was about thirty-five, blonde hair, cut neither short
nor long. Just about Favero's height.' Remembering the description of Favero on
the autopsy report, Brunetti realized that this would make her tall for a
woman. 'The waiter said she was very well dressed, very expensively. He didn't
hear her say much, but she sounded as expensive as the clothing - at least
that's how he described her.'

'Where were they?’

‘In a restaurant over near the
university.' 'How'd you find out?'

'None of the people who work there
reads the
Gazzettino,
so they didn't see Favero's picture when the
story appeared. The waiter didn't see it until this morning, when he went to
get his hair cut and found it on a pile of old newspapers. He recognized Favero
from the photo and called us. I just spoke to them but haven't gone over to
speak to him yet. I thought you might like to come with me when I do.'

'When?'

‘It's a restaurant. Lunch?'

Brunetti glanced down at his watch.
It was twenty to eleven, it'll take me half an hour to get to the railway
station,' he said, ‘I’ll get the first train leaving after that. Can you meet
me?'

'I'll be there,' della Corte said and
hung up.

And so he was, waiting on the
platform when the train pulled in. Brunetti pushed his way through the crowd of
university students who milled around on the platform, trying to push their way
up on to the train the instant its doors opened.

The two men shook hands and left the
platform, heading down the stairs that would carry them under the tracks and up
out of the station to the police car that stood, motor running and driver in
place, at the curb.

As the car crawled through the
gagging traffic of Padua, Brunetti asked, 'Has anyone from your place been in
touch with my boss?'

'Patta?' della Corte asked,
pronouncing the name with a soft explosion of breath that could mean anything.
Or nothing.

'Yes.'

'Not that I know of. Why?'

'He's suggested that I leave the
investigation of Favero's death to you. Of his suicide. I wondered if the
suggestion came from the people here.'

'Could have,' della Corte said.

'Have you had any more trouble?'

'No, not really. Everyone's treating
it like it was a suicide. Anything I do is on my own time.'

'Like this?' Brunetti asked, waving a
hand to encompass the car.

'Yes. I'm still free to eat lunch
wherever I please.'

'And invite a friend from Venice?'
asked Brunetti.

'Exactly,' della Corte agreed just as
the car pulled up to the curb in front of the restaurant. The uniformed driver
sprang out and opened the door, held it while the two men got out. 'Go and have
some lunch, Rinaldi,' della Corte said. 'Be back at three.'

The young man saluted and climbed
back into the car.