A Venetian Reckoning (22 page)

Two miniature Norfolk pines in large
terracotta pots flanked the door to the restaurant, which opened as they drew
near. 'Good afternoon, gentlemen,' a dark-suited man with a long race and basset
eyes said as they came inside.

'Good afternoon' the captain said.
'Delia Corte. I called to reserve a table for two.'

'Your table is ready, if you'd like
to come this way.'

The man paused to pick up two long
menus from a desk near the door before leading them into a room so small it
held no more than six or seven tables, all but one of which were taken. Through
a high arch, Brunetti saw a second room, it too filled with what looked like
businessmen. Because the high windows allowed so little light, both rooms were
softly lit from lighting hidden in the oak beams that ran across the ceiling.
They walked past a round table covered with antipasti of all types: salami,
shellfish, prosciutto, octopus. The man led them to a table in a corner, held Brunetti's
chair for him, and then placed the menus in front of them. 'May I offer you a
Prosecco, gentlemen?' he asked.

Both nodded, and he left them. 'He
the owner?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Yes.’

'What's he so worried about?’

'Everyone's worried when the police
come to ask questions,’ della Corte said, picking up the menu and turning his
attention to it. He held it at arm's length and read through it, then put it
down, saying, 'I'm told the duck is very good here.'

Brunetti studied the menu long enough
to see that nothing sounded better. He closed it and set it down beside his
plate just as the owner returned with a bottle of Prosecco. He filled the two
narrow glasses chat stood to the right of their plates and then passed the bottle
to a waiter who came up behind him.

'Have you decided, capitano?' he
asked.

‘I'd like the fettuccine with
truffles,' della Corte said. Brunetti nodded to the owner. 'And then the duck.'
Brunetti nodded again.

'I suggest the Merlot del Piave,' the
owner said. When della Corte nodded, the owner gave the most minimal of bows
and backed away from their table.

Della Corte picked up his glass and
sipped at the sparkling wine. Brunetti did the same. Until their first course
came, the men talked of much and nothing, della Corte explaining that the
recent elections would probably result in a complete upheaval of the police in
Padua, at least at the highest levels.

Brunetti remembered his own poor
behaviour in the last mayoral election in Venice and said nothing. He had found
both candidates unappealing - the philosopher with no government experience
proposed by the ex-Communists and the businessman put up by the Lega - and so
he had emerged from the voting booth without having been able to vote,
something he had never confessed to Paola, who was so happy at the victory of
the philosopher that she never bothered to ask him whom he had voted for. Maybe
all of these new elections would force things to begin to change. Brunetti
doubted it, had been around government and the people who ran it too long to
think that any changes would ever be more than cosmetic.

He brought his attention back to the
table, and their places of fettuccine,
fastening
with the sheen of butter. The owner
came back, carrying a small truffle on a white plate in one hand, a metal
grater in the other. He bent over della Corte's plate and shaved at the
truffle, rose, and bent over Brunetti's plate and did the same. The woody,
musty odour wafted up from the still-steaming fettuccine, enveloping not only
the three men, but the entire area around them. Brunetti twiried the first
forkful and began to eat, giving in wholeheartedly to the sensual delight of
the butter, the perfectly cooked noodles, and the savoury, heady taste of the
truffles.

Delia Corte was obviously a man who
refused to spoil food with talk, and so they said little until the meal was
finished, the duck almost as good as the truffles - for Brunetti, nothing was
as good as truffles — and they sat with small glasses of calvados in front of
them.

It was at that point that a short,
happily stout man approached their table. He wore the white jacket and black
cummerbund that their own waiter had worn. 'Signor Germani said you'd like to
speak to me, capitano.'

‘Was it you I spoke to this morning?'
della Corte asked, pushing out a chair and waving the man into it.

The waiter pulled the chair out a bit
more in order to accommodate his substantial paunch and sat. 'Yes, sir, it
was.'

‘I'd like you to repeat what you told
me for my colleague here,' he said, nodding in Brunetti's direction.

Looking at della Corte, he began. 'As
I told you on the phone, sir, I didn't recognize him when I first saw his
picture in the paper. But men, when the barber was cutting my hair, it just
came to me who he was, right out of the blue. So I called the police’

Delia Corte smiled and nodded as if
to compliment the waiter on his sense of civic responsibility. 'Go on’ he said.

‘I don't think I can tell you much
more than I told you this morning, sir. He was with a woman. I described her to
you on the phone.'

Delia Corte asked him, 'Could you
repeat what you told me?'

'She was tall, as tall as he was.
Light eyes and skin, and light hair, not blonde, but almost. She was the same
one he was here with before’

'When were they here before?' della
Corte asked.

'Once about a month ago, and once
back in the summer, I forget when. I just remember that it was hot, and she
wore a yellow dress.'

'How did they behave?' della Corte
asked.

'Behave? You mean their manners?'

'No, I mean how they behaved towards
one another.'

'Oh, do you mean was there anything
between them?'

'Yes’ della Corte said and nodded.

1 don't think so’ the waiter said and
paused to consider the question. After a moment's pause, he continued, it was
obvious that they weren't married’ Even before della Corte could ask, the
waiter explained, ‘I don't know what it is that makes me say that, but I've
watched a million couples here over the years, and there's just a way people
who are married behave with one another. I mean, whether it's a good marriage
or a bad one, even if they hate one another, they're always comfortable with
one another.' He waved the subject away as too complex to explain. Brunetti
knew exactly what he meant but, like him, could never hope to explain it.

'And these people didn't give you
that idea?' Brunetti asked, speaking for the first time.

The waiter shook his head.

'Do you know what they talked about?'

'No,' the waiter said, 'but whatever
it was, they both seemed very happy about it. At one point during the meal, he
showed her some papers. She looked at them for a while. That's when she put on
her glasses.'

'Do you have any idea what the papers
were?’ della Corte asked.

'No. When I brought their pasta, she
gave them back to him.’

'And what did he do with them?’

'He must have put them in his pocket.
I didn't notice.' Brunetti glanced across at della Corte, who shook his head,
signalling that no papers had been found on Favero.

'Could you tell us a bit more about
what she looked like?' della Corte asked.

'Well, as I told you, she was
somewhere in her thirties. Tall, light hair, but not natural. She had the
colouring for it, light eyes, so maybe she was just helping it a little.'

'Anything else?' Brunetti asked,
smiling and then sipping at his carvados to suggest that the question had no
special importance.

'Well, now that I know he's dead, and
by his own hand, I don't know whether I noticed it at the time.
Or,
I
started to think it after I found out what happened to him.' Neither Brunetti nor
della Corte asked anything. ‘Well, something wasn't right between them.’ He
reached forward and brushed some crumbs from the table, caught them in his
hand, and then, seeing no place to put them, slipped them into the pocket of
his jacket

In the face of the silence of the two
policemen, he continued, speaking slowly, thinking this out for the first time.
'It was about halfway through the meal, when she was looking at the papers. She
glanced up from them and gave him a look.'

‘What kind of look?' della Corte
finally asked after a long silence.

‘I don't know. It wasn't angry or anything
like that. She just looked at him like he was in a zoo or something, like
she'd never seen anything like him. You know, like he was of a different
species or had stepped out of a spaceship. I don't know if I'm making the idea
clear,’ he said, letting his voice trail off inconclusively.

‘Did it seem like the look was
threatening in any way?'

'Oh, no, not at all,' he shook his
head in an effort to convince them. 'That's what was so strange about it, that
there was no anger in it There was just nothing in it' He stuffed his hands in
his pockets and gave an awkward grin. 'I'm sorry. I'm not explaining this
well.'

'Did he notice it?' Brunetti asked.

'No, he was pouring some more wine.
But I saw it.'

'What about the other times?'
Brunetti asked. 'Did they get on well?’

'Oh, yes. They always got on well. I
don't mean to suggest that they didn't get on well that night, either. They
were always very friendly but in a sort of semi-formal way.'

'Were there any papers the other
times?'

'No, nothing like that. They seemed
like friends, no, like business associates having a meal together. That's what
it was like, the way two men who have to meet for business meet. Maybe that's
why I always found it so strange, such an attractive woman, and he was a
handsome man, but there was none of that tension that you like to see between
a man and a woman, none of that at all. Yes, now that I think about it, that's
what was so strange.' He smiled now, having finally figured it out.

'Do you remember what wine they
drank?’ Brunetti asked. Both the waiter and della Corte gave him puzzled
glances.

The waiter thought about it for a
while. 'Barolo,' he finally answered. 'A good, hearty red. Went well with the
bistecche. And then Vin Santo with the dessert.'

'Did he leave the table at any time?'
Brunetti asked, thinking about just how hearty those wines were and about how
easy it is to drop something in a glass.

‘I don't remember. He might have.'

'Do you remember if he paid with a
credit card?' Brunetti asked.

'No, he paid with cash this time, and
I have it in my mind that he paid with cash those other times, too.'

'Do you know if he's come other
times? Other than when you saw them?'

'I asked the other waiters, but no
one remembers them. But it's not likely. We're closed Tuesday and Wednesday,
and I'm here all of the other days. Haven't missed a day of work in thirteen
years. So if they came, I was here, and I don't remember seeing them except for
last week and those two other times. She's a woman I'd remember.'

Delia Corte glanced across the table
at Brunetti, but he shook his head. He had no more questions, not for now.
Della Corte reached into his pocket and took out a small visiting card. 'If you
think of anything else, you can reach me at the Questura,' della Corte said,
handing him the card. Then, in a voice he made casually neutral, he added, 'Be
sure to ask for me specifically.'

The waiter pocketed it, stood, and
started to walk away from their table. Suddenly he stopped and came back
towards them. 'Do you want her glasses?' he asked without preamble.

'Excuse me?' della Corte said.

'Her glasses. She left them here, on
the chair beside her. She must have taken them off after she looked at the
papers and then forgot to take them with her. We found them after they left. Do
you want them?’

Delia Corte recovered himself
immediately. 'Yes, of course.'

The waiter disappeared and was back
in a few moments, carrying a pair of wire-framed glasses in one hand. He held
them up and, with almost childlike delight, said, 'Look.' With that, he held
them by the ends of the earpieces and twisted them round, as though the frame
were made of rubber and this a very clever trick. Pretzel-like, they bent, and
then, when he released the pressure, immediately sprang back to their original
shape. 'Isn't that remarkable?' he asked.