Death and Judgement (17 page)

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.

‘I
s 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 w
as told that he had Carlo Trevi
san'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 s
ounded as expensive as the cl
othing - at least that's how he described her.'

'Where were they?
’

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

'None of the people who work there reads the
Gaz
zettino,
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?'

‘I
t'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 Fav
ero'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.

'Exactl
y,' 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 ou
t. 'Go and have some lunch, Rin
aldi,' della Corte said. 'Be back at three.'

The young man saluted and climbed back into the car.

Two miniature Norfolk pines in large terracotta pots flanked the door to the restaurant, which opened as they
drew near. 'Good afternoon, gentl
emen,' 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 take
n. 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, gentl
emen?' 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 perfectl
y 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 littl
e 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 y
ou I spoke to this morning?' dell
a 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.

'I 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 n
or 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.'