Quietly in Their Sleep (19 page)

Saying nothing else, she put the phone down and turned her attention to Brunetti.

‘Dutch guilders?’ he asked politely.

‘If you’ve got any, get rid of them,’ she said.

Brunetti had none but he nodded his thanks for the suggestion anyway. ‘You dressing for success?’ he asked.

‘How kind of you to notice, Commissario. Do you like it?’ She stood and took a few steps away from her desk. Complete to Cinderella-sized wingtips.

‘It’s very nice,’ he said. ‘Perfect for talking to your broker.’

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Pity he’s such a fool. I have to tell him everything.’

‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Before you speak to the Vice-Questore, I thought I’d tell you that we’re about to have a visit from the Swiss police.’

Before she could say anything further, Brunetti smiled and quipped, ‘Found out about your numbered accounts, has he?’ casting an artificially furtive glance toward Patta’s office.

Signorina Elettra’s eyes flew open in shock and then as quickly veiled themselves in displeasure. ‘No, Commissario,’ she said in an entirely business-like voice, ‘it has something to do with the European Commission, but perhaps Vice-Questore Patta can tell you more about it.’ She sat back down at her desk, turned her attention to the computer, her back to Brunetti.

Brunetti knocked and, when told to, went into Patta’s office. The Vice-Questore, it appeared, had been much restored by his recent vacation. His classic nose and imperious chin glowed with a tan made all the more impressive by its having been acquired in March. It appeared, as well, that the Vice-Questore had shed a few kilos, or else the tailors of Bangkok could better disguise his embonpoint than could those of London.

‘Good morning, Brunetti,’ Patta said in an entirely pleasant voice.

Taking warning from this, Brunetti did no more than mumble something inaudible and take a seat without bothering to be asked to do so. The fact that Patta didn’t bother to show his disapproval for this put Brunetti even more on his guard.

‘I’d like to compliment you for the help you gave while I was away,’ Patta began, and the alarm bells in Brunetti’s mind raised themselves to such a pitch that it was almost impossible to pay attention to what Patta said. Brunetti nodded.

Patta took a few steps away from his desk and then turned back toward it. He took his seat behind the desk, but suddenly disliking the artificial advantage of height it gave him over the person sitting in front of him, he got up again and came to sit in the chair beside Brunetti.

‘As you know, Commissario, this is the year of international police cooperation.’

As a matter of fact, Brunetti didn’t know this. What is more, he didn’t much care, for he knew that, whatever year it was, it was going to end up costing him something, probably time and patience.

‘Did you know that, Commissario?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it is. Declared by the High Commission of the European Community.’ When Brunetti proved resistant to this wonder, Patta asked, ‘Aren’t you curious to know what our part in this will be?’

‘Who’s “our”?’

After a pause to sort out the grammar, Patta answered, ‘Why, Italy, of course.’

‘There are lots of cities in Italy.’

‘Yes. But few are as famous as Venice.’

‘And few are as free of crime.’

Patta paused after this but then continued, as though Brunetti had been nodding and smiling in agreement to everything he said. ‘As our part, we will be hosts, during the next few months, to the chiefs of police of our sister cities.’

‘Which cities?’

‘London, Paris, and Bern.’

‘Hosts?’

‘Yes. Since the chiefs of police will be coming here, we thought that it would be a good idea if they could work along with us, get an idea of what police work is like here.’

‘And let me guess, sir. We’re starting with Bern, and I get him, and then after his visit I’ll be able to go and visit him in the mad whirl of Bern, that most exciting of capital cities, and you’ll take over with Paris and London?’

Patta, if he was surprised to find it expressed this way, gave no sign. ‘He’s arriving tomorrow, and I’ve scheduled a lunchtime meeting for the three of us. Then I thought, in the afternoon, you might take him on a tour of the city. You could use a police launch.’

‘Maybe out to Murano to look at the glass-blowing?’

Patta had nodded and begun to say that was a good idea before Brunetti’s tone caught up with his words, and Patta stopped. ‘It’s part of the responsibilities of our office, Brunetti, to maintain good public relations.’ Typically, Patta said that last phrase in English, a language he didn’t speak.

Brunetti got to his feet. ‘All right,’ he said. He looked down at the still-seated Patta. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch, then?’

* * * *

Chapter Ten

Outside, Brunetti found Signorina Elettra in silent confabulation with her computer. She turned and smiled when he emerged, apparently a silent declaration that she was prepared to forgive his provocative remarks about secret Swiss bank accounts. ‘And?’ she asked.

‘And I get to take the chief of the Bern police on a tour of the city. I suppose I should be lucky he hasn’t asked me to take him into my house as a guest.’

‘What does he want you to do with him?’

‘I have no idea. Show him the city. Keep him here and let him have a look around. Maybe I ought to let him have a look at the people on line in front of the Ufficio Stranieri, asking for residence permits.’ Though he was uncomfortable about feeling it, Brunetti could not completely disburden himself of a growing uneasiness about the hordes of people who crowded each morning into that long line: most of them were young males, and most of them came from countries that had no common link with European culture. Even as he found himself thinking this, dressing his ideas up in sophisticated language, he realized that they were, at bottom, exactly the same sentiments that formed the basis for the most xenophobic ravings of the members of the various Lege which promised to lead Italy back to ethnic and cultural purity.

Signorina Elettra broke into these grim musings. ‘It might not be so bad, Dottore. The Swiss have been very helpful to us in the past.’

He smiled. ‘Perhaps you could worm some computer passwords out of him, Signorina.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure we need those, sir. The police codes were very easy to get. But the really useful ones, the ones for the banks — why, even I wouldn’t bother to waste my time trying to get those.’

Without realizing where the idea came from, Brunetti said, ‘Signorina, I’d like you to do something for me.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she asked, picking up a pen, quite as if he had never made a joke about Swiss bank accounts.

‘There’s a priest over at San Polo, Father Luciano something. I don’t know his last name. I’d like you to find out if there’s ever been any trouble with him.’

‘Trouble, sir?’

‘If he’s ever been arrested or charged with anything. Or if he’s been transferred often. In fact, see if you can find out where his last parish was and why he was sent here.’

Almost under her breath, she said, ‘The Swiss banks would be easier.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s very difficult, to get this sort of information.’

‘But if he’s been arrested?’

‘Things like that have a way of disappearing, sir.’

‘Things like what?’ Brunetti asked, interested by her bland tone.

‘Things like when priests are arrested. Or when they drop into the public eye. Just remember that sauna in Dublin. How quickly did that drop out of the papers?’

Brunetti remembered the story that had appeared last year, though only in
Manifesto
and
L’Unità,
about the Irish priest who had died of a heart attack in a gay sauna in Dublin, given the last rites by two other priests who happened to be there at the same time. The story, a source of howling delight to Paola, had disappeared after a single day, and this from the leftist press.

‘But certainly police files are different,’ he maintained.

She glanced up and gave him a smile similar in its compassion to those Paola often used to end an argument. ‘I’ll get his name and have a look, sir.’ She flipped to a new page. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Brunetti said and left her office, returning slowly to his own.

During the few years Signorina Elettra had worked at the Questura, Brunetti had become familiar with her sense of irony, but she could still say things that managed to leave him absolutely puzzled yet too embarrassed to ask for clarification, as had just happened with her remark about priests. He had never discussed religion or the clergy with Signorina Elettra, but, upon examination, he found that he believed her opinion wouldn’t be much wide of Paola’s.

Back in his office, he put thoughts of Signora Elettra and Holy Mother Church from his mind and reached for the phone. He dialled Lele Bortoluzzi’s number, and when the painter answered on the second ring, Brunetti said he was calling about Doctor Messini again.

‘How did you know I was back, Guido?’ Lele asked.

‘Back from where?’

‘England. I had a show in London and just got back yesterday afternoon. I was going to call you today.’

‘Call me about what?’ Brunetti asked, too interested in this to bother with polite questions about the success of Lele’s exhibit.

‘It seems that Fabio Messini likes the ladies,’ Lele answered.

‘As opposed to the rest of us who don’t, Lele?’

Lele, whose reputation in the city had been well known in his youth, laughed at this. ‘No, I mean, he likes the company of young women and is prepared to pay for it. And it seems he’s got two of them.’

‘Two?’

‘Two. One here in the city, in an apartment for which he pays the rent, a four-room apartment near San Marco, and another one out on the Lido. Neither of them works, but both of them dress very well.’

‘Is he the only one?’

‘Only one who what?’

‘Visits them,’ Brunetti said euphemistically.

‘Hummm, I didn’t think to ask that,’ Lele said, his voice showing that he regretted this oversight. ‘They are both very beautiful, it is said.’

‘Is it? And who says this?’

‘Friends,’ Lele answered cryptically.

‘What else do they say?’

‘That he visits each of them two or three times a week.’

‘How old is he, did you say?’

‘I didn’t say, but he’s my age.’

‘My, my,’ Brunetti said in a neutral voice and then, after a pause, asked, ‘Did they happen, your friends, to say anything about the nursing home?’

‘Homes,’ Lele corrected him.

‘How many are there?’

‘There seem to be five of them now, the one over here and four of them out on the mainland.’

Brunetti didn’t say anything for so long that Lele finally asked, ‘Guido, are you still there?’