animals.
‘Coincidentally, Signor Viscardi called me yesterday afternoon to tell me that it’s possible the young man in the photograph might have been there that night. He said he was too surprised at the time to think clearly.’ Patta pursed his lips in disapproval as he added, ‘And I’m sure the treatment he received at the hands of your officers didn’t help him remember.’ His expression changed, the smile reblossomed. ‘But that’s all in the past, and he certainly seems to bear no ill will. So it seems those Belgian people were right, and Ruffolo was there. I assume he didn’t get much money from the American and thought he’d try to arrange a more profitable robbery.’
Patta was expansive. ‘I’ve already spoken to the Press about this, explaining that we were in no doubt from the very beginning. The murder of the American had to be a random thing. And how, thank God, that’s proved.’ As he listened to Patta so blandly lay Foster’s murder at Ruffolo’s door, Brunetti saw that Doctor Peters’ death would never be seen as anything other than an accidental overdose.
He had no choice but to hurl himself under the juggernaut of Patta’s certainty. ‘But why would he take the chance of carrying the American’s card? That doesn’t make any sense.’
Patta rolled right over him. ‘He could outrun you easily, Commissario, so there was no chance he would be found with it. Or perhaps he forgot about it.’
‘People don’t often forget about evidence that links them to murder, sir.’
Patta ignored him. ‘I’ve told the Press we had reason to suspect him in the killing of the American from the very beginning, that this was why you wanted to talk to him. He was probably afraid we were onto him and thought he could make a deal with us about a lesser crime. Or perhaps he was going to try to blame someone else for the American’s death. The fact that he had the American’s card with him leaves no doubt that he killed him.’ Well, Brunetti was sure of that: it surely would remove all doubt. ‘That, after all, is why you went to meet him, isn’t it? About the American?’ When Brunetti didn’t answer, Patta repeated his question, ‘Isn’t it, Commissario?’
Brunetti brushed aside the question with a motion of his head and asked, ‘Have you said any of this to the Procuratore, sir?’
‘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
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.
