Death in a Strange Country

‘It said that you thought Ruffolo was involved with the death of the American.’

‘That’s ridiculous. You know what Ruffolo was like. He would have cut and run if anyone had so little as yelled at him.’

‘He’d just done two years inside, sir. It’s possible he changed.’

‘Do you really think that?’

‘It’s possible, sir.’

‘That’s not what I asked you, Vianello. I asked you if you believed he did it.’

‘If he didn’t, then how did the American’s identity card get into his wallet?’

‘You believe it, then?’

‘Yes. At least I think it’s possible. Why don’t you believe it, sir?’

Because of the Count’s warning - Brunetti could only now see it as the warning it had been - about the connection between Gamberetto and Viscardi. He saw now, as well, that Viscardi’s threat had had nothing to do with Brunetti’s investigation of the robbery at the palazzo. It was his investigation into the murders of the two Americans that Viscardi had warned him away from, murders with which poor, stupid Ruffolo had nothing to do, murders which he knew, now, would go forever unpunished.

His thoughts turned from the two dead Americans to Ruffolo, finally hitting what he thought was the big time, boasting to his mother about his important friends. He had robbed the palazzo, even done what the important man told him to do, roughed him up a little, though that was not at all like Ruffolo. When had Ruffolo learned that Signor Viscardi was involved in far more than stealing his own paintings? He had mentioned three things that would interest Brunetti - they must have been the paintings — yet, in his wallet, there had been only one. Who had put it there? Had Ruffolo somehow come into possession of the identity card and kept it to use as a bargaining chip in his conversation with Brunetti? Worse, had he tried to threaten Viscardi with his knowledge of it and what it meant? Or had he merely been an innocent, ignorant pawn, one of the countless little players in the game, like Foster and Peters, used for a while and then tossed away when they learned something that would threaten the major players? Had the card been slipped into his wallet by the same person who had used the rock to kill him?

Vianello still sat at his desk, looking at him strangely, but there was no answer Brunetti could give him, none that he would believe. Because he was almost a hero, he went back upstairs, closed the door to his office, and looked out of the window for an hour. A few workers had finally appeared on the scaffolding of San Lorenzo, but there was no way of telling what they were doing. None of them ever went as high as the roof, so the tiles remained untouched. Nor did they appear to be carrying tools of any sort. They walked along the various layers of scaffolding, climbed up and down between them on the several ladders that connected them, came together and spoke to one another, then separated and went back to climbing the ladders. It was very much like watching the busy activity of ants: it appeared to have a purpose, if only because they were so energetic, but no human was capable of understanding that purpose.

His phone rang, and he turned away from the window to answer it. ‘Brunetti.’

‘Commissario Brunetti. This is Maggiore Ambrogiani at the American base in Vicenza. We met some time ago in regard to the death of that soldier in Venice.’

‘Ah yes, Maggiore,’ Brunetti said after a pause long enough to suggest to whoever was listening in that he recalled the Maggiore only with difficulty. ‘How can I help you?’

‘You’ve already done that, Signer Brunetti, at least for my American colleagues, by finding the murderer of that young man. I’ve called to give you my personal thanks and extend those of the American authorities here at the base.’

‘Ah, that’s most kind of you, Maggiore. I do appreciate it. Of course, anything we can do to be of assistance to America, especially the agencies of its government, is gladly done.’

‘How nicely put, Signer Brunetti. I’ll be sure to convey your exact words to them.’

‘Yes, do that, Maggiore. Is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘Wish me good luck, I suppose,’ Ambrogiani said with an artificial laugh.

‘Gladly, Maggiore, but why?’

‘I’ve been given a new assignment.’

‘Where?’

‘Sicily.’ Ambrogiani’s voice was absolutely level and without emotion when he pronounced the name.

‘Ah, how very nice for you, Maggiore. I’m told it has an excellent climate. When will you be going?’

‘This weekend.’

‘Ah, as soon as that? When will your family be joining you?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. I’ve been given command of a small unit in the mountains, and it’s not possible for us to bring our families with us.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Maggiore.’

‘Well, ifs all in the nature of the service, I suppose.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. Anything else we can do for you here, Maggiore?’

‘No, Commissario. Again, I extend my thanks and those of my American colleagues.’

‘Thank you, Maggiore. And good luck,’ Brunetti said, the only honest words he had said in the conversation. He hung up and went back to examining the scaffolding. The men were no longer on it. Had they, he wondered, been sent to Sicily, as well? How long does one survive in Sicily? A month? Two? He forgot how long Ambrogiani had said he had until he could retire. Brunetti hoped he made it that long.

He thought again of those three young people, all gone to their violent deaths, pawns tossed aside by a