Death in a Strange Country

brutal hand. Until now, that hand could have been Viscardi’s alone, but Ambrogiani’s transfer meant that other, more powerful, players were involved, players to whom both he and Ambrogiani could just as easily be swept from the board. He recalled the lettering on one of those death-filled plastic bags, ‘Property of US Government’. He shivered.

He had no need to check the file for the address. He left the Questura and walked towards the Rialto, seeing nothing, insensible to what he passed. At Rialto, suddenly overcome with weariness at the thought of walking any further, he waited for the number one vaporetto and got off at the second stop, San Stae. Though he had never been there, his feet guided him to the door; Vianello had told him — it seemed months ago -where it was. He rang the bell, gave his name, and the door snapped open.

The courtyard was small, devoid of plants, the steps leading up from it a dull grey. Brunetti reached the top of the stairs and raised his hand to knock on the wooden door, but Viscardi opened it before he could do so.

The mark under his eye was lighter, the bruising almost entirely gone. The smile, however, was the same. ‘What a pleasant surprise to see you, Commissario. Do come in.’ He held out his hand, but when Brunetti ignored it, he lowered it as if naturally and used it to pull back the door.

Brunetti stepped into the entrance hall and allowed Viscardi to close the door behind him. He felt a compelling desire to strike this man, to do some sort of physical violence to him, hurt him somehow. Instead, he followed Viscardi into a large, airy salon that looked out across what must be a back garden.

‘What may I do for you, Commissario?’ Viscardi asked, still maintaining his politeness, but not to the point of offering Brunetti either a seat or a drink.

‘Where were you last night, Signor Viscardi?’

Viscardi smiled, letting his eyes grow soft and warm. The question surprised him not in the least. ‘I was where any decent man is at night, Dottore: I was at home with my wife and children.’

‘Here?’

‘No, I was in Milan. And if I might anticipate your next question, there were other people there, two guests and three servants.’

‘When did you get here?’

‘This morning, on the early plane.’ He smiled and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out a small blue card. ‘Ah, how very fortunate, I still have the boarding pass with me.’ He held it towards Brunetti. ‘Would you like to inspect it, Commissario?’

Brunetti ignored the gesture. ‘We found that young man who was in the photo,’ Brunetti said.

‘The young man?’ Viscardi asked, paused, and then let remembrance play across his face. ‘Ah yes, the young criminal your sergeant showed me the picture of. Has Vice-Questore Patta told you that I think I might remember him now?’ Brunetti ignored the question so Viscardi continued, ‘Does this mean you’ve arrested him? If this means you’ll be getting my pictures back, my wife will be thrilled.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ Viscardi asked, letting one brow arch in surprise. ‘How unfortunate. Was it a natural death?’ he asked, then paused as if weighing his next question. ‘A drug overdose, perhaps? I’m told that accidents like that happen, especially with young people.’

‘No, it wasn’t a drug overdose. He was murdered.’

‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that, but there does seem to be an awful lot of that going around, doesn’t there?’ He smiled at his little joke and asked, ‘And was he, after all, responsible for the robbery here?’

‘There is evidence that connects him to it.’

Viscardi contracted his eyes, no doubt intending to display dawning realization. ‘Then it really was him I saw that night?’

‘Yes, you saw him.’

‘Does that mean I’ll be getting the pictures back soon?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, too bad. My wife will be so disappointed.’

“We found evidence that he was connected to another crime.’

‘Really? What crime?’

‘The murder of the American soldier.’

‘You and Vice-Questore Patta must be pleased, to be able to solve that crime, as well.’

‘The Vice-Questore is.’

‘And you are not? Why is that, Commissario?’

‘Because he wasn’t the killer.’

‘You sound very certain of that fact.’

‘I am very certain of that fact.’

Viscardi tried another smile, a very narrow one. ‘I’m afraid, Dottore, that I’d be far more pleased if you could be equally certain that you’d find my paintings.’

‘You may be certain I will, Signor Viscardi.’

‘That’s very encouraging, Commissario.’ He pushed back his cuff, glanced fleetingly at his watch, and said, ‘But I’m afraid you must excuse me. I’m expecting friends for lunch. And then I have a business appointment and really must get to the station.’

‘Your appointment isn’t in Venice?’ Brunetti asked.