got is old ideas, whatever they are. Mostly he just naps away the afternoon, like an old tabby, but this time he pricks up his ears and makes a fuss. And of course it is Buccati, so they can’t very well say no. What a tear. Even me, if you please. Because I’d recommended her. Which I only did because Emilio asked. I thought, a cousin. And then not even that. I had no idea-”
“But how did he hear? Buccati?”
“Hear what? About her? Well, who didn’t, after that awful scene?”
“But Gianni didn’t say anything?”
“Gianni? Adam, what are you talking about?”
“I thought Gianni might have had something to do with it.”
“What, at the Accademia? Gianni never looked at a painting in his life. I doubt he’d ever been inside, much less-what? Do you think he was prattling away to old Buccati? What for?”
“To get her fired.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have blamed him-so unpleasant, that business at the party-but no. No. Nobody’s even suggested it. This was Buccati’s own particular nonsense, and what a mess. I’m sorry about the girl, of course, but think of me. And the staff. Nervous as hens now that they see what he’s really like.”
“So you don’t think it was Gianni,” I said, partly to myself.
“No, I don’t,” he said steadily. “And I would have heard.”
I finished the rest of the coffee, thinking. “He showed me some frescoes once,” I said.
“And? Adam, I’m having a little trouble following.”
“You said he never looked at pictures. But he knew these.”
“Where?”
“At the hospital.”
“Well, the hospital. And Ca’ Maglione. I’m sure he knew every wall. And I’d still bet he’d never been inside the Accademia. Adam, he was a doctor. They’re all a bit Home Counties, really, aren’t they? He was a very conventional man. He wasn’t really interested in-” He waved his hand to take in the city. “You know, this.”
“But he loved Venice.”
“As property. Not as-this extraordinary thing. No eye, none. He was just a conventional man.” He paused, putting down his cup. “Except for Grace, I suppose. I’ve been thinking about it since-well, since-and you know, she’s the one thing that doesn’t make sense in his life. He does his work. He cares about his family-oh, that dreary wife, the marriage must have been a penance. Everything what it should be. Except for her. Maybe she was this for him,” he said, waving his hand again at the campo. “This whole other side that must have been there. I never saw it, but it must have been, don’t you think? Mad for her, even years later. I think she was the only idea he ever had about- whatever it was that was missing.”
I looked out at the square, the faded red and melon plasterwork warm in the sun. This extraordinary thing.
“You’re a romantic, Bertie.”
He smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I just like a good mystery story. It’s the ultimate mystery, isn’t it? People. Not who done it. Who they are. Of course, you’re one of the ‘done it’ people, you and your friends at the Questura. Somebody done him in. Well, yes, but who was he? That’s what I want to know. Here’s a man I’ve known for-well, if I did. Anyway, who wants to know his doctor? And it turns out I didn’t. Sometimes I think we’re all little mysteries, whirling around.” He moved his finger in a circle. “And none of us has the faintest clue about the other. Think of it. Gianni in love. I didn’t know he was capable of it. But I suppose he was. Then murdered. What could he have done to make somebody want to do that?”
“That’s what they’re trying to find out.”
“Are they? Well, good luck. Cavallini couldn’t catch a fly.” He shook his head. “And you. Such nonsense. You’d be better off getting Grace out of here. Mooning about with Mimi and Celia and probably getting sloshed, if I know my Celia. Talk about the bad penny turning up. Oh, I know,” he said, seeing my look, “her heart’s broken, but it so happens I don’t believe in broken hearts.” He peered over his glasses. “I’m not that romantic. What she needs is a change. But here you are, playing Father Brown. What a world.”
“How do you know Cavallini?”
“I had to report during the war-all the neutrals. I’ve told you this. All present and accounted for, you know. Make-work. Actually, he was nice about it-he’d come to me. Of course, that was right up his street. He’s a policeman who likes a canal view.”
“Maybe he’s better than you think. He’s talked to everybody. I’ve seen the reports.”
“Oh, I’ve heard. The poor servants, over and over. I suppose one conked Gianni on the head in a fit of pique. He can’t be serious.”
“He’s just being thorough. The house, the hospital. He’s doing the patients now. He’ll probably get around to you any day,” I said, teasing.
“As a suspect?”
I smiled. “As someone who knew him.”
“But why should it be anyone who knew him? A thief wouldn’t-”
“Because it wasn’t robbery. He still had his money on him. His watch.”
“Really,” Bertie said, then looked over at me. “What else?”
“All we know is what it wasn’t. And if it wasn’t robbery, then it was about him somehow. Who he was.” I fiddled with my coffee cup. “Your little mystery. We need to know more about him.”
“Such as?”
“Anything. Paolo, for instance. Tell me about Paolo.”
“Oh, we’re back to Paolo. But he didn’t count for anything. Awful thing to say, isn’t it? But he didn’t. Simply didn’t matter.”
“But Gianni was upset when he died. Everyone says so,” I said, trying it out.
“Do they?” Bertie looked away, thinking. “I suppose he was. Family, after all. That was important to him, probably more than Paolo was, really. But now that you mention it, he did take it hard. Went all quiet and monkish for a while. But they do that here.”
“So they were close?”
“Only in the sense of Paolo’s being there all the time-we’re talking about the early days now. He was always around. You know, at the beach, parties, whatever.”
“Like a puppy, you said.”
“Yes. Whatever Gianni wanted, he’d fetch it. It was like that.”
“But he was the older brother.”
“Well, what’s there to that? I’m an only child and I’ve always been sociable. Anyway, he didn’t seem to mind. He looked up to Gianni.” He reached over to the cigarettes on the cafe table and took one out. “Is that what you want to know? I can’t think why.”
“So Gianni was distressed when Paolo died?”
“Well, yes,” Bertie said, striking the match and cupping it at the end of the cigarette. “Why wouldn’t he be? Awful way to go, a crash like that. So young. And so typical, I must say, so careless, although of course one didn’t say it.”
“You know there are rumors that it wasn’t an accident.”
Bertie looked at me through the smoke, not saying anything.
“That he was killed by partisans.”
“And?”
“And if he was, there might be a political angle to this murder too. Gianni’s murder.”
“Oh, both now. Very Il Gazzettino of you. Is that the line you’re taking down at the Questura?”
“Did he ever say anything to you about Paolo’s death?”
“No, he didn’t,” Bertie said, tapping the end of his cigarette, his voice prickly. “And if he had, I wouldn’t have listened. I don’t listen to rumors either. Political angle. I don’t listen and I don’t know. All I want is to be left alone. I have no politics. None. I’m the most neutral man in Venice. And it’s very wrong of you to go on about it. Badgering people. Even Cavallini didn’t do that. And that was during the war.”
“I wasn’t asking about your politics, I was asking about Gianni’s,” I said quietly.
He leaned his head back, reprimanded, or surprised at his own reaction.
