Death at La Fenice

‘Yes, I know,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes,’ chirped in Riverre.

‘What?’

‘She didn’t mind it when we looked through his clothing and closets. She sent the maid with us, didn’t even bother to come herself. But when we went into the other room, where the papers were, then she came along and told the maid to wait outside. She didn’t like us looking at that stuff, sir, papers and things.’

‘And what were they?’

‘They looked official, sir. It was all in German, and we brought it back here to be translated.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen the report. What happened to the papers, after they were translated?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ answered Alvise. ‘Either they’re still down with the translator or they were sent back to her.’

‘Riverre, could you go and find out for me?’

‘Now, sir?’

‘Yes, now.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He sketched out something that resembled a salute and moved away from the bar with deliberate slowness.

‘And, Riverre,’ he called out after him. Riverre turned, hoping to be called back and spared the walk to the Questura and the two flights of stairs. ‘If the papers are there, have them sent up to my office.’

Brunetti picked up one of the brioches that lay on a plate in front of them and took a bite. He signaled to Arianna to make him another coffee. ‘While you were there,’ he asked Alvise, ‘did you notice anything else?’

‘What kind of things, sir?’ As though they were meant to see only those things they were sent to look for.

‘Anything. You mentioned the tension between the two women. Did either of them seem to act strangely?’

Alvise thought for a moment, took a bite from one of the brioches, and answered, ‘No, sir.’ Seeing that Brunetti was disappointed with this answer, he added, ‘Only when we took the papers.’

‘Do you have any idea why that might be?’

‘No, sir. Only she was so different from how she was when we looked at his personal things, as if that didn’t matter at all. I’d sort of think that people wouldn’t like that, poking around in someone’s clothing. But papers are just papers.’ Seeing that this last remark had clearly garnered Brunetti’s interest, he grew more expansive. ‘But maybe it’s because he was a genius. Of course, I wouldn’t know about that sort of music’ Brunetti braced himself for the inevitable. ‘The only singer I know personally is Mina, and she never sang with him. But as I was saying, if he was famous, then maybe the papers might be important. There might be things in them about, you know, music’

At that moment, Riverre came back. ‘Sorry, sir, but the papers have been sent back.’

‘How? Mailed?’

‘No, sir; the translator took them himself. He said that the widow would probably need some of them.’

Brunetti stepped back from the bar and reached for his wallet. He put ten thousand lire on the counter before either of the two uniformed men could object.

‘Thank you, sir,’ they both said.

‘It’s nothing.’

When he turned to leave, neither of them made a move to accompany him, though both did salute.

The porter at the Questura’s door told him that Vice-Questore Patta wanted to see him immediately in his office.

‘Gesu Bambino,’ Brunetti exclaimed under his breath, an expression he had learned from his mother, who, like him, used it only when pressed beyond the limits of human patience.

At the door to his commander’s office, he knocked and was careful to wait for the shouted ‘Avanti!’ before entering. As he had expected, he found Patta posed behind his desk, a stack of files fanned out in front of him. He ignored Brunetti for a moment, continuing to read the paper he had in his hand. Brunetti contented himself with examining the faint traces of a fresco that had once been painted on the ceiling.

Pasta looked up suddenly, feigned surprise at seeing Brunetti, and asked, ‘Where are you?’

Brunetti mirrored Patta’s apparent confusion, as though he found the question peculiar but didn’t want to call attention to it. ‘In your office, sir.’

‘No, no, where are you on the case?’ Waving Brunetti to one of the low ormolu chairs in front of his desk, he picked up his pen and began to tap it on the desk top.

‘I’ve interviewed the widow and two of the people who were in the dressing room. I’ve spoken to the doctor, and I know the cause of death.’

‘I know all that,’ Patta said, increasing the rhythm of the pen and making no attempt to hide his irritation. ‘In other words, you’ve learned nothing important?’

‘Yes, sir, I suppose you could put it that way.’

‘You know, Brunetti, I’ve given a lot of thought to this investigation, and I think it might be wise to take you off the case.’ Patta’s voice was heavy with menace, as though he’d spent the previous night paging through his copy of Machiavelli.