seemed a bit younger than in the other photo. All three launched prepared smiles into the camera.
The only other thing inside the envelope was a leather-bound datebook, the year embossed in gold on the cover. He opened it and glanced through the pages. The names of the days were given in German, and many days bore inscriptions in the slanting Gothic script he remembered from the
Starting with the date of the conductor’s death, he paged backward through the book for a total of three months. He found a schedule that would have exhausted a man half Wellauer’s age, a list of engagements that grew heavier, the further back in time he went. Interested in this gradual increase, he opened the book to August and read forward in time; this way, he saw the pattern in reverse, a gradual decline in the number of dinners, teas, luncheons. He took a sheet of paper from one of the drawers in the desk and quickly sorted out the pattern: personal engagements to the right, music to the left. In August and September, except for a two-week period when almost nothing was noted, there had been some sort of engagement almost every day. In October, the number started to dwindle, and by the end of the month, there were almost no social engagements at all. Even the professional engagements had diminished, from at least two a week to only one or two every few weeks.
He flipped into the next year, which Wellauer would never see, and found, noted for late January, ‘Ldn—Cos!.’ What caught Brunetti’s attention was the small mark he saw after the name of the opera. Was it a question mark or only a carelessly drawn accent?
He took another sheet of paper and made a second list, this one of the personal notes he found, beginning in October. For the sixth, he read: ‘Erich & H—9PM.’ Already familiar with those names, he could make sense of that On the seventh: ‘Erich—8AM.’ On the fifteenth: ‘Petra & Nikolai—8PM,’ and then nothing until the twenty- seventh, when he saw a note that read: ‘Erich—8AM.’ It seemed an odd time to meet a friend. The final entry of this sort was made two days before they left for Venice: ‘Erich—9AM.’
And that was all, save for a note that Brunetti saw on the page for the thirteenth of November: ‘Venice— Trav.’
He closed the book and slipped it back into the envelope, along with the photos and papers. He folded the papers on which he had taken his notes and went back to the room where he had left Signora Wellauer. She was just as she had been when he left, sitting in front of the open fire, smoking.
‘Have you finished?’ she said, when he came in.
‘Yes, I have.’ Still holding the papers, he said, ‘I noticed from your husband’s datebook that during the last few months, he was far less active than he had been in the past. Was there a particular reason for this?’
She paused a moment before answering. ‘Helmut said he felt tired, didn’t have the energy he once had. We saw a few friends, but not as many, as you noted, as we had in the past. But not everything we did was noted in the datebook.’
‘I didn’t know that. But I’m interested in this change in him. You said nothing when I asked you about him.’
‘As you might recall, Commissario, you asked about my sexual relations with my husband. Unfortunately, they are not noted in the datebook.’
‘I notice that the name Erich appears frequently.’
‘And why is that supposed to be important?’
‘I didn’t say it was important, Signora; I simply said that the name appears regularly during the last months of your husband’s life. It appears often, joined with the initial “H,” but it also appears alone.’
‘I told you that not all of our engagements were listed in the datebook.’
‘But these were important enough for your husband to note them down. May I ask who this Eric is?’
‘It’s Erich. Erich and Hedwig Steinbrunner. They are Helmut’s oldest friends.’
‘And not yours?’
‘They became my friends, but Helmut had known them for more than forty years, and I had known them for only two, so it is logical that I think of them as Helmut’s friends rather than my own.’
‘I see. Could you give me their address?’
‘Commissario, I fail to see why this is important.’
‘I’ve explained to you why I think it’s important. If you’re unwilling to give me their address, I’m sure there are other friends of your husband’s who could give it to me.’
She reeled off a street address and explained that it was in Berlin, then paused while he took out his pen and poised it above the paper he still held in his hand. When he was ready, she repeated it slowly, spelling every word, even
‘Will that be all?’ she asked when he had finished writing.
‘Yes, Signora. Thank you. Now might I speak to your maid?’
‘I’m not sure I see why that’s necessary.’
He ignored her and asked, ‘Is she here in the apartment?’
Saying nothing, Signora Wellauer rose to her feet and went to the side of the room, where a cord hung down one wall. She pulled it, saying nothing, and went to stand in front of the window that looked out upon the rooftops of the city.
Soon after, the door opened and the maid entered the room. Brunetti waited for Signora Wellauer to say something, but she remained rigid in front of the window, ignoring them both. Brunetti, having no choice, spoke so that she could hear what he said to the maid. ‘Signora Breddes, I’d like to have a few words with you, if I might.’
The maid nodded but said nothing.
