‘Is this a significant loss, Doctor?’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Is it noticeable?’
‘Noticeable?’
‘Would it have interfered with his conducting?’
‘That’s exactly what Helmut wanted to know. I told him that it was nothing of that order, that the loss was barely measurable. He believed me. But that same morning, I had some other news to give him, and that news disturbed him.’
‘What was that?’
‘He had sent a young singer to me because she was having vocal problems. I discovered that she had nodes on her vocal cords that would have to be removed surgically. I told Helmut that it would be six months before she could sing again. He had been planning to have her sing with him in Munich this spring, but that was impossible.’
‘Is there anything else you remember?’
‘No, nothing in particular. He said he’d see me when they got back from Venice, but I took that to mean socially, the four of us together.’
Brunetti heard the slight hesitation in the man’s voice and asked, ‘Anything else, Doctor?’
‘He asked me if I knew anyone in Venice I could recommend. As a doctor. I told him not to be silly, that he was as healthy as a horse. If he got sick, the opera would find him the best doctor they could. But he was insistent, wanted to know if there was someone I could recommend.’
‘A specialist?’
‘Yes. I finally gave him the name of a doctor I’ve consulted with a few times. He teaches at the University of Padova.’
‘His name, Doctor?’
‘Valerio Treponti. He also has a private practice in the city, but I don’t have his number. Helmut didn’t ask for it, seemed content merely to have the name.’
‘Do you remember if he made a note of the name?’
‘No, he didn’t. In fact, at the time, I thought he was simply being obstinate. Besides, we were really there to talk about the singer.’
‘One last question, Doctor.’
‘Yes?’
‘During the last few times you saw him, did you notice any change in him, any sign that he might have been preoccupied or concerned about something?’
The doctor’s answer came after a long pause. ‘There might have been something, but I don’t know what it was.’
‘Did you ask him about it?’
‘One did not ask Helmut that sort of question.’
Brunetti restrained himself from saying that men who had been friends for more than forty years sometimes did. Instead he asked, ‘Have you any idea what it might have been?’
This pause was just as long as the first. ‘I thought it might have something to do with Elizabeth. That’s why I didn’t mention it to Helmut. He was always very sensitive about her, about the difference in their ages. But perhaps you could ask her, Commissario.’
‘Yes, Doctor. I plan to do that.’
‘Good. Is there anything else? If not, I really must get back to my patients.’
‘No, nothing else. It was very kind of you to talk to me. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘I hope so. I hope you find whoever did this and punish him.’
‘I’ll certainly do whatever I can, Doctor,’ Brunetti said politely, failing to add that his only interest was in the first and he didn’t care at all about the second. But perhaps Germans thought about such things differently.
As soon as the line was clear, he dialed information and asked for the number of Dr. Valerio Treponti in Padova. When he reached the doctor’s office, he was told that Treponti was busy with a patient and could not come to the phone. Brunetti explained who he was, said the call was urgent, and told the receptionist he would hold on.
While he waited, Brunetti leafed through the morning papers. Wellauer’s death had disappeared from the major national newspapers; it was present in the
The line clicked, and a deep, resonant voice said, ‘Treponti.’
‘Doctor, this is Commissario Brunetti of the Venice police.’
‘So I was told. What do you want?’
‘I’d like to know if, during the last month, you’ve had as a patient a tall, elderly man who spoke Italian, very good Italian, but with a German accent.’
‘How old?’
