Death in a Strange Country

mugging.’

‘I’ve decided it was, Commissario, and that’s how we’re going to treat it.’

‘What does that mean, sir?’

Patta tried astonishment. ‘It means, Commissario, and I want you to pay attention to this, it means precisely what I said, that we are going to treat it as a murder that happened during a robbery attempt.’

‘Officially?’

‘Officially,’ Patta repeated, then added, with heavy emphasis, ‘and unofficially.’

There was no need for Brunetti to ask what that meant

Gracious in his victory, Patta said, ‘Of course, your interest and enthusiasm in this will be appreciated by the Americans.’ Brunetti thought it would make more sense for them to appreciate success, but this was not an opinion that could be offered now when Patta was at his most quixotic and had to be handled with greatest delicacy.

‘Well, I’m still not convinced, sir,’ Brunetti began, letting doubt and resignation struggle in his voice. ‘But I suppose it’s possible. I certainly found nothing about him that would suggest anything else.’ That is, if he discounted the odd few hundred million in cocaine.

‘I’m glad you see it that way, Brunetti. I think it shows that you’re growing more realistic about police work.’ Patta looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘They had a Guardi.’

Brunetti, left behind by his superior’s chamois-like leap from one subject to another, could only ask, ‘A what?’

‘A Guardi, Commissario. Francesco Guardi. I would think you’d at least recognize the name: he’s one of your most famous Venetian painters.’

‘Oh, sorry, sir. I thought it was a kind of German television.’

Patta gave a firm and disapproving ‘No,’ before he looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘All I have is a list from Signor Viscardi. A Guardi, a Monet, and a Gauguin.’

‘Is he still in hospital, this Signor Viscardi?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, I believe so. Why?’

‘He seems pretty certain about which paintings they had, even if he didn’t see the men who took them.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m, not suggesting anything, sir,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Maybe he had only three paintings.’ But if all he had were three paintings, this case would not have moved so quickly to the top of Patta’s list. ‘What does Signor Viscardi do in Milan, if I might ask?’

‘He directs a number of factories.’

‘Directs, or owns and directs?’

Patta made no attempt to disguise his irritation. ‘He’s an important citizen, and he has spent an enormous amount of money on the restoration of that palazzo. He’s an asset to the city, and I think we should see that, if nothing else, the man is safe while he’s here.’

‘He and his possessions,’ Brunetti added.

‘Yes, and his possessions.’ Patta repeated the word but not the dry tone. ‘I’d like you to see to this investigation, Commissario, and I expect Signor Viscardi to be treated with every respect.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Brunetti got up to leave. ‘Do you know what sort of factories he directs, sir?’

‘I believe they manufacture armaments.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And I don’t want you bothering the Americans any more, Brunetti. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’ It certainly was clear, but the reason was not.

‘Good, then get to it. I’d like this sorted out as quickly as possible.’

Brunetti smiled and left Patta’s office, wondering what strings had been pulled, and by whom. With Viscardi, it was pretty easy to figure out: armaments, enough money to buy and restore a palazzo on the Grand Canal - the mingled odours of money and power had come wafting out of every phrase Patta spoke. With the American, the scents were less easy to trace back to their source, but that difficulty made them no less tangible than the others. But it was clear that the word had been passed to Patta: the death of the American was to be treated as a robbery gone wrong, nothing more. But from whom?

Instead of going up to his office, he went back down the stairs and into the main office. Vianello had returned from the hospital and was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, telephone pressed to his ear. When he saw Brunetti come in, he cut the conversation short and hung up.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said.

Brunetti leaned against the side of Vianello’s desk. ‘This Viscardi, how did he seem when you spoke to him?’

‘Upset He’d been in a ward all night, had just managed to get himself put into a private room...’

Brunetti interrupted. ‘How’d he manage that?’

Vianello shrugged. The Casino was not the only public institution in the city that carried a ‘Non Nobis’ sign in front of it. The hospital’s, although visible only to the wealthy, was no less real. ‘I suppose he knows someone there or knows someone to call. People like him always do.’ From Vianello’s tone, it