It was a long-standing joke between them, the ease with which the millions of dollars - no one ever knew exactly how much - that had been raised by UNESCO to ‘save’ Venice had disappeared in the offices and deep pockets of the ‘projectors’ who had rushed forward with their plans and programmes after the devastating flood of 1966. There was a foundation with a full working staff, an archive full of blueprints, there were even fund-raising galas and balls, but there was no more money, and the tides, unimpeded, continued to do whatever they chose with the city. This story, with threads leading to the UN, to the Common Market, and to various governments and financial institutions, had proven too complicated even for Fosco, who had never written about it, fearing that his audience would accuse him of having turned to fiction. Brunetti, for his part, had worked on the assumption that, since most of the people who had been involved in the projects were Venetian, the money had indeed gone to save the city, though perhaps not in the manner originally intended.
‘No, Riccardo, it’s about one of yours, a Milanese. Viscardi. I don’t even know his first name, but he’s in armaments, and he’s just finished spending a fortune restoring a
‘Augusto,’ Fosco replied instantly, then repeated the name for the sheer beauty of it, ‘Augusto Viscardi.’
‘That was quick,’ Brunetti said.
‘Oh, yes. Signer Viscardi’s is a name I hear quite often.’
‘And what sort of things do you hear?’
‘The munitions factories are out in Monza. There are four of them. The word is he had enormous contracts with Iraq, in fact, with a number of countries in the Middle East. Somehow, he managed to continue deliveries even during the war, through the Yemen, I think,’ Fosco paused for a moment, then added, ‘But I’ve heard that he had trouble during the war.’
‘What sort of trouble?’Brunetti asked.
‘Well, not enough to do him serious harm, or at least that’s what I heard. None of those factories closed during the war, and I don’t mean only his. From what
‘But what was the trouble he had?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to make some calls out here. But the rumours were that he got hit pretty hard. Most of them make sure the payments are made in some place safe like Panama or Lichtenstein before they make delivery, but Viscardi had been doing business with them for so long - I think he even went there a few times, talked to the boss man - that he didn’t bother, sure he’d be given best-dealer treatment.’
‘And that didn’t happen?’
‘No, that didn’t happen. A lot of the stuff got blown up before it was delivered. I think a whole shipload might have been hijacked by pirates in the Gulf. Let me call around, Guido. I’ll get back to you soon, within an hour.’
‘Is there anything personal?’
‘Nothing I’ve heard, but I’ll ask.’
‘Thanks, Riccardo.’
‘Can you tell me what this is about?’
Brunetti saw no reason why he couldn’t. ‘His place was robbed last night, and he walked in on the robbery. He couldn’t identify the three men, but he knew what three paintings they took.’
‘Sounds like Viscardi,’ Fosco said.
‘Is he that stupid?’
‘No, he’s not stupid, not at all. But he is arrogant, and he’s willing to take chances. It’s those two things that have made him his fortune.’ Fosco’s voice changed. ‘Sorry, Guido, I’ve got a call on another line. I’ll call you later this morning, all right?’
‘Thanks, Riccardo,’ he repeated, but before he could add, ‘I appreciate it.’ the line was dead.
The secret of police success lay, Brunetti knew, not in brilliant deductions or the psychological manipulation of suspects but in the simple fact that human beings tended to assume that their own level of intelligence was the norm, the standard, and to work on that assumption. Hence the stupid were quickly caught, for their idea of what was cunning was so lamentably impoverished as to make them obvious prey. This same rule, unfortunately, made his job all the more difficult when he had to deal with criminals possessed of intelligence or courage.
During the next hour, Brunetti called down to Vianello and got the name of the insurance agent who had asked to inspect the scene of the crime. When he finally found the man at his office, he assured Brunetti that the paintings were all genuine and had all disappeared in the robbery. Copies of papers of authenticity were on his desk, even as they spoke. The current value of the three paintings? Well, they were insured for a total of five billion lire, but their current real market value had perhaps increased in the last year, with the rise in prices for Impressionists. No, there had never been a robbery before. Some jewellery had also been taken, but it was nothing in value when compared to the paintings: a few hundred million lire. Ah, how sweet the world in which a few hundred million lire were viewed as nothing.
By the time he was finished talking to the agent, Rossi was back from the hospital, telling him that Signor Viscardi had been very surprised to see the picture of Ruffolo. He had quickly overcome that emotion, however, and said that the photo bore no resemblance to either of the two men he had seen, now insistent, upon further reflection, that there had been only two.
‘What do you think?’ Brunetti asked.
There was no uncertainty in Rossi’s voice when he answered, ‘He’s lying. I don’t know what else he’s lying about, but he’s lying about not knowing Ruffolo. He couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d shown him a picture of his own mother.’
‘I guess that means I’ll go over and have a talk with Ruffolo’s mother.’ Brunetti said.
‘Would you like me to go down to the supply room and get you a bullet-proof vest?’ Rossi asked with a laugh.
‘No, Rossi, the widow Ruffolo and I are on the best of terms now. After I spoke up for him at the trial, she decided to forgive and forget. She even smiles when she sees me on the street.’ He didn’t mention that he had gone
