‘We worked together in London, years ago, and I did him some favours then.’
‘And how did you know to ask him, of all people?’
Instead of being offended, Lele laughed. ‘Oh, I asked some questions about Semenzato, and someone told me to speak to my friend.’
‘Thanks, Lele.’ Brunetti understood, as do all Italians, how the whole delicate web of personal favours enwrapped the social system. It all seemed so casual: someone spoke to a friend, had a word with a cousin, and some information was exchanged. And with that information a new balance was struck between debit and credit. Sooner or later, everything was repaid, all debts called in.
‘Who’s the owner of these shops?’
‘Francesco Murino. He’s a Neapolitan. I did some business with him when he first opened his shop here, years ago, and he’s
‘Is he the one who has the shop in Santa Maria Formosa?’
‘Yes, do you know him?’
‘Only by sight. He’s never been in any trouble, not that I know of.’
‘Guido, I told you he’s a Neapolitan. Of course he hasn’t been in any trouble, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t as crooked as a viper.’ The passion with which Lele spoke made Brunetti curious about the dealings he might have had with Murino in the past.
‘Did anyone say anything else about Semenzato?’
Lele made a noise of disgust, ‘You know how it is when a person dies. No one wants to tell the truth.’
‘Yes, someone else told me that, just this morning,’
‘What else did they tell you?’ Lele asked with what seemed like real curiosity.
‘That I should wait a couple of weeks, and then people will begin to tell the truth again.’
Lele laughed so loudly that Brunetti had to hold the phone away from his ear until he stopped. When he did, Lele said, ‘How right they are. But I don’t think it will take that long.’
‘Does that mean there’s more to tell about him?’
‘No, I don’t want to mislead you, Guido, but one or two people didn’t seem terribly surprised that he was killed like this.’ When Brunetti didn’t ask him what he meant, Lele added, ‘It would seem that he had connections with people from the South.’
‘Are they getting interested in art now?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, it seems drugs and prostitutes aren’t enough anymore.’
‘I guess we’d better double the guards in the museums from now on.’
‘Guido, who do you think they buy the paintings from?’
Was this to be yet another consequence of upward mobility, Brunetti wondered, the Mafia in competition with Sotheby’s? ‘Lele, how trustworthy are these people you’ve spoken to?’
‘You can believe what they say, Guido.’
‘Thanks, Lele. If you hear anything more about him, please let me know.’
‘Of course. And Guido, if these gentlemen from the South are involved in this, then you’d better be very careful, all right?’ It was a sign of the power it had already garnered here in the North that people were reluctant to pronounce the name of the Mafia.
‘Of course, Lele, and thanks again.’
‘I’m serious,’ Lele said before he hung up.
Brunetti replaced his phone and, almost without thinking, went and opened the window to allow some cold air into the room. Work on the fa c ade of the church of San Lorenzo opposite his office had stopped for the winter, and the scaffolding stood there deserted. One large piece of the plastic wrapping that encased it had been torn loose and, even at this distance, Brunetti could hear it snapping angrily in the wind. Above the church and rolling in from the south, Brunetti could see the dark clouds that would surely bring more rain by the end of the afternoon.
He glanced at his watch. There was no time to visit Signor Murino before lunch, but Brunetti decided to stop by his shop that afternoon and see how he reacted to having a commissario of police come in and announce himself. The Mafia. Stolen art. He knew that more than half of the museums in the country were more or less permanently closed, but he had never before stopped to consider what this could mean in terms of pilfering, theft or, in the case of the Chinese exhibits, substitution. Guards were badly paid, yet their unions were so strong that they prevented volunteers from being allowed to work as guards in the museums. He remembered hearing, years ago, a suggestion that young men who chose two years of social service in lieu of a year and a half of military service be allowed to serve as museum guards. The idea had not even made it to the floor of the Senate.
Assuming that the substitution of false pieces was something Semenzato had a part in, who better to dispose of the originals than an antique dealer? He would have not only the clientele and the expertise to make an accurate appraisal, but, if necessary, he would know how to make delivery without interference from either the police of the Finance Department or the Fine Arts Commission. Getting pieces into or out of the country was child’s play. A glance at the map of Italy showed how permeable the borders were. Thousands of kilometres of bays, coves, inlets, beaches. Or, for the well organized or well connected, there were the ports and the airports, through which anything could pass with impunity. It was not only those who guarded the museums who were badly paid.
His reverie was broken by a knock on the door.
Signorina Elettra came into the room, a notebook in one hand, a file in the other. ‘I found the captain’s name in the file, sir. It’s Carrara, Giulio Carrara. He’s still in Rome, but he was promoted to
