Mediterranean good looks, were the eyes, a clear opaline green. Though they gazed out at the world from behind round gold-framed glasses which partially obscured them and were shadowed by lashes as long as they were black, they remained the dominant feature of his face. The French, Brunetti knew, had conquered Naples centuries ago, but the usual genetic souvenir of their long occupation was the red hair sometimes seen in the city, not these clear, Nordic eyes.
‘Signor Murino?’ he asked, extending his hand.
‘Si,’ the antique dealer answered, taking Brunetti’s hand and returning his grip firmly.
‘I’m Guido Brunetti, Commissario of Police. I’d like to have a few words with you.’
Murino’s expression remained one of polite curiosity.
‘I’d like to ask you some questions about your partner. Or should I say, your late partner?’
Brunetti watched as Murino absorbed this information, then waited as the other man began to consider what his visible response should be. All of this took only seconds, but Brunetti had been observing the process for decades and was familiar with it. The people to whom he presented himself had a drawer of responses which they thought appropriate, and part of his job was to watch them as they sifted through them one at a time, seeking the right fit. Surprise? Fear? Innocence? Curiosity? He watched Murino flip through them, studied his face as he considered, then discarded, various possibilities. He decided, apparently, on the last.
‘Yes? And what would you like to know, Commissario?’ His smile was polite, his tone friendly. He looked down and noticed Brunetti’s umbrella. ‘Here, let me take that, please,’ he said, managing to sound more concerned with Brunetti’s inconvenience than with any damage the dripping water might be doing to his floor. He carried the umbrella over to a flower-painted porcelain umbrella stand that stood next to the door. He slipped it in and turned back to Brunetti. ‘May I take your coat?’
Brunetti realized that Murino was attempting to set the tone of their interview, and the tone he aimed for was friendly and relaxed, the verbal manifestation of his own innocence. ‘Thank you, don’t bother,’ Brunetti answered, and with his response grabbed the tone back into his own command. ‘Could you tell me how long he was a partner in your business?’
Murino gave no sign that he had registered the struggle for dominance of the conversation. ‘Five years,’ he answered, ‘from when I opened this shop.’
‘And what about your shop in Milan? Did his partnership extend to that?’
‘Oh, no. They’re kept as separate businesses. His partnership pertained only to this one.’
‘And how is it that he became a partner?’
‘You know how it is. Word travels.’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t know how it is, Signor Murino. How did he become your partner?’
Murino’s smile was consistently relaxed; he was willing to ignore Brunetti’s rudeness. ‘When I was given the opportunity to rent this space, I contacted some friends of mine here in the city and tried to borrow money from them. I had most of my capital tied up in the stock in the Milan shop, and the market for antiques was very slow at that time.’
‘But still you wanted to open a second shop?’
Murino’s smile was cherubic. ‘I had hope in the future. People might stop buying for a period, but that always comes to an end, and people will always return to buying beautiful things.’
If Murino had been a woman, Brunetti would have said he was fishing for a compliment and nudging Brunetti to admire the pieces in the shop and, with that, relax the tension created by the questions.
‘And was your optimism rewarded, Signor Murino?’
‘Oh, I can’t complain.’
‘And your partner? How was it that he found out about your interest in borrowing money?’
‘Oh, voices travel. Word spreads.’ That, apparently, was as much of an explanation as Signor Murino was prepared to give.
‘And so he appeared, money in hand, asking to become a partner?’
Murino walked over to a Renaissance wedding chest and wiped at a fingerprint with his handkerchief. He bent down to get his eyes horizontal with the surface of the chest and wiped repeatedly at the smear until it was gone. He folded his handkerchief into a neat rectangle, put it back into the pocket of his jacket, and leaned back against the edge of the chest. ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’
‘And what did he get in return for his investment?’
‘Fifty per cent of the profits for ten years.’
‘And who kept the books?’
‘We have
‘Who does the buying for the shop?’
‘I do.’
‘And the selling?’
‘I. Or my daughter. She works here two days a week.’
‘So it’s you and your daughter who know what gets bought, and at what price, and what gets sold, and at what price?’
‘I have receipts for all purchases and sales, Dottor Brunetti,’ Murino said, voice just short of indignation.
Brunetti considered for a moment the option of telling Murino that everyone in Italy had receipts for everything and that all of those receipts were utterly meaningless as anything other than evidence faked to avoid
