‘It seemed so.’
‘Protective because he didn’t want her to talk to you or because he didn’t want you to trouble her?’
Brunetti had to think about this for a moment before he answered, ‘I’d say a bit of both, but more the second than the first.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘Because he loves her,’ Brunetti said, remembering the way the old man looked at her. ‘That would be the obvious reason.’ Before Vianello could comment or object, Brunetti said, ‘One of the things Paola once told me is how prone we are to scorn the emotions of simple people. As if ours were better somehow.’
‘And love is love?’ Vianello enquired.
‘I think so, yes.’ Brunetti had still to fight against his reluctance to believe this wholeheartedly, as Paola seemed to do. He thought of it as one of his essential failures of humanity.
Then, changing tack entirely, Brunetti asked, ‘So where’s the money coming from?’ Seeing Vianello’s surprise, he said, ‘The money that’s going into the account.’
‘Beats me. It’s unlikely he’s selling drugs,’ Vianello said, meaning it as a joke.
‘But at more than eighty, it’s got to be that he’s selling something; he’s certainly not going around breaking into houses, and he’s too old to work,’ Brunetti said. In response to Vianello’s glance, he said, ‘And since Cuccetti’s dead, and all his family, and everything’s gone to the Church, there’s no one he can be blackmailing.’
Vianello smiled and could not resist saying, ‘I’m always cheered by your uplifting view of human nature, Guido.’
Was rhetorical style contagious? Brunetti wondered. A decade ago, Vianello would not have been capable of a verbal flourish such as this. Brunetti was pleased at the thought.
‘So he’s selling something,’ Brunetti went on as though the Ispettore had not spoken. ‘And if that’s so, and if he’s not stealing things from the docks any more, then it might be something they gave him when they signed the will or when he got the apartment from them.’
‘Or something he stole,’ Vianello added, as though he too had something to contribute to the view of human nature.
This possibility left Brunetti uncomfortable. ‘He met her when he went to work at the hospital, and he had no more trouble with us after that.’
‘Or he didn’t get caught.’
‘He’s not very bright, so he would have been caught,’ Brunetti insisted. ‘Look how many times he was arrested before that.’
‘But he always got out of it. He could have threatened his way out.’
‘If he was really violent, or dangerous, it would be in the files,’ Brunetti said. ‘We’d know.’
Vianello considered this and finally nodded in agreement. ‘It’s possible. I’ve known love to do stranger things to people than to make them careful.’
‘Or make them better,’ Brunetti amended.
‘You make him sound like Saint Paul,’ Vianello said, sounding amused at the unlikelihood. ‘He’s riding along on his way to steal an X-ray machine from the hospital, sees Signorina Sartori in her white nurse’s uniform; he falls to the ground at the sight of her, and when he gets to his feet, he’s a man transformed?’
Perhaps he had had enough of Vianello’s rhetorical flights. ‘Are you a better man since you married Nadia?’ he surprised Vianello by asking.
Vianello uncrossed his legs, then crossed them the other way. He looked so uncomfortable that Brunetti almost expected him to cry ‘foul’ and refuse to answer. Instead, the Inspector nodded, smiled, and said, ‘I see your point.’ Then, after another moment of consideration, he said, ‘It’s possible.’
‘Maybe the request that they witness the will was too big a temptation to resist,’ Brunetti suggested. ‘A house in exchange for two signatures.’ It occurred to Brunetti to add that Paris was worth a Mass, but he feared that Vianello might not understand and so he said nothing further.
Vianello smiled and added, ‘Who was that saint who said, “Make me chaste, but not yet.”?’
‘Augustine, I think.’
Vianello smiled.
‘But it doesn’t tell us where the money’s still coming from, does it?’ Brunetti asked.
They tossed the subject back and forth for some time, trying to find an explanation for the recurring deposits. ‘And why put the money in the bank?’ Vianello asked. ‘Only a fool would leave traces like that.’
‘Or a person with no idea of how easy it is to check on a money trail.’ Hearing himself speak, Brunetti decided to take another look at the list of deposits. He pulled the folder with Morandi’s bank records from his drawer and found the statements. Running his finger down the column of deposits, he found that the first two had been paid by cheque.
He dialled Signorina Elettra’s number and while he waited for her to answer, he heard Vianello muttering to himself, ‘No one could be this stupid.’
He explained what it was he wanted her to find, to which she answered, ‘Oh, wonderful, and I can do it legally this time,’ as delighted as if he had told her to take the rest of the day off and go home.
Uncertain how much she was baiting him, he said, ‘It’s always helpful for us to have new experiences,’ and hung up.
25
Though Signorina Elettra managed to find the complete records of all of Morandi’s bank transactions in less than twenty minutes, Brunetti did not for an instant believe that the ease with which she managed it would in any way convert her to the paths of legality.
The deposits, the first for four thousand euros, the second for three, had been made by cheques written by Nicola Turchetti, a name which resounded in Brunetti’s memory. Vianello had gone back to the squad room, so Brunetti was left to search for the name on his own. After some time, having found no resonant chord, he pulled the phone book from his bottom drawer and opened it to the Ts.
For some reason, seeing the name in print was enough to nudge Brunetti’s memory. Turchetti, the art dealer, was a man with a Janus-like reputation: his expertise was never questioned; the probity of his dealings sometimes was. To the best of Brunetti’s knowledge, no charges had ever been brought against the man. His name, however, was often mentioned when sharp business practices were discussed: positively by those who found rarities in his shop; negatively by those who speculated about the sources of some of his acquisitions. Brunetti’s father-in-law, ignoring both opinions, remained a client of Turchetti’s and had, over the years, acquired from him many paintings and drawings.
Drawings. Brunetti’s thoughts flew to the legendary Reynard auction and the drawings that had not appeared on the block, thus disappointing so many collectors of the chance to add to their collections. Had no one done an inventory? Or, as was most likely, had the inventory been overseen by Avvocato Cuccetti? The Reynard palazzo was now a hotel, Brunetti knew, and the objects that had once filled it had long since been consigned to the hands of eager buyers. Avvocato Cuccetti was wherever Madame Reynard had preceded him, neither of them having been able to take anything with them.
Because the phone book was open in front of him, Brunetti dialled the number. His call was answered by a female secretary with the sloppy sort of Roman accent that irritated Brunetti. Brunetti gave his name, not his rank, and when the woman explained that Signor Turchetti was busy, he added his father-in-law’s name, and his title, whereupon the waters parted and the call was transferred immediately to Dottor Turchetti.
‘Ah, Dottor Brunetti,’ a deep voice intoned, ‘Conte Orazio has spoken of you often.’
‘And of you, Dottore,’ Brunetti answered with oleaginous civility.
‘In what way may I be of service to you?’ Turchetti asked after a moment’s hesitation.
‘I wonder if you’d have time to speak to me about one of your clients.’