Chapter Fifteen

When Brunetti left the Questura fifteen minutes later, he wore his boots and carried his umbrella. He cut back to his left, heading in the general direction of Rialto, but then turned to the right, suddenly to the left, and soon found himself coming down off the bridge that led into Campo Santa Maria Formosa. Directly in front of him, on the other side of the campo, stood Palazzo Priuli, abandoned for as long as he could remember, the central prize of vicious litigation over a contested will. As the heirs and presumptive heirs fought over whose it was or should be, the palazzo went about its business of deteriorating with a single-mindedness that ignored heirs, claims and legality. Long smears of rust trickled down the stone walls from the iron gratings that tried to protect it from unlawful entry, and the roof pitched and sagged, opening up fissures here and there, allowing the curious sun to peek into the attic, closed up these many years. Brunetti the dreamer had often considered that Palazzo Priuli would be the ideal place to imprison a mad aunt, a recalcitrant wife or a reluctant heiress at the same time as his more sober and practical Venetian self viewed it as a prime piece of real estate and studied the windows, dividing the space beyond into apartments, offices and studios.

Murino’s shop, he had the vague semi-memory, stood on the north side, between a pizzeria and a mask shop. The pizzeria was closed for the season, awaiting the return of the tourists, but both the mask shop and the antique shop were open, their lights burning brightly through the late winter rain.

As Brunetti pushed open the door to the shop, a bell sounded in a room somewhere off behind a pair of damasked velvet curtains that hung in a doorway that led to the back. The room radiated the subdued glow of wealth, the wealth of ages and stability. There were, surprisingly, few pieces on display, yet each called for the complete attention of the viewer. At the back stood a walnut credenza with a row of five drawers down the leftside, the wood aglow with centuries of attentive care. Just beneath his hand stood a long oak table, probably taken from the refectory of some religious house. It, too, had been polished to a shimmering glow, but no attempt had been made to disguise or remove the chips and stains of long use. At his feet crouched a pair of marble lions, teeth bared in a threat which had perhaps once been terrifying. But age had worn away their teeth and softened their features until now they faced their enemies with a yawn rather than a growl.

‘C’ è qualcuno?’ Brunetti called towards the back. He looked down and noticed that his folded umbrella had already left a large puddle on the parquet floor of the shop. Signor Murino must surely be an optimist, as well as a non-Venetian, to have covered a floor in this part of the city with parquet, for the zone lay low, and the first serious acqua alta was sure to flow in here, destroying the wood and sweeping out both glue and varnish when the tide changed.

‘Buon giorno?’ he called again, taking a few steps towards the doorway and leaving a trail of raindrops on the floor behind him.

A hand appeared at the curtain and pushed it aside. The man who stepped into the room was the same one Brunetti remembered having seen in the city and who had been pointed out to him — he could no longer remember by whom — as the antique dealer from Santa Maria Formosa. Murino was short, as were many Southerners, with lustrous black hair which he wore in a crown of loose ringlets hanging down to his collar. His colouring was dark, his skin smooth, his features small and well proportioned. What was disconcerting, in the midst of this cliché of 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 un contabile who takes care of all that for us.’

‘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 paying taxes. But one did not point out that rain fell from the sky to the earth below or that it was in the spring that trees blossomed. Just so, one did not have to point out the existence of tax fraud, especially not to an antique dealer, and most especially not to a Neapolitan antique dealer.

‘Yes, I’m sure you have, Signor Murino,’ Brunetti said, and changed the subject. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

Murino had apparently been expecting this question, for his answer was immediate. ‘Two weeks ago. We met for a drink, and I told him I was planning a buying trip up into Lombardy at the end of the month. I told him I wanted to close the shop for a week and asked him if he had any objection if I did so.’

‘And did he?’

‘No, none at all.’

‘What about your daughter?’

‘She’s busy studying for her exams. She’s studying law. And whole days pass when no one comes into the shop. So I thought this was a good time to close for a while. We also needed to get some work done.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘We’ve got a door that opens to the canal, and it’s come off its hinges. So if we want to use it, a whole new frame has to be built,’ he said, gesturing towards the velvet curtains. ‘Would you like to see?’ Murino asked.

‘No, thank you,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Signor Murino, did it ever occur to you that there might be a certain conflict of interest for your partner?’

Murino smiled inquisitively, ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘Then let me try to make it clearer. His other position might have served to, let us say, work to the advantage of your joint investment here.’

‘I must apologize, but I still don’t understand what you mean.’ Murino’s smile would not have seemed out of place on the face of an angel.

Brunetti gave examples. ‘Using you, perhaps, as a consultant or learning that certain pieces or collections were going to come up for sale. Perhaps recommending the shop to people who expressed an interest in a particular sort of item.’

‘No, that never occurred to me.’

‘Did it occur to your partner?’

Murino took his handkerchief and leaned over to wipe at another smudge. When he was satisfied that the surface was clean, he said, ‘I was his business partner, Commissario, not his confessor. I’m afraid that’s a question only he could answer.’

‘But that, alas, is not to be.’

Murino shook his head sadly. ‘No, that is not to be.’

‘What will happen to his share of the shop now?’

Murino’s face was all astonished innocence. ‘Oh, I’ll continue dividing the profits with his widow.’

‘And you and your daughter will continue to do the buying and selling?’

Murino’s answer was slow in coming, but when it came, it was no more than an acknowledgement of the self-evident. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Brunetti echoed, though the words neither sounded the same nor conveyed the same idea when he said them.

Murino’s face suffused with sudden anger, but before he could speak, Brunetti said, ‘Thank you for your time, Signor Murino I hope you have a successful trip to Lombardy.’

Murino pushed himself away from the chest and went over to the door to retrieve Brunetti’s umbrella. He held it by the still-wet cloth and offered it, handle first, to Brunetti. He opened the door and held it politely for Brunetti, then closed it softly behind him. Brunetti stood in the rain and raised his umbrella. As he did, a sudden gust of wind tried to pull it from his hands, but he tightened his grip and turned towards home. During the entire conversation, neither of them had once used Semenzato’s name.

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