The Waters of Eternal Youth (23 page)

Brunetti went to Griffoni's office shortly after ten the next morning and could not suppress a smile when he saw her. Her hair was a mass of golden ringlets pulled back by a black ribbon so undisciplined as to allow several curls to escape its care. Her sweater was beige, just tight enough to entice the connoisseur's eye to discern the lace on the top of her brassiere. Her skirt, dark brown wool and just short enough, fell above her knees, allowing those perfect calves to show to great advantage.

Her makeup was restrained: pale pink lipstick and only a touch of eyeliner. She might well have been a serious police officer, but there was a strong suggestion of the possibility of something else.

‘
Complimenti
,' Brunetti said with open admiration.

‘Thank you, Commissario,' she said and batted her eyelids at him. ‘It's so encouraging to a woman to know she has male approval.'

‘That's enough now, Claudia,' he said and took his place on the simple wooden chair that guests used in her tiny office.

‘He recognized Manuela,' he continued, ‘and told me I couldn't believe anything she said because there was something wrong with her.'

All expression fled Griffoni's face when she heard this. After a moment, she asked, ‘Did he say anything else?'

‘No, not really. He said he'd never met her, only that she'd been “pointed out” to him. I asked him to come in to talk to me, and he agreed.'

‘Is he that stupid?' Griffoni asked.

‘If he shows up without a lawyer, then yes, he is.'

‘Why is he coming?' she asked.

‘I think it's because it hasn't occurred to him that we might have made a connection to Cavanis,' Brunetti explained.

Griffoni considered this and said, ‘You're probably right. We saw him entirely by chance; you'd naturally be interested in a reaction that strong, regardless of the woman it came from. But there's no reason we should connect him to Cavanis.'

Brunetti tried to put himself into the mind of the younger man, cocky and sure of himself. ‘Clever devil: he must know she couldn't testify.'

‘Because of the way she is?' Griffoni asked.

‘That, yes,' Brunetti agreed. ‘And because no decent person would ask her to.'

This time Griffoni nodded. She stared at the wall above his head so intently that he dared not interrupt her. Finally she said, ‘None of this makes sense unless he raped her, does it?'

‘No. If Cavanis did remember what he saw and told him that he did, then Vittori would have had to commit another crime to cover up the first.' Brunetti balked at hearing himself say ‘would have had to' until he thought of the
Macbeth
he and Paola had once seen in London. Macbeth too had convinced himself he'd had no choice.

With a glance at her watch, she asked, ‘Should I delay my arrival a few minutes? That would allow me to be surprised and charmed at the same time, wouldn't it?'

‘You sound pretty familiar with the scenario,' Brunetti said.

‘Customs linger longer in Napoli, Guido. These ideas are still around.'

He got up from the chair and eased himself around it and to the door. ‘I'll tell them downstairs to let you know when he arrives.'

‘I'll count the minutes.'

Brunetti had thought to aid the scene with props and so had gone down to Signorina Elettra's office earlier and asked for all of the files that he still had to read. He took them back to his office and set four or five to his right, with the rest of them in a pile just in front of him. He opened the first one; it stated the new regulations for the use of official automobiles for ­work-­related travel and ran to five pages. He closed it and set it down, wondering why such a thing had been sent to the police in Venice.

There was a knock at his door. He opened the next file, called out, ‘
Avanti
,' and looked back at the first page. He counted three long seconds and looked up, noticed Vittori standing in the doorway. He was alone, had actually come without a lawyer: Brunetti could hardly believe it. He smiled.

‘Ah, Signor Vittori,' Brunetti said, continuing to drop the second surname. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.' He stood but stayed behind his desk, a conscious manifestation of territorial supremacy he was careful to use with visitors who might register it as such, however unconsciously. ‘Please,' he said, waving to the two chairs in front of his desk.

Vittori, who was wearing a dark grey suit with a yellow and red striped tie, kept his chin up and his eyes on Brunetti's, but his feet moved reluctantly, and it took him some time to cross the room. The beard had camouflaged the plumpness of his face and covered his double chin: now that it was gone, Brunetti observed, he looked not only younger, but stouter. His mouth, in contrast, seemed thinner than it had been.

Vittori extended his hand across the desk, and Brunetti shook it quickly. His handshake was strong but tentatively so, as if he wanted to see if Brunetti would try to win – whatever that meant. Brunetti responded with a firm clasp that he quickly released.

Vittori sat and pulled the legs of his trousers up so as not to stretch the knees. Brunetti gave the lapels and shoulders a quick look and decided the suit was worth the trouble.

He waited a moment, but Vittori remained silent, something he had probably told himself to do. His look was attentive and interested, but also faintly confused, perhaps meant to indicate his perplexity as to why the police would want to talk to him, of all people.

‘The Contessa has spoken to me about you,' Brunetti began, smiling amiably while managing to suggest that he and the Contessa were close friends. ‘She's very pleased with your work and says you're gifted.'

Vittori looked at his shoes in an affected gesture of modesty. ‘It's kind of her to say that,' Vittori said.

‘What is it you design for her?' Brunetti asked with genuine interest.

‘The apartments that will be rented to young couples. The floors of the
palazzi
are being divided into smaller units, and we try to keep the size of the apartments and the design and fixtures similar.'

‘Why is that?' Brunetti asked.

‘So that no one will feel cheated if they see the apartment of the person living next to them. There is no conspicuous difference between them.'

‘If I might admit to curiosity,' Brunetti began, knowing that it was important to establish the pattern of question and answer early on in an interview, ‘what sort of rents do people pay, and how large are the apartments?'

‘They're all about a hundred to a hundred and ten square metres,' Vittori said. ‘Two bedrooms and two baths. The rent is about five hundred euros a month.'

‘But that's nothing,' Brunetti said, not having to pretend to be surprised.

‘That's the purpose,' Vittori said, with a proud smile. ‘To let young people remain in their city.'

‘Well, good for Demetriana,' Brunetti exclaimed, using her first name casually, as though in the habit of doing so. ‘I knew the rents were low, but she never told me how low.' That was certainly true enough. Then, with admiration, ‘It's a worthy project.'

‘It's a shame more people in the city don't do it,' Vittori said.

‘I couldn't agree more strongly. ‘I think . . .' Brunetti was interrupted by a knocking at the door of his office. ‘
Avanti
,' he called. The door opened and in walked Griffoni. She had had time to freshen her lipstick, Brunetti noticed, and approved.

Vittori was on his feet and had turned towards her.

‘Ah, Signor Vittori,' Brunetti said, ‘let me introduce my colleague, Commissario Griffoni.'

Claudia approached, her hand extended. Vittori took it and bent over it; he kissed the air just above it as Griffoni shot Brunetti a blazing smile. Vittori had obviously failed to recognize the hatted and dripping woman he had seen on the street.

‘Please have a seat, Claudia,' Brunetti said. Vittori stood behind the second chair and pulled it back a few milli­metres. Griffoni swept her skirt under her and sat, feet and knees modestly pressed together.

‘Signor Vittori was just telling me about his work,' Brunetti said.

‘You're an architect, aren't you, Signore?' Griffoni asked.

‘Well,' Vittori said modestly, ‘I took a degree in architecture, but I have to confess I prefer working on interiors, using the various elements of space and light to create a setting in which people will feel comfortable and at home while still being aware of the beauty around them.'

‘You Venetians have the advantage of living with beauty around you everywhere,' she said with an admiring smile.

Vittori returned her smile. What sort of fool was he, Brunetti asked himself. He's in front of two commissari di polizia and he thinks he's Casanova: if he charms Claudia, she'll help him against me. Well, let him give that a try.

‘Yes, that's certainly true,' Brunetti interrupted abruptly. ‘But I asked you to come here, Signor Vittori, to talk about the meeting on the street with Manuela ­Lando-­Continui, to which both the Commissario and I were parties.'

‘Oh, was that you?' Vittori asked Griffoni. ‘I was distracted by the screaming of that woman,' he said and quickly added, ‘Or I certainly would have noticed you.'

Griffoni gave him another smile but turned her attention, with visible reluctance, to Brunetti. ‘For the sake of correctness, should we be recording this, Commissario?' she asked, careful to use his title, while he had called her by her first name, to show that the men were in charge in this room, and let there be no doubt of it.

With a smile in Vittori's direction, Brunetti said, ‘Only if Signor Vittori has no objections.'

In the ensuing silence, Vittori looked from Brunetti's face to Griffoni's encouraging smile. ‘No, of course not,' he said, and Brunetti pressed the button on the front of his desk that activated the tape recorder, gave the date, time, and location, adding, ‘Conversation among Alessandro Vittori, Commissario Guido Brunetti, and Commissario Claudia Griffoni.'

He moved the pile of papers in front of him to the side, pulled his chair closer to the desk, and gave his attention to Vittori.

‘Signor Vittori,' he began, ‘yesterday afternoon, in Calle del Tintor, Commissario Griffoni and I were witnesses to a heated meeting between you and Signorina Manuela ­Lando-­Continui. Could you tell us what happened?'

‘Why do you think it was a meeting, Commissario?' Vittori asked with easy curiosity. ‘I was walking with a friend, when this woman began – and I think you will have to bear witness that I was at some distance from her when she started – screaming, either at me or at my friend: it was impossible to say.' Vittori sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘After all, we were walking side by side.'

‘She appeared to be pointing at you,' Brunetti said. ‘And she kept looking at you.'

‘You sound very certain of that,' Vittori said condescendingly. ‘It was raining heavily, both my friend and I were wearing raincoats but were soaked to the skin, so I rather doubt that even our mothers would have been sure which of us was which.'

Griffoni smiled, then pretended that she had not. She looked at Brunetti, who said, ‘From where I was standing, she was pointing at you, Signor Vittori. And you say you know her.'

Vittori held up a monitory hand. ‘Don't be putting words in my mouth, Commissario. I said I recognized her, not that I knew her. I've seen her on the street a few times, but I've never met her.' He looked to Griffoni, as if asking her to confirm the truth of what he'd just said.

She nodded, held up a hand, palm toward Brunetti in a repetition of Vittori's gesture, then suddenly pulled it back and put it over her mouth. She coughed lightly, then more strongly, and then bent over and started to cough violently, gasping for air. Vittori turned to her and placed a hand on her arm, but she continued to cough, her entire body ­shaking now. She removed her hand in an effort to breathe, then slapped it back over her mouth but failed to stop coughing.

Vittori, at a loss, did the gentlemanly thing and handed her the handkerchief from his breast pocket. She pressed it to her mouth and continued to cough but managed to give him a few nods and hold up one hand to show him she was all right. Slowly, she stopped and sat in the chair, breathing heavily.

‘Are you all right, Signora?' Vittori asked, leaning towards her.

She nodded. ‘Thank you. Yes,' she said in a small, rough voice. Brunetti saw that her face was still red, and her voice had grown hoarse.

At a loss for what to do, Brunetti could only wait until it seemed she was breathing normally, when he asked, ‘Would you like some water?'

She waved the offer away and smiled at Vittori, as though he had been the one to speak.

‘Then let us accept that the young woman's words were directed at one of you, Signor Vittori,' Brunetti resumed. ‘She insisted that you had hurt her in some way,' he said, then, before Vittori could correct him, amended it to, ‘that one of you had hurt her. Have you any idea why she might have said that?'

‘Maybe I poked her with my umbrella,' Vittori said and turned to Griffoni to share his clever remark.

Brunetti saw the flash of rage in her eyes, but perhaps Vittori saw only a flash and interpreted it as he pleased. His smile remained even after he looked back at Brunetti.

Better to pass over reference to the umbrella for the moment, Brunetti thought.

‘Signor Vittori,' Brunetti went on, ‘Are you quite sure you never saw her before, perhaps worked with her? Something that would at least allow her to recognize you, no matter how excessive her behaviour?'

‘How could someone like that have a job?' Vittori said automatically, apparently pleased to find something to criticize in Brunetti's remarks. ‘She's been like that for a long time,' he added.