Acqua Alta

  When he saw Brunetti stand, La Capra got up and accompanied him to the door. In fact, he went down the steps with him, across the open courtyard, and to the front door of the palazzo. He opened it himself and held it while Brunetti stepped outside. They shook hands cordially and Signor La Capra stood quietly at the open door while Brunetti made his way back up the narrow calle towards Campo San Polo.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE HALF HOUR spent with La Capra made Brunetti reluctant to risk having to speak to Patta on the same afternoon, but he decided to go back to the Questura anyway, to see what messages had come in for him. Two people had called: Giulio Carrara, asking that Brunetti call him in Rome, and Flavia Petrelli, saying she would call again later in the afternoon.

  He had the operator put a call through to Rome and was soon speaking to the maggiore. Carrara wasted no time with personal conversation but began immediately with Semenzato. ‘Guido, we’ve got something here that makes it look like he was involved in more than we thought.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Two days ago, we stopped a shipment of alabaster ashtrays coming into Livorno from Hong Kong, on their way to a wholesaler in Verona. The usual thing – he gets the ashtrays, attaches labels to them, and sells them, “Made in Italy”.’

  ‘Why did you stop the shipment? That hardly sounds like the sort of thing you people are interested in.’

  ‘One of the little people in our stable told us that it might be a good idea to take a closer look at the shipment.’

  ‘For labelling?’ Brunetti asked, still not understanding. ‘Isn’t that the sort of thing the finance boys take care of?’

  ‘Oh, they’d been paid off,’ Carrara said dismissively, ‘so the shipment would have been safe until it got to Verona. But it’s what we found in with the ashtrays that made him call us.’

  Brunetti knew a hint when he heard one. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘You know what Angkor Wat is, don’t you?’

  ‘In Cambodia?’

  ‘If you ask that, then you know. Four of the crates had statues that had been taken from the temples there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ As soon as he spoke, Brunetti wished he had phrased the question differently.

  ‘It’s our business to be sure,’ Carrara said, but only in simple explanation. ‘Three of the pieces were spotted in Bangkok a few years ago, but they disappeared from the market before the police there could confiscate them.’

  ‘Giulio, I don’t understand how you can be sure they come from Angkor Wat.’

  ‘The French made pretty extensive drawings of the temple grounds when Cambodia was still a colony, and since then much of it has been photographed. Two of the statues we found had been, so we were sure.’

  ‘When were the photographs taken?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘In 1985. An archaeological team from some university in America spent a few months there, sketching and photographing, but then the fighting moved too close and they had to get out. But we’ve got copies of all the work they did. So we’re sure, absolutely sure, about two of the pieces, and the other two are likely to have come from the same source.’

  ‘Any idea where they’re going?’

  ‘No. The best we have is the address of the wholesaler in Verona.’

  ‘Have you moved on this yet?’

  ‘We’ve got two men watching the warehouse in Livorno. We’ve got a tap on the phone there and in the office in Verona.’

  Though Brunetti thought this an extraordinary response to the finding of a mere four statues, he kept the idea to himself. ‘What about the wholesaler? Do you know anything about him?’

  ‘No, he’s new to us. Nothing on him at all. Even the finance people don’t have a file on him.’

  ‘What do you think, then?’

  Carrara considered for a moment before he answered. ‘I’d say he was clean. And that probably means that someone will remove the statues before the shipment’s delivered.’

  ‘Where? How?’ Brunetti asked. And then he added, ‘Does anyone know you opened the crates?’

  ‘I don’t think so. We had the finance police close off the warehouse and make a big show of opening a shipment of lace that was coming in from the Philippines. While they were doing that, we took a look at the ashtrays, but we closed up the crates and left everything there.’

  ‘What about the lace?’

  ‘Oh, it was the usual stuff. Twice as much there as declared on the papers, so they confiscated the whole shipment, and they’re trying to figure out how much the fines should be.’

  ‘And the ashtrays?’

  ‘They’re still in the warehouse.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m not in charge of it, Guido. The Milan office gets to handle this. I spoke to the man in charge, and he said he wants to step in the minute the crates with the statues are picked up.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’d let them pick up the shipment and then try to follow them.’

  ‘If they take the crates,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘Even if they don’t, we’ve got around-the-clock teams in the warehouse, so we’ll know when they make their move. Besides, whoever gets sent to pick up the statues won’t be important, and they probably won’t know much, except where to take them, so there’s no sense in stepping in and arresting them.’

  Finally Brunetti asked, ‘Giulio, isn’t this an awfully complicated manoeuvre for four statues? And you still haven’t said how Semenzato was involved in any of this.’

  ‘We don’t have a clear idea of that, either, but the man who made the original phone call told us that the people – he meant police, Guido – in Venice might be interested in this.’ Even before Brunetti could interrupt him, Carrara went on, ‘He wouldn’t explain what that meant, but he did say that there were more shipments. This was only one of many.’

  ‘All coming from the Orient?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Is there a big market here for things like this?’

  ‘Not here in Italy, but certainly in Germany, and it’s easy enough to get the things there once they’ve arrived in Italy.’

  No Italian would bother to ask why the shipments were not made directly to Germany. The Germans, it was rumoured, saw the law as something to be obeyed, unlike the Italians, who saw it as something first to be fathomed and then evaded.

  ‘What about value, price?’ Brunetti asked, feeling very much the stereotypical Venetian as he did so.

  ‘Tremendous, not because of the beauty of the statues themselves but because of the fact that they come from Angkor Wat.’

  ‘Could they be sold on the open market?’ Brunetti asked, thinking of the room Signor La Capra had built on the third floor of his palazzo and wondering how many more Signor La Capras there might be.

  Again, Carrara paused while he considered how to answer the question. ‘No, probably not. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a market for them.’

  ‘I understand.’ It was only a possibility, but he asked, ‘Giulio, do you have a file on a man named La Capra, Carmello La Capra? From Palermo.’ He explained the coincidence of the foreign trips taken to the same places and on the same days as Semenzato.

  After a short pause, Carrara replied, ‘The name sounds faintly familiar, but nothing comes directly to mind. Give me an hour or so, and I’ll tap into the computer and see what we have on him.’

  Brunetti’s question was prompted by the purest of professional curiosity. ‘How much have you got in your computer down there?’

  ‘Lots,’ Carrara responded with audible pride. ‘We’ve got listings by name, by city, by century, art form, artist, technique of reproduction. You name it, if it’s been stolen or faked, we’ve got a breakdown in the computer. He’d be listed under his name or any aliases or nicknames he has.’

  ‘Signor La Capra is not the sort of man who would permit a nickname,’ Brunetti explained.

  ‘Oh, one of them, huh? Well, we’d
have him under “Palermo”, in any case,’ and then Carrara added, quite unnecessarily, ‘Rather full, that file.’ He paused a moment to allow Brunetti time to appreciate the remark and then asked, ‘Is there any special sort of art he’s interested in, any technique?’

  ‘Chinese ceramics,’ Brunetti supplied.

  ‘Ah,’ Carrara said on a long rising tone. ‘That’s where the name came from. I still can’t remember exactly what it was, but if the connection sticks in my mind, it’s in the computer. Can I call you back, Guido?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it, Giulio.’ Then, prompted by real curiosity, he asked, ‘Is there any chance you’ll be sent up to Verona?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. The people in Milan are about the best we have. I’d come only if it turned out to be connected in some way to any of the cases I’m working on down here.’

  ‘All right, then. Give me a call if you have anything on La Capra. I should be here all afternoon. And thanks, Giulio.’

  ‘Don’t thank me until you know what I have to tell you,’ Carrara said but hung up before Brunetti could respond.

  He rang down and asked Signorina Elettra if she had received the records of the phone calls of La Capra and Semenzato and was glad to learn that not only had the Telecom office sent over copies, but as well as between their homes and offices in Italy she had also found a number of calls between those phones and the hotels in foreign countries when the other was staying there. ‘Would you like me to bring them up to you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, signorina.’

  While he was waiting for her, he opened the file on Brett and dialled the number that was given there. He let the phone ring seven times, but there was no answer. Did this mean that she had taken his advice and left the city to go and stay in Milan? Perhaps that was what Flavia had called to tell him.

  His musing was cut off by the arrival of Signorina Elettra, in sombre grey today; sombre, at least, until he glanced down and saw wildly patterned black stockings – were those flowers? – and red shoes with heels higher than any Paola had ever dared to wear. She came up to his desk and placed a brown folder in front of him. ‘I’ve circled the phone calls that correspond,’ she explained.

  ‘Thank you, signorina. Did you keep a copy of this?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good. I’d like you to get the phone listing for the antique shop of Francesco Murino, in Campo Santa Maria Formosa, and see if there’s a record that either Semanzato or La Capra made calls to him. I’d also like to know if he called either one of them.’

  ‘I took the liberty of calling AT&T in New York,’ Signorina Elettra said, ‘and asked if they would check to see if either of them has one of their international dialling cards. La Capra does. The man I spoke to said he’d fax us a list of his calls for the last two years. I might have it later this afternoon.’

  ‘Signorina, did you speak to him yourself?’ Brunetti asked, marvelling to himself. ‘English? A friend in Banca d’Italia, and English, too?’

  ‘Of course. He didn’t speak Italian, even though he was working in the international section.’ Was Brunetti meant to be shocked by this lapse? If so, then he would be shocked, for, surely, Signorina Elettra was.

  ‘And how is it that you come to speak English?’

  ‘That’s what I did at Banca d’Italia, Dottore. I was in charge of translation from English and French.’

  He spoke before he could stop himself. ‘And you left?’

  ‘I had no choice, sir,’ she said, then, seeing his confusion, explained, ‘The man I worked for asked me to translate a letter to a bank in Johannesburg into English.’ She stopped speaking and bent down to pull out another paper. And was that all the explanation he was going to get?

  ‘I’m sorry, signorina, but I’m afraid I don’t understand. He asked you to translate a letter to Johannesburg?’ She nodded. ‘And you had to leave because of that?’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘Well, of course, sir.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Why did you have to leave?’

  She looked at him very closely, as if she’d suddenly realized he didn’t really understand Italian after all. Very clearly, she pronounced, ‘The sanctions.’

  ‘Sanctions?’ he repeated.

  ‘Against South Africa, sir. They were still in effect then, so I had no choice but to refuse to translate the letter.’

  ‘Do you mean the sanctions against their government?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, sir. They were declared by the UN, weren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, I think they were. And because of that, you wouldn’t do the letter?’

  ‘Well, there’s no sense in declaring sanctions unless people are going to impose them, is there?’ she asked with perfect logic.

  ‘No, I imagine there isn’t. And then what happened?’

  ‘Oh, he became very unpleasant about it. Wrote a letter of reprimand. Complained to the union. And none of them defended me. Everyone seemed to believe that I should have translated the letter. So I had no choice but to resign. I didn’t think I could continue to work for such people.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he agreed, bowing his head over the file and vowing that he would see to it that Paola and Signorina Elettra never met.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’ she asked, smiling down at him, hoping, perhaps, that he understood now.

  ‘Yes, thank you, signorina.’

  ‘I’ll bring up the fax when it comes in from New York.’

  ‘Thank you, signorina.’ She smiled and left the office. How had Patta found her?

  There was no question about it: Semenzato and La Capra had spoken to each other at least five times in the last year; eight, if the calls Semenzato had made to hotels in various foreign countries at times when La Capra was travelling there had been to La Capra. Of course, it could be argued – and Brunetti had no doubt that a good defence lawyer would do so – that there was nothing at all unusual in the fact that these men knew each other. Both were interested in works of art. La Capra could have, quite legitimately, consulted Semenzato on any one of a number of questions: provenance, authenticity, price. He looked down at the papers and tried to work out a pattern between the phone calls and transfers of money into and out of the men’s accounts, but nothing emerged.

  The phone rang. He picked it up and said his name. ‘I tried to call you earlier.’ He recognized Flavia’s voice instantly, noted again how low-pitched it was, how different from her singing voice. But that surprise was as nothing compared to what he felt at hearing her address him in the familiar ‘tu’.

  ‘I was seeing someone. What is it?’

  ‘Brett. She refuses to come to Milan with me.’

  ‘Does she give a reason?’

  ‘She says something about not feeling well enough to travel, but it’s just stubbornness. And fear. She doesn’t want to admit she’s afraid of these people, but she is.’

  ‘What about you?’ he asked, using ‘tu’ and discovering how right it sounded. ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘I’ve got no choice,’ Flavia said but then corrected herself. ‘No, I do have a choice. I could stay if I wanted to, but I don’t. My children are coming home, and I’ve got to meet them. And I’ve got to be at La Scala on Tuesday for a piano rehearsal. I’ve cancelled once, but now I’ve said I’ll sing.’

  He wondered how all of this was going to be connected to him, and Flavia quickly told him. ‘Do you think you could talk to her? Try to reason with her?’

  ‘Flavia,’ he began, intensely conscious of the fact that this was the first time he had called her by her first name, ‘if you can’t convince her to go, I doubt that anything I could say would change her mind.’ Then, before she could protest, he added, ‘No, I’m not trying to get out of doing it. I just don’t think it would work.’

  ‘What about protection?’

  ‘Yes. I can have a man put in the apartment with her.’ Almost without thinking, he corrected that, ‘Or a woman.’

&nb
sp; Her response was immediate. And angry. ‘Just because we choose not to go to bed with men doesn’t mean we’re afraid of being in the same room with one.’

  He was silent for so long that she finally asked, ‘Well, why don’t you say something?’

  ‘I’m waiting for you to apologize for being stupid.’

  This time, it was Flavia who said nothing. Finally, to his considerable relief, her voice softened and she said, ‘All right, and for being rash, as well. I suppose I’ve got used to being able to push people around. And maybe I’m still looking for trouble about me and Brett.’

  Apologies over, Flavia returned to the issue at hand. ‘I don’t know if she can be convinced to let someone stay in the apartment with her.’

  ‘Flavia, I have no other way to protect her.’ Suddenly, he heard a loud noise down the phone, something that sounded like heavy machinery. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A boat.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the Riva degli Schiavoni.’ She explained, ‘I didn’t want to call you from the house, so I went for a walk.’ Her voice changed. ‘I’m not far from the Questura. Are you allowed to accept visitors during the day?’

  ‘Of course,’ he laughed. ‘I’m one of the bosses.’

  ‘Would it be all right if I came over and saw you? I hate talking on the phone.’

  ‘Of course. Come when you want. Come now. I’ve got to wait for a phone call, but there’s no sense in your walking around in the rain all afternoon. Besides,’ he added, smiling to himself, ‘it’s warm here.’

  ‘All right. Do I ask for you?’

  ‘Yes, tell the officer at the door that you have an appointment, and he’ll bring you up to my office.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be there soon.’ She hung up without waiting for his goodbye.

  As soon as he replaced the phone, it rang again, and he answered it to find Carrara.

  ‘Guido, your Signor La Capra was in the computer.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was the Chinese ceramics that made it easy to find him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Two things. There was a celadon bowl that disappeared from a private collection in London about three years ago. The man they finally sent down for it said that he had been paid by an Italian to get that specific piece.’