A Noble Radiance

  An answering call came from behind the car, but there was no sign of the young policeman.

  'Pucetti?' Brunetti called again.

  'Hold up your gun, sir,' came Pucetti's voice from behind the car.

  Understanding instantly, Brunetti raised his fist into the air, careful to show that he was still holding the revolver.

  When Pucetti saw it, he came out from behind the car, his own gun in his hand, though pointed at the ground. He reached in through the open window of the car, and the noise of the klaxon stopped. In the sudden silence, he said, ‘I wanted to be sure, sir’

  'Good’ Brunetti answered, wondering if he would have thought to eliminate the possibility of a hostage situation. ‘You call the locals?'

  'Yes, sir. There's a Carabinieri station outside of Treviso. They should be here soon. What happened?'

  'Someone started to shoot at us as we were walking up the driveway’

  ‘You see them?' Pucetti asked.

  Brunetti shook his head and Vianello said, 'No.'

  The young officer's next question was cut off by the sound of a new siren, this one coming from the direction of Treviso.

  Above that noise, Brunetti called out the numbers of the gate's code, and Pucetti punched them in. The gate started to swing open, and even before Brunetti could suggest it, Pucetti got into the car and angled it back, then drove it halfway through the gates. He pulled the front sharply to the left and turned the car so that it would block the gates with its front fender while still allowing them enough room to pass through the gates on the other side.

  The jeep that pulled up behind their car held two Carabinieri. They stopped behind the police car and the driver rolled down his window. 'What is it?' he asked, directing the question at all three of them. Thin-faced and sallow, he sounded quite calm, as though it were an everyday occurrence to be asked to respond to a call that the police were under fire.

  'Someone up there started shooting,' Brunetti explained.

  'They know who you are?' the Carabiniere asked. This time his accent was clearer. Sardinian. Perhaps he was accustomed to answering calls like this. He made no attempt to get out of the vehicle.

  'No,' Vianello answered. 'What' difference does that make?'

  They've had three robberies out here. And then there was that kidnapping. So if they saw someone coming up the driveway, it makes sense they'd start shooting. I would.'

  'At this?' Vianello said, rather dramatically pounding his open palm on the chest of his uniform jacket.

  'At that,' the Carabiniere shot back, pointing to the revolver that was still in Brunetti's hand.

  Brunetti interrupted them. 'We've still been shot at, officer.' He bit back saying anything else.

  Instead of answering, the Carabiniere pulled his head back inside the jeep, wound up the window, and picked up a cellular phone. Brunetti watched him press in a number, and from behind him Pucetti whispered, 'Gesu bambino.'

  There was a short telephone conversation, and then the Carabiniere dialled another number. After a moment's pause, he started to speak and went on speaking for a while. He nodded twice, pushed another button, and leaned forward to replace the phone on the dashboard.

  He opened the window. ‘You can go in now’ he said, gesturing beyond the gate with his chin.

  'What?'Vianello asked.

  'You can go in. I called them. I told them who you are, and they said you can go in’

  'Who did you talk to?' Brunetti asked.

  'The nephew, what's his name?'

  'Maurizio’ Brunetti volunteered.

  'Yes. He's up there, but he said he won't fire again now that he knows who you are.' When none of them made a move, the Carabiniere urged them, 'Go ahead. If s safe. They won't shoot any more.'

  Brunetti and Vianello exchanged a glance, and then Brunetti signalled with his hand for Pucetti to remain by the car. Saying nothing to the Carabiniere, the two men went back through the gate and again up the gravel drive. This time, Vianello looked ahead of him, eyes sweeping from side to side as they moved away from the gate.

  Neither man spoke as they moved up the driveway.

  From around the curve ahead of them, a man walked into view. Brunetti recognized him instantly as the nephew, Maurizio. He was not carrying a gun.

  The distance between the three men closed. 'Why didn't you say anything?' Maurizio called out when he was still about ten metres from them. ‘I’ve never heard of anything so stupid. You force open the gate and start up the drive. You're lucky neither of you got hurt’

  Brunetti recognized bluster when he heard it. 'Do you always greet visitors that way, Signor Lorenzoni?'

  'When they break open my gates, I do’ the young man answered, corning to a stop directly in front of them.

  'Nothing's broken’ Brunetti said.

  'The code is’ Maurizio shot back 'The only people who know the code to the gate are members of the family. And whoever broke into the villa’

  'And the men who took Roberto’ Brunetti added in an entirely conversational voice.

  Maurizio didn't have time to disguise his astonishment. 'What?' he demanded.

  ‘I think you heard me, Signore. The men who kidnapped Roberto’

  1 don't understand what you mean,' Lorenzoni said.

  The rock’ Brunetti explained.

  ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'The rock that blocked the gates. It weighed more than ten kilos’

  'I still don't understand you’

  Instead of explaining, Brunetti asked casually, 'Do you have a licence to carry a revolver, Signor Lorenzoni?'

  'Of course not,' he said, making no attempt to disguise his mounting anger. 'But I do have a hunting licence.'

  That, Brunetti realized, would explain the thick shower of pebbles that had spurted up at Vianello's feet. 'And so you used a shotgun? To shoot at people.'

  'To shoot towards people’ he corrected. "No one was hurt. Besides, a man has a right to defend his property.'

  'And is the villa your property?' Brunetti asked with bland politeness.

  As he watched, he saw Lorenzoni bite back a sharp response. When he did speak, all he said was, It's my uncle's property. You know that.'

  From back towards the gates, they heard an engine roar into life and then the sound of a vehicle driving away, no doubt the Carabiniere, tired of waiting to see what would happen, and happy to leave it to the Venetian police.

  The pause served to give Lorenzoni time to recover his self-possession. 'How did you get in?' he demanded of Brunetti.

  'With the code. It was in the report of your cousin's kidnapping.'

  'You've got no right to come in here, not without a judge's order.'

  That sort of ruling is usually applied only when the police pursue a suspect illegally, Signor Lorenzoni. I see no suspect here. Do you?' Brunetti's smile was entirely natural. ‘I assume your shotgun is registered with the local police and the tax paid on your hunting licence?'

  I'm not sure that's any of your business,' Lorenzoni shot back.

  ‘I don't like being shot at, Signor Lorenzoni.'

  ‘I told you I wasn't shooting at you, only towards you, to warn you off.'

  During all of this, Brunetti had been thinking ahead to Patta's inevitable response, should he come to learn that Brunetti had been caught making an illegal entry onto the property of a wealthy and influential businessman. ’Perhaps we're bom in the wrong, Signor Lorenzoni,' he finally said.

  It was evident that Lorenzoni didn't know whether or not to read this as an apology. Brunetti turned away from him and asked Vianello, 'What do you think, Sergeant? You over your fright?'

  But before the sergeant could answer, Lorenzoni suddenly stepped forward and put his hand on Brunetti's forearm. His smile made him look much younger. 'I'm sorry, Commissario. I was alone here, and it frightened me when the gates opened.'

  'Didn't you think it might be someone in your family?'

  It couldn't be my uncle
. I spoke to him in Venice twenty minutes ago. And he's the only one who knows the code now.' He dropped his hand to his side, stepped back from Brunetti and added, 'And I kept thinking of what happened to Roberto. I thought they'd come back, but for me this time.'

  Fear has its own logic, Brunetti knew, and so it was possible the young man was telling the truth. 'We're sorry to have frightened you, Signor Lorenzoni,' he said. 'We came out to have a look at the place where the kidnapping happened.' Vianello, reading Brunetti's mood, added his own encouraging nod to this.

  'Why?' Lorenzoni asked.

  'To see if anything's been overlooked.'

  'Like what?'

  'Like the fact that there have been three robberies here’ When Lorenzoni offered no comment, Brunetti asked, 'When did they happen, before or after the kidnapping?'

  'One happened before. The other two happened after. The last one was only two months ago’

  'What was taken?'

  'The first time all they got was some silver from the dining room. One of the gardeners saw a light and came in to see what was going on. They went over the wall’

  'And the other two times?' Brunetti asked.

  'The second happened during the kidnapping. That is, after Roberto disappeared but before the notes stopped coming. We were all in Venice. Whoever it was must have come in over the wall, and this time they got some paintings. There's a safe in the floor of one of the bedrooms, but they never found it. So I doubt that they were professionals. Probably drug addicts’

  'And the third time?'

  That happened two months ago. We were all out here, my uncle and aunt and I. I woke up in the middle of the night -1 don't know why, perhaps something I heard. I went to the top of the steps and could hear someone moving around downstairs. So I went down to my uncle's study and got the shotgun’

  'The same one you used today?' Brunetti asked.

  ‘Yes. It wasn't loaded, but I didn't know it at the time’ Lorenzoni gave an embarrassed smile at this confession and went on, ‘I went to the top of the stairs, turned on the downstairs lights, and shouted down to them, to whoever it was. Then I went down the stairs, holding the gun in front of me’

  That was brave of you,' Brunetti said, meaning it.

  ‘I thought the gun was loaded.' 'What happened?' 'Nothing’

  'When I got halfway down the steps, I heard a door slam, then there were noises out in the garden’

  'What sort of noises?'

  Lorenzoni started to answer, paused for a -moment, and then said, I don't know. I was so frightened I had no idea of what I heard.' When neither Brunetti nor Vianello expressed surprise at this, he added, 'I had to sit down on the steps, I was so frightened.'

  Brunetti's smile was gentle. It's a good thing you didn't know the gun wasn't loaded.'

  Lorenzoni seemed uncertain just how to take this until Brunetti put a hand on his shoulder and said, 'There aren't many people who would have had the courage to come down those stairs, believe me.'

  'My aunt and uncle have been very good to me,' Lorenzoni said by way of explanation.

  'Did you ever find out who it was?' Brunetti asked.

  Lorenzoni shook his head. 'Never. The Carabiniere came out and looked around, even made some plaster casts of footprints they found under the wall. But you know how it is,' he said with a sigh. 'Hopeless.' Suddenly realizing who he was talking to, Lorenzoni added, 'I don't mean that’

  Brunetti, who believed he did, waved the remark away and asked, 'What made you think we might be the kidnappers? Come back, that is?'

  All the time they were speaking, Lorenzoni had been slowly leading them back towards the villa. As they rounded the final bend in the driveway, it suddenly came into view, a central three-storey structure with two lower wings flung but to either side. The blocks of stone out of which it had been built glowed a soft rose in the weak sun; the tall windows cast back what little light there was.

  Suddenly remembering his position as host, Lorenzoni said, 'Can I offer you something?'

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brunetti caught Vianello's badly disguised astonishment. First he tries to kill us, and then he offers us a drink.

  'That's very kind of you, but no. What I would like you to do is tell me anything you can about your cousin.'

  'About Roberto?'

  'Yes.'

  'What sort of things?'

  'What sort of man he was. What sort of jokes he liked. What sort of work he did for the company. Things like that.'

  Though it sounded like an odd list of questions to Brunetti himself, Lorenzoni seemed not at all surprised at them. 'He was...' Lorenzoni began. ‘I'm not sure how to say this gracefully. He was not at all a complicated person.'

  He stopped. Brunetti waited, curious to see what other euphemisms the young man would use.

  'He was useful to the company in that he always presented una bellafigura, so my uncle could always send him anywhere to represent the company.'

  'In negotiations?' Brunetti asked.

  'Oh, no,' Lorenzoni answered immediately. 'Roberto was better at social things, like taking clients to dinner or showing them around the city.'

  'What other things did he do?'

  Lorenzoni thought about this for a few moments. 'My uncle would often send him to deliver important papers: if he had to be sure a contract would get somewhere in a hurry, Roberto would take it.'

  'And then spend a few days there?'' 'Yes, sometimes’ Lorenzoni answered. 'Did he attend university?' 'He was enrolled in the facolta of economia commerciale.' 'Where?'

  'Here, at Ca Foscari’

  'How long had he been enrolled?'

  'Three years’

  'And how many exams had he taken?'

  The truth, if Lorenzoni knew it, never made it past his lips. ‘I don't know.' This last question had broken what-ever rapport Brunetti had established by his response to Lorenzoni's confession of fear. 'Why do you want to know all this?' Lorenzoni asked.

  1 want to get an idea of what sort of person he was,' Brunetti answered truthfully.

  'What difference is that supposed to make? After all this time?'

  Brunetti shrugged. 1 don't know if it will make any difference at all. But if I'm going to spend the next few months of my life with him, I want to know something about him.'

  'Months?' Lorenzoni asked.

  'Yes.'

  ‘Does that mean the investigation of the kidnapping is going to be reopened?'

  'It’s not just kidnapping any more. It’s murder.'

  Lorenzoni winced at the word but said nothing.

  Is there anything else you can think of to tell me about him that might be important?'

  Lorenzoni shook his head and turned towards the steps that led to the front door of the villa.

  'Anything about the way he was behaving before he was kidnapped?'

  Lorenzoni shook his head again but then stopped and turned back to Brunetti. 'I think he was sick.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'He was tired all the time and said he didn't feel right. I think he said he was having trouble with his stomach, diarrhoea. And he looked like he had lost some weight.'

  'Did he say anything else about this?'

  'No, no, he didn't. Roberto and I hadn't been all that close in the last few years.'

  'Since you started to work for the business?'

  The look Lorenzoni gave him was as devoid of friendliness as it was of surprise. 'What do you mean by that?'

  ‘It would seem perfectly natural to me if he resented your presence in the business, especially if your uncle seemed to find you useful or placed trust in you or your judgement.' - Brunetti was expecting Lorenzoni to comment on this, but the young man surprised him by turning away silently and starting up the three broad steps that led to the villa. To his retreating back, Brunetti called, 'Is there anyone else I could talk to about him?'

  At the top of the steps, Lorenzoni turned towards them. 'No. No one knew him. No one can help.' He turned back
towards the door and went into the villa, closing the door behind him.

  18

  Because the following day was Sunday, Brunetti left the Lorenzonis to themselves and returned his attention to the family only the next morning, when he attended Roberto's funeral, a rite as solemn as it was grim. The mass was celebrated in the church of San Salvador, which stood beyond one end of Campo San Bartolomeo and which, because of its proximity to Rialto, received a constant flux of tourists during the day and hence during the mass. Brunetti, seated at the back of the church, was conscious of their invasive arrival, overheard the buzz of their exchanged whispers as they discussed how to photograph the Titian Annunciation and the tomb of Caterina Cornaro. But during a funeral? Perhaps, if they were very, very quiet and didn't use the flash. The priest ignored their whispers and continued the millennium-old ritual, speaking of the transitory nature of our time upon this earth and of the sadness which must surround the parents and family of this child of God, cut off so soon from this earthly life. But then he enjoined his listeners to think of the joy which awaited the faithful and the good, gone to find their home with their Heavenly Father, He the source of all love. Only once was the priest distracted from his duties: a crash sounded from the back of the church as a chair fell over, this followed by a muttered exclamation in a language other than Italian.

  Ritual swallowed up the interruption; the priest and his servers walked slowly around the closed coffin, chanting prayers and sprinkling it with holy water. Brunetti wondered if he were the only one moved to consider the physical state of what lay beneath that elaborately carved mahogany lid. No one within the church had actually seen it: Roberto's identity rested upon nothing more than some dental X-rays and a gold ring, recognition of which, Commissario Barzan had told Brunetti, reduced the Count to choking sobs. Brunetti himself, even though he had studied the autopsy report, had no idea of how much of the physical substance that had once been Roberto Lorenzoni actually lay there at the front of the church. To have lived twenty-one years and to have left so little behind save parents burdened with grief, a girlfriend who had already borne another man's child, and a cousin who had quickly manoeuvred himself into the position as heir. Of Roberto, son to both earthly and heavenly fathers, so little seemed to remain. He had been a common type, the indulged only son of wealthy parents, a boy of whom little had been asked and less expected. And now he lay, a pile of clean bones and tatters of flesh, in a box in a church, and even the policeman sent to find his killer could summon up no real grief at his early death.