Death at La Fenice Read online

  She dropped the cigarette and stepped on it, then extended her hand to him. ‘Goodbye, then. I hope this doesn’t become too ugly.’ He didn’t know if she meant for the Maestro, the theatre, the city, or for him, so he merely nodded his thanks and shook her hand. As she left, it struck Brunetti how strangely similar his work was to that of a doctor. They met over the dead, both asking ‘Why?’ But after they found the answer to that question, their paths parted, the doctor going backward in time to find the physical cause, and he going forward to find the person responsible.

  Fifteen minutes later, the medical examiner arrived, bringing with him a photographer and two white-jacketed attendants whose job it would be to take the body to the Civil Hospital. Brunetti greeted Dr Rizzardi warmly and explained as much as he had learned about the probable time of death. Together, they went back to the dressing room. Rizzardi, a fastidiously dressed man, pulled on latex gloves, checked his watch automatically, and knelt beside the body. Brunetti watched him as he examined the victim, oddly touched to see that he treated the corpse with the same respect he would give to a living patient, touching it softly and, when necessary, turning it gently, helping the awkward movement of stiffening flesh with practised hands.

  ‘Could you take the things from his pockets, Doctor?’ Brunetti asked, since he didn’t have gloves and didn’t want to add his prints to anything that might be found. The doctor complied, but all he found was a slim wallet, alligator perhaps, which he pulled out by one corner and placed on the table beside him.

  He got to his feet and stripped off his gloves. ‘Poison. Obviously. I’d say it was cyanide; in fact, I’m sure it was, though I can’t tell you that officially until after the autopsy. But from the way his body’s bent backwards, it can’t be anything else.’ Brunetti noticed that the doctor had closed the dead man’s eyes and attempted to ease the corners of his distorted mouth. ‘It’s Wellauer, isn’t it?’ the doctor asked, though the question was hardly necessary.

  When Brunetti nodded, the doctor exclaimed, ‘Maria Vergine, the mayor’s not going to like this at all.’

  ‘Then let the mayor find out who did it,’ Brunetti shot back.

  ‘Yes, stupid of me. Sorry, Guido. We should be thinking of the family.’

  As if on cue, one of the three uniformed policemen came to the door and signalled Brunetti. When he emerged from the room, he saw Fasini standing next to a woman he assumed was the Maestro’s daughter. She was tall, taller than the director, taller even than Brunetti, and to that she had added a crown of blonde hair. Like the Maestro, she had a Slavic tilt to her cheekbones and eyes of a blue so clear as to be almost glacial.

  When she saw Brunetti emerge from the dressing room, she took two quick steps away from the director. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked in heavily accented Italian. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Signorina,’ Brunetti began.

  Not hearing him, she cut him short and demanded, ‘What’s happened to my husband?’

  Though surprised, Brunetti had the presence of mind to move to his right, effectively blocking her entrance to the room. ‘Signora, I’m sorry, but it would be better if you didn’t go in there.’ Why was it that they always knew what it was you had to tell them? Was it the tone, or did some sort of animal instinct cause us to hear death in the voice that bore the news?

  The woman slumped to one side, as though she had been struck. Her hip slammed against the keyboard of the piano, filling the corridor with discordant sound. She braced her body with a stiff out-thrust hand, palm smashing more discord from the keys. She said something in a language Brunetti didn’t understand, then put her hand to her mouth in a gesture so melodramatic it had to be natural.

  It seemed, in this moment, that he had spent his entire life doing this to people, telling them that someone they loved was dead or, worse, had been killed. His brother, Sergio, was an X-ray technician and had to wear a small metallic card pinned to his lapel that would turn a strange color if it was exposed to dangerous amounts of radiation. Had he worn a similar device, sensitive to grief or pain or death, it would have changed colour permanently long ago.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘I think it would be better if you didn’t,’ he answered, knowing that this was true.

  ‘What happened?’ She strove for calm, and she achieved it.

  ‘I think it was poison,’ he said, though in fact he knew.

  ‘Someone killed him?’ she asked with astonishment that appeared to be real. Or practised.

  ‘I’m sorry, Signora. There are no answers I can give you now. Is there someone here who can take you home?’ From behind them, he could hear the sudden crash of applause, then wave upon wave of it. She gave no sign that she had heard it or his question, simply stared at him and moved her mouth silently.

  ‘Is there anyone in the theatre who can take you home, Signora?’

  She nodded, at last understanding him. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, then added in a softer voice, ‘I need to sit.’ He was prepared for this, the sudden blow of reality that sets in after the first shock. It was this that knocked people down.

  He put his arm under hers and led her out into the backstage area. Though tall, she was so slender that her weight was easy to support. The only space he could see was a small cubicle on the left, crowded with light panels and equipment he didn’t recognize. He lowered her into the chair in front of the panel and signalled to one of the uniformed officers, who had appeared from the wing, which swarmed now with people in costume, taking bows and crowding into groups as soon as the curtain was closed.

  ‘Go down to the bar and get a glass of brandy and a glass of water,’ he ordered the policeman.

  Signora Wellauer sat in the straight-backed wooden chair, hands grasping the seat on either side of her, and stared at the floor. She shook her head from side to side in negation or in response to some inner conversation.

  ‘Signora, Signora, are your friends in the theatre?’

  She ignored him and continued with her silent dialogue.

  ‘Signora,’ he repeated, this time placing his hand on her shoulder. ‘Your friends, are they here?’

  ‘Welti,’ she said, not looking up. ‘I told them to meet me back here.’

  The officer returned, carrying two glasses. Brunetti took the smaller one and handed it to her. ‘Drink this, Signora,’ he said. She took it and drank it down absently, then did the same with the water when he handed that to her, as though there were no difference between them.

  He took the empty glasses and set them aside.

  ‘When did you see him, Signora?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When did you see him?’

  ‘Helmut?’

  ‘Yes, Signora. When did you see him?’

  ‘We came in together. Tonight. Then I came back after . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘After what, Signora?’ he asked.

  She studied his face for a moment before she answered. ‘After the second act. But we didn’t speak. I was too late. He just said – no, he didn’t say anything.’ He couldn’t tell if her confusion was caused by shock or by difficulty with the language, but he was certain she was past the point where she could be asked questions.

  Behind them, another wave of applause crashed out at them, rising and falling as the singers continued to take their curtain calls. Her eyes left him, and she lowered her head, though she seemed to have finished with her inner dialogue.

  He told the officer to stay with her, adding that some friends would come to find her. When they did, she was free to go with them.

  Leaving her, he went back to the dressing room, where the medical examiner and the photographer, who had arrived while Brunetti was speaking to Signora Wellauer, were preparing to leave.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ Dr Rizzardi asked Brunetti when he came in.

  ‘No. The autopsy?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you do it?’
/>   Rizzardi thought for a moment before he answered. ‘I’m not scheduled, but since I examined the body, the questore will probably ask me to do it.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About eleven. I should be finished by early afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll come out,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘It’s not necessary, Guido. You don’t have to come to San Michele. You can call, or I’ll call your office.’

  ‘Thanks, Ettore, but I’d like to come out. It’s been too long since I was there. I’d like to visit my father’s grave.’

  ‘As you like.’ They shook hands, and Rizzardi started for the door. He paused a moment, then added, ‘He was the last of the giants, Guido. He shouldn’t have died like this. I’m sorry this happened.’

  ‘So am I, Ettore, so am I.’ The doctor left, and the photographer followed him. As soon as they were gone, one of the two ambulance attendants who had been standing by the window, smoking and looking at the people who passed through the small campo below, turned and moved towards the body, which now lay on a stretcher on the floor.

  ‘Can we take him out now?’ he asked in a disinterested voice.

  ‘No,’ Brunetti said. ‘Wait until everyone’s left the theatre.’

  The attendant who had remained near the window flipped his cigarette outside and came to stand at the opposite end of the stretcher. ‘That’ll be a long time, won’t it?’ he asked, making no attempt to disguise his annoyance. Short and squat, he spoke with a noticeable Neapolitan accent.

  ‘I don’t know how long it’ll be, but wait until the theatre’s empty.’

  The Neapolitan pushed back the sleeve of his white jacket and made a business of checking his watch. ‘Well, we’re scheduled to go off shift at midnight, and if we wait much longer, we won’t get back to the hospital until after that.’

  The first one chimed in now. ‘Our union rules say we aren’t supposed to be kept working after our shift unless we’ve been given twenty-four hours’ notice. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do about something like this.’ He indicated the stretcher with the point of his shoe, as though it were something they’d found on the street.

  For a moment, Brunetti was tempted to reason with them. That passed quickly. ‘You two stay here, and you don’t open the door to this room until I tell you to.’ When they didn’t respond, he asked, ‘Do you understand? Both of you?’ Still no answer. ‘Do you understand?’ he repeated.

  ‘But the union rules –’

  ‘Damn your union, and damn its rules,’ Brunetti exploded. ‘You take him out of here before I tell you to, and you’ll be in jail the first time you spit on the sidewalk or swear in public. I don’t want a circus when you remove him. So you wait until I tell you you can leave.’ Without waiting to ask if they now understood him, Brunetti turned and slammed out of the room.

  In the open area at the end of the corridor he found chaos. People in and out of costume milled about; he could tell by their eager glances towards the closed door of the dressing room that the news of death had spread. He watched as the news spread even further, watched as two heads came together and then one turned sharply to stare down the length of the corridor at that door, behind which was hidden what they could only guess at.

  Did they want a sight of the body? Or only something to talk about in the bars tomorrow?

  When he got back to Signora Wellauer, a man and a woman, both considerably older than she, were with her, the woman kneeling by her side. She had her arms around the widow, who was now openly sobbing. The uniformed policeman approached Brunetti. ‘I told you they can go,’ Brunetti told him.

  ‘Do you want me to go with them, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Did they tell you where she lives?’

  ‘By San Moisè, sir.’

  ‘Good; that’s close enough,’ Brunetti said, then added, ‘Don’t let them talk to anyone,’ thinking of reporters, who were sure to have heard by now. ‘Don’t take her out the stage entrance. See if there’s some way to go through the theatre.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the officer answered, snapping out a salute so crisp Brunetti wished the ambulance attendants could have seen it.

  ‘Sir?’ he heard from behind him, and turned to see Corporal Miotti, the youngest of the three officers he had brought with him.

  ‘What is it, Miotti?’

  ‘I’ve got a list of the people who were here tonight: chorus, orchestra, stage crew, singers.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘More than a hundred, sir,’ he said with a sigh, as if to apologize for the hundreds of hours of work the list represented.

  ‘Well,’ Brunetti said, then shrugged it away. ‘Go to the portiere and find out how you get through those turnstiles down there. What sort of identification do you have to have?’ The corporal scribbled away in a notebook as Brunetti continued to speak. ‘How else can you get in? Is it possible to get back here from the theatre itself? Who did he come in with this evening? What time? Did anyone go into his dressing room during the performance? And the coffee, did it come up from the bar, or was it brought in from outside?’ He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘And see what you can find out about messages, letters, phone calls.’

  ‘Is that all, sir?’ Miotti asked.

  ‘Call the Questura and get someone to call the German police.’ Before Miotti could object, he said, ‘Tell them to call that German translator – what’s her name?’

  ‘Boldacci, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Tell them to call her and have her call the German police. I don’t care how late it is. Tell her to request a complete dossier on Wellauer. Tomorrow morning, if possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Brunetti nodded. The officer saluted and, notebook in hand, went back towards the flight of steps that would take him to the stage entrance.

  ‘And, Corporal,’ Brunetti said to his retreating back.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he asked, pausing at the top of the steps.

  ‘Be polite.’

  Miotti nodded, wheeled around, and was gone. The fact that he could say this to an officer without offending him made Brunetti newly grateful that he had been transferred back to Venice after five years in Naples.

  Though the final curtain calls had been taken more than twenty minutes before, the people backstage gave no sign of leaving. A few who seemed to have more sense of purpose went among the rest, taking things from them: pieces of costume, belts, walking sticks, wigs. One man walked directly in front of Brunetti, carrying what looked like a dead animal. Brunetti looked again and saw that the man’s hands were filled with women’s wigs. From across the area behind the curtain, Brunetti saw Follin appear, the officer he had sent to call the medical examiner.

  He came up to Brunetti and said, ‘I thought you might want to talk to the singers, sir, so I asked them to wait upstairs. And the director too. They didn’t seem to like it, but I explained what happened, so they agreed. But they still didn’t like it.’

  Opera singers, Brunetti found himself thinking, then, repeating the thought, opera singers. ‘Good work. Where are they?’

  ‘At the top of the stairs, sir,’ he said, pointing towards a short flight that continued to the top floors of the theatre. He handed Brunetti a copy of that night’s programme.

  Brunetti glanced down the list of names, recognizing one or two, then started up the stairs. ‘Who was the most impatient, Follin?’ Brunetti asked when they reached the top.

  ‘The soprano, Signora Petrelli,’ the officer answered, pointing towards a door that stood at the end of the corridor to the right.

  ‘Good,’ said Brunetti, turning left. ‘Then we’ll leave Signora Petrelli for the last.’ Follin’s smile made Brunetti wonder what the encounter between the eager policeman and the reluctant prima donna had been like. ‘Francesco Dardi – Giorgio Germont,’ read the typed cardboard rectangle that was tacked to the door of the first dressing room on his left. He knocked twice and heard an immediate cry of ‘Avanti!’

  Seated at the small dr
essing table and busy wiping off his make-up was a baritone whose name Brunetti had recognized. Francesco Dardi was a short man, whose broad stomach pressed hard against the front of the dressing table as he leaned forward to see what he was doing. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, if I don’t stand to greet you,’ he said, carefully towelling black make-up from around his left eye.

  Brunetti nodded in response but said nothing.

  After a moment, Dardi looked away from the mirror and up at the two men. ‘Well?’ he asked, then returned to his make-up.

  ‘Have you heard about this evening?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘You mean about Wellauer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  When his question got him no more than this monosyllabic reply, Dardi set down the towel and turned to look at the two policemen. ‘May I be of help, gentlemen?’ he asked, directing the question at Brunetti.

  Since this was more to his liking, Brunetti smiled and answered pleasantly, ‘Yes, perhaps you can.’ He glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand, as if he needed to be reminded of the man’s name. ‘Signor Dardi, as you’ve heard by now, Maestro Wellauer died this evening.’

  The singer acknowledged this news with a slight bow of his head, nothing more.

  Brunetti continued. ‘I’d like to know as much as you can tell me about tonight, about what went on during the first two acts of the performance.’ He paused for a moment, and Dardi nodded again but said nothing.

  ‘Did you speak to the Maestro this evening?’

  ‘I saw him briefly,’ Dardi said, swinging around in his chair and going back to the business of removing his make-up. ‘When I came in, he was talking to one of the lighting technicians, something about the first act. I said “Buona sera” to him, then came up here to begin with my make-up. As you can see,’ he said, gesturing at his image in the mirror, ‘it takes a long time.’

  ‘What time was it you saw him?’ asked Brunetti.

  ‘At about seven, I’d say. Perhaps a bit later, maybe quarter after, but certainly no later than that.’