Death at La Fenice Read online

‘And did you see him at any time after that?’

  ‘Do you mean up here or backstage?’

  ‘Either.’

  ‘The only time I saw him after that was from the stage, when he was on the podium.’

  ‘Was the Maestro with anyone when you saw him this evening?’

  ‘I told you he was with one of the lighting crew.’

  ‘Yes, I remember that. Was he with anyone else?’

  ‘With Franco Santore. In the bar. They had a few words, but just as I was leaving.’

  Although he recognized the name, Brunetti asked, ‘And this Signor Santore, who is he?’

  Dardi didn’t seem at all surprised by Brunetti’s display of ignorance. After all, why should a policeman recognize the name of one of the most famous theatrical directors in Italy?

  ‘He’s the director,’ Dardi explained. He finished with the towel and tossed it on the table in front of him. ‘This is his production.’ The singer took a silk tie from where it lay on the far right side of the table, slipped it under the collar of his shirt, and carefully knotted it. ‘Is there anything else you’d like?’ he asked, voice neutral.

  ‘No, I think that will be all. Thank you for your help. If we want to speak to you again, Signor Dardi, where will we find you?’

  ‘The Gritti.’ The singer gave Brunetti a quick, puzzled glance, as if he wanted to know if other hotels actually existed in Venice but was somehow afraid to ask.

  Brunetti thanked him and went out into the hallway with Follin. ‘We’ll try the tenor next, shall we?’ he asked as he glanced down at the programme in his hand.

  Nodding, Follin led him along the corridor to a door on the opposite side.

  Brunetti knocked, paused a moment, heard nothing. He knocked again and heard a noise from inside, which he chose to interpret as an invitation to enter. When he did, he found a short, thin man, sitting fully dressed, coat over the arm of his chair, poised in an attitude learned in drama class, one that was meant to denote ‘annoyed impatience’.

  ‘Ah, Signor Echeveste,’ Brunetti gushed, walking quickly to him and extending his hand so that the other didn’t have to rise. ‘It is a tremendous honour to meet you.’ Had Brunetti been enrolled in the same class, he would have been working on the assignment ‘awe in the presence of staggering talent’.

  Like a frozen stream in early March, Echeveste’s anger melted under the warmth of Brunetti’s flattery. With some difficulty, the young tenor pushed himself up from the chair and made a small, formal bow to Brunetti.

  ‘And whom have I the honour to meet?’ he asked in slightly accented Italian.

  ‘Commissario Brunetti, sir. I represent the police in this most unfortunate event.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ replied the other, as though he’d once heard of the police, long ago, but had quite forgotten what they did. ‘You’re here, then, for all of this,’ he said, and paused, gesturing limply with his hand, waiting for someone to supply him with the proper word. Bidden, it came: ‘. . . this unfortunate affair with the Maestro.’

  ‘Yes, I am. Most unfortunate, most regrettable,’ Brunetti babbled, all the time keeping his eyes on the tenor’s. ‘Would it be too much trouble for you to answer a few questions?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ answered Echeveste, and he sank gracefully back into his chair, but not before carefully hiking up his trousers at the knee so as to preserve their knife-edged crease. ‘I’d like to be of help. His death is a great loss to the world of music.’

  In the face of so stunning a platitude, Brunetti could do no more than bow his head reverently for a moment, then raise it to ask, ‘At what time did you reach the theatre?’

  Echeveste thought for a moment before he answered. ‘I’d say it was about seven-thirty. I was late. Delayed. You understand?’ and somehow, in the question, managed to convey the image of slipping reluctantly away from crumpled sheets and female allure.

  ‘And why were you late?’ Brunetti asked, knowing he was not supposed to and waiting to see how the question affected the fantasy.

  ‘I was having my hair cut,’ the tenor replied.

  ‘And the name of your barber?’ Brunetti asked politely.

  The tenor named a shop only a few streets from the theatre. Brunetti glanced at Follin, who made a note. He would check tomorrow.

  ‘And when you arrived at the theatre, did you see the Maestro?’

  ‘No, no. I saw no one.’

  ‘And it was about seven-thirty when you arrived?’

  ‘Yes. As nearly as I can remember.’

  ‘Did you see or speak to anyone when you came in?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. No one at all.’

  Even before Brunetti could comment on the strangeness of that, Echeveste explained. ‘I didn’t come in, you see, through the stage entrance. I came in through the orchestra.’

  ‘I didn’t realize that was possible,’ Brunetti said, interested that there was access to the backstage area that way.

  ‘Well,’ Echeveste said, looking down at his hands. ‘It usually isn’t, but I have a friend who is an usher, and he let me in, so I didn’t have to use the stage entrance.’

  ‘Could you tell me why you did this, Signor Echeveste?’

  The tenor raised a dismissive hand and allowed it to float languidly in front of them for a moment, as if hoping it would erase or answer the question. It did neither. He put the hand on top of the other and said, simply, ‘I was afraid.’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Of the Maestro. I’d been late for two rehearsals, and he’d been very angry about it, shouting. He could be very unpleasant when he was angry. And I didn’t want to have to go through it again.’ Brunetti suspected that it was only respect for the dead that kept any word stronger than ‘unpleasant’ from being used.

  ‘So you came in that way to avoid seeing him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see or speak to him at any time? Other than from the stage?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Brunetti got to his feet and repeated his very theatrical smile. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Signor Echeveste.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ the other replied, rising from his seat. He looked at Follin, then back to Brunetti, and asked, ‘Am I free to go now?’

  ‘Of course. If you’d just tell me where you’re staying?’

  ‘The Gritti,’ he answered, with the same puzzled glance Dardi had given. It was enough to make a man wonder if there were other hotels in the city.

  3

  When Brunetti emerged from the dressing room, he found Miotti waiting for him. The young officer explained that Franco Santore, the director, had refused to wait, saying that anyone who wanted to speak to him could find him at the Hotel Fenice, along the side of the theatre. Brunetti nodded, almost pleased to be assured of the presence of other hotels in the city.

  ‘That leaves us the soprano,’ said Brunetti, heading down the corridor. The usual cardboard tag was stuck to the door. ‘Flavia Petrelli – Violetta Valéry.’ Below this, there was a line of what appeared to be Chinese characters sketched with a fine black pen.

  He knocked at the door and signalled with a nod that the other two could remain outside.

  ‘Avanti!’ he heard, and opened the door.

  Two women were waiting for him in the room, and it surprised him that he couldn’t tell which of them was the soprano. Like everyone in Italy, he knew of ‘La Petrelli’. Brunetti had seen her sing only once, some years ago, and had a vague memory of seeing pictures of her in the newspapers.

  The darker of the two women stood with her back to the dressing table, while the other sat in a straight wooden chair against the far wall. Neither of them spoke when he came in, and Brunetti used the silence to study them.

  He guessed the woman who was standing to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a purple sweater and a long black skirt that brushed against a pair of black leather boots. The boots were low-heeled and of glove-quality leather, and Brunetti vaguely
recalled walking past the window of Fratelli Rossetti with his wife and hearing her exclaim at the madness of spending half a million lire for a pair of boots. These boots, he felt sure. She had shoulder-length black hair with a natural curl that would allow it to be cut with a spoon and still look perfect. Her eyes were out of place with her olive colouring, a clear green that made him think of glass but then, remembering those boots, of emeralds.

  The seated woman appeared to be a few years older and wore her hair, in which there were a few specks of grey, cropped close to her head, like one of the Roman emperors of the centuries of decline. The severity of the cut emphasized the fineness of bone and nose.

  He took a few steps towards the seated woman and made a motion that could have been taken for a bow. ‘Signora Petrelli?’ he asked. She nodded but said nothing. ‘I’m honoured to meet you and regret only that it has to be in these unfortunate circumstances.’ Since she was one of the leading opera singers of the day, he found irresistible the temptation to speak to her in the excessive language of opera, as if he were playing a part.

  She nodded again, doing nothing to remove the burden of speech from him.

  ‘I’d like to speak to you about the death of Maestro Wellauer.’ He glanced across the room to the other woman and added, ‘And speak to you too,’ leaving it to one of them to supply the second woman’s name.

  ‘Brett Lynch,’ the singer supplied. ‘My friend and secretary.’

  ‘Is that an American name?’ he asked the woman whose name it was.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Signora Petrelli answered for her.

  ‘Then would it be better if we were to speak in English?’ he asked, not a little bit proud of the ease with which he could switch from one language to the other.

  ‘It would be easier if we spoke in Italian,’ the American said, speaking for the first time and using an Italian that displayed not the least accent. His reaction was entirely involuntary and was noticed by both women. ‘Unless you’d like to speak in Veneziano,’ she added, slipping casually into the local dialect, which she spoke perfectly. ‘But then Flavia might have trouble following what we say.’ It was entirely deadpan, but Brunetti realized it would be a long time before he’d flaunt his English again.

  ‘Italian, then,’ he said, turning back to Signora Petrelli. ‘Will you answer a few questions?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she answered. ‘Would you like a chair, Signor . . .’

  ‘Brunetti,’ he supplied. ‘Commissario of police.’

  The title appeared not to impress her in the least. ‘Would you like a chair, Dottor Brunetti?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He pulled his notebook from his pocket, took the pen that was stuck between the pages, and prepared to give the appearance of taking notes, something he seldom did, preferring to let his eyes and mind roam freely during the first questioning.

  Signora Petrelli waited until he had uncapped his pen, then asked, ‘What is it you would like to know?’

  ‘Did you see or speak to the Maestro tonight?’ Then, before she could offer it, he continued, ‘Aside from while you were on the stage, of course.’

  ‘No more than to say “Buona sera” when I came in and to wish one another “In boca al lupo.” Nothing more than that.’

  ‘And that was the only time you spoke to the Maestro?’

  Before she answered, she glanced across towards the other woman. He kept his eyes on the soprano, so he had no idea of the other’s expression. The pause lengthened, but before he could repeat the question, the soprano finally answered. ‘No, I didn’t see him again. I saw him from the stage, of course, as you pointed out, but we didn’t speak again.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ came her instant reply.

  ‘And during the intervals? Where were you?’

  ‘Here. With Signorina Lynch.’

  ‘And you, Signorina Lynch?’ he asked, pronouncing her name with complete lack of accent, though he had to concentrate to do it. ‘Where were you during the performance?’

  ‘Here in the dressing room for most of the first act. I went downstairs for “Sempre libera,” but then I came back up here. And I was here for the rest of the performance,’ she replied calmly.

  He looked around the bare room, searching for something that could possibly have occupied her for that length of time. She caught his glance and pulled a slim volume from the pocket of her skirt. On it he saw Chinese characters such as those on the name card on the door.

  ‘I was reading,’ she explained, holding the book towards him. She gave him an entirely friendly smile, as though she were now ready to talk about the book, if he so desired.

  ‘And did you speak to Maestro Wellauer during the evening?’

  ‘As Signora Petrelli told you, we spoke to him when we came in, but after that I didn’t see him again.’ Brunetti, quelling the impulse to say that, no, Signora Petrelli had not mentioned that they had come in together, let her continue. ‘I couldn’t see him from where I was standing backstage, and I was here in the dressing room during both of the intervals.’

  ‘Here with Signora Petrelli?’

  This time it was the American who glanced towards the other woman before she answered. ‘Yes, with Signora Petrelli, just as she told you.’

  Brunetti closed his notebook, in which he had done no more than scribble the American’s last name, as if to capture the full horror of a word composed of five consonants. ‘In case there should be other questions, could you tell me where I might find you, Signora Petrelli?’

  ‘Cannaregio 6134,’ she said, surprising him by naming an entirely residential part of the city.

  ‘Is that your apartment, Signora?’

  ‘No, it’s mine,’ interrupted the other woman.

  ‘I’ll be there, too.’

  He reopened his notebook and wrote down the address. Without missing a beat, he asked, ‘And the phone number?’

  She gave him that as well, telling him that it was not listed, then added that the address was near the basilica of Santi Giovanni e Paolo.

  Putting on his formal self, he bowed slightly and said, ‘Thank you both, Signore, and I’m sorry for your difficulty at this time.’

  If either one of them found the words strange, neither gave any sign of it. After more polite exchanges, he left the dressing room and led the two officers who had been waiting for him outside down the narrow flight of stairs that led to the backstage area.

  The third officer waited at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Well?’ Brunetti asked him.

  He smiled, pleased to have something to report. ‘Both Santore, the director, and La Petrelli spoke to him in his dressing room. Santore went in before the performance, and she went in after the first act.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘One of the stagehands. He said that Santore seemed to be angry when he left, but this was just an impression the man had. He didn’t hear any shouting or anything.’

  ‘And Signora Petrelli?’

  ‘Well, the man said he wasn’t sure it was La Petrelli but that she was wearing a blue costume.’

  Miotti interrupted here. ‘She wears a blue dress in the first act.’

  Brunetti gave him a quizzical look.

  Was it possible that Miotti lowered his head before he spoke? ‘I saw a rehearsal last week, sir. And she wears a blue dress in the first act.’

  ‘Thank you, Miotti,’ Brunetti said, voice level. ‘It’s my girlfriend, sir. Her cousin’s in the chorus and he gets us tickets.’

  Brunetti nodded, smiling, but he realized he would have liked it more if he hadn’t said that.

  The officer who had been making his report shot back his cuff and looked at his watch. ‘Go on,’ Brunetti told him.

  ‘He said he saw her come out towards the end of the interval, and he said she was angry, very angry.’

  ‘At the end of the first interval?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He was sure of that.’

  Taking a cue from the po
licemen, Brunetti said, ‘It’s late, and I’m not sure we can do much more here tonight.’ The others glanced around at the now empty theatre. ‘Tomorrow, see if you can find anyone else who might have seen her. Or seen anyone else go in.’ Their mood seemed to lighten when he spoke of tomorrow. ‘That will be all for tonight. You can go.’ When they started to move away, he called, ‘Miotti, have they taken his body to the hospital yet?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said, almost guiltily, as though afraid this would cancel out the approval he had received a moment before.

  ‘Wait here while I find out,’ Brunetti told him.

  He walked back to the dressing room and opened the door without bothering to knock. The two attendants sat in easy chairs, feet on the table that stood between them. On the floor beside them, covered by a sheet, entirely ignored, lay one of the greatest musicians of the century.

  They looked up when Brunetti came in but gave no acknowledgement. ‘You can take him to the hospital now,’ he said, then turned and left the room, careful to close the door behind him.

  Miotti was where he had left him, glancing through a notebook that was very similar to the one Brunetti carried. ‘Let’s go and have a drink,’ Brunetti said. ‘The hotel is probably the only place open at this hour.’ He sighed, tired now. ‘And I could use a drink.’ He started off to his left, but he found himself walking back towards the stage. The staircase seemed to have disappeared. He had been inside the theatre for so long, up and down stairs, along corridors and back down them, that he was completely disoriented and had no idea how to get out.

  Miotti touched him lightly on the arm and said, ‘This way, sir,’ leading him to the left and down the flight of steps they had first come up more than two hours before.

  At the bottom, the portiere, seeing Miotti’s uniform, reached under the counter at which he sat and pushed the button that released the turnstile blocking the exit of the theatre. He gestured that all they had to do was push. Knowing that Miotti would already have questioned the man about who had come in and out of the theatre that night, Brunetti didn’t bother to ask him any questions but passed directly out of the theatre and into the empty campo beyond the door.