Donna Leon - Beastly Things

When the boats were past, Vianello said, ‘Well?’

‘Yes, I think he does like it,’ Brunetti finally said. ‘Some people just do. No divine possession, no Satan, no unhappy childhood or chemical imbalance in the brain. For some people, there’s no pleasure except meanness.’

‘That’s why they keep doing it?’ Vianello asked.

‘Has to be, doesn’t it?’ Brunetti asked by way of answer.

‘ Gesù ,’ Vianello whispered. Then, after being interrupted by the continuing fight between the seagulls, he said, ‘I never wanted to believe that.’

‘Who would?’

‘And we’ve got him?’ Vianello asked.

‘Until he goes too far or gets sloppy.’

‘And then?’

‘And then we get rid of him,’ Brunetti said.

‘You make it sound simple.’

‘It might be.’

‘I hope so,’ Vianello said with the sincerity that most people reserved for prayer.

‘About this man – I still don’t understand why no one’s reported a missing person. People have families, for God’s sake.’

‘Maybe it’s too soon,’ Vianello said.

Brunetti, unconvinced, said, ‘The photo should be in the papers tomorrow. With any luck, someone will see it and call us.’ He didn’t tell Vianello he had resisted the idea because the dead man looked so much like a dead person and so little like a man. ‘Someone should react to Pucetti’s.’

‘And until then?’ the Inspector asked.

Brunetti reached over and took the folder, closed it, and said, getting to his feet, ‘Let’s go shoe shopping.’

The Fratelli Moretti shop in Venice is conveniently close to Campo San Luca. Brunetti had been an admirer of their shoes for a generation but for some reason had never bought a pair. It was not their price – everything in Venice had grown expensive – so much as… Brunetti was suddenly forced to realize that there was no reason whatsoever: he had simply never gone inside the shop, kept out by no reason he could name. Using this as justification, he led Vianello to the shop, where they paused outside to study the men’s shoes in the window. ‘I like those,’ Brunetti said, pointing to a pair of dark brown tasselled loafers.

‘If you bought them,’ Vianello said, having assessed the quality of the leather, ‘and things got tough, you could always boil them and live off the stock for a few days.’

‘Very funny,’ Brunetti said and went inside.

The robust woman in charge glanced at their identification and studied the photo of the dead man but shook her head. ‘Letizia might recognize him,’ she said and indicated the stairs that led to the floor above. ‘She’s with some customers but will be down in a minute.’ While waiting, Brunetti and Vianello busied themselves by trailing through the shop: Brunetti had another look at the loafers.

Letizia, younger and thinner than the other woman, came downstairs after a few minutes, preceded by a Japanese couple and holding four shoeboxes in her arms. She might have been in her late twenties, with boyishly short blonde hair combed up in whimsical spikes and a face that escaped from plainness by virtue of the intelligence evident in her gaze.

Brunetti waited while the sale was completed and the customers led to the door, where there followed an exchange of deep bows, seeming not at all forced on the part of the saleswoman.

When Letizia came across to them, the manager explained who they were and what they wanted her to do. Letizia’s smile was interested, even curious. Brunetti handed her the photo.

At the sight of the face of the dead man, she said, ‘The man from Mestre.’

‘From Mestre?’ Brunetti inquired.

‘Yes. He was in here – oh, it must have been two months ago – and tried to buy a pair of shoes. I think he said he wanted loafers.’

‘Is there any reason why you remember him, Signorina?’

‘Well,’ she began, then added, with a quick glance at the manager, who was listening to all of this, ‘I don’t want to talk badly about our customers, not at all, but it’s because he was so strange.’

‘His behaviour?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No, not at all. He was very pleasant, very polite. It was the way he looked.’ Saying this, she glanced again at the other woman, as if asking permission to say such a thing. The manager pursed her lips and then nodded.

Visibly relieved, Letizia continued. ‘He was so big. No, not big the way Americans are big. You know, all over, and tall. It was only his torso and his neck that were so big. I remember wondering what size shirt he’d wear and how he’d find one with a neck big enough for him. But the rest of him was normal.’ She studied Brunetti’s face, and then Vianello’s. ‘He must have a terrible time buying a suit, too, now that I think about it: his shoulders and chest are enormous. The jacket would have to be two or three sizes bigger than the trousers.’

Before either of them could remark on this observation, she said, ‘He tried on a suede jacket, so I saw that his hips were like a regular man’s. And his feet were normal, too: size forty-three. But the rest of him was all… oh, I don’t know, all pumped up.’

‘You’re sure this is the man?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Absolutely,’ she said.

‘From Mestre?’ Vianello interrupted to ask.

‘Yes. He said he was in the city for the day and had tried to buy the shoes in our store in Mestre – but they didn’t have his size so he thought he’d look for them here.’

‘Did you have the shoes?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No,’ she said, her disappointment evident. ‘We had one size larger and one size smaller. We had his size only in brown, but he didn’t want them – only black.’

‘Did he buy another style, instead?’ Brunetti asked, hoping that he had and hoping even more strongly that he had paid for them with a credit card.

‘No. That’s exactly what I suggested, but he said he wanted the black because he already had them in brown and he liked them.’ These must be the shoes he had been wearing when he was killed, Brunetti thought, smiling at the young woman to encourage her to keep speaking.

‘And the suede jacket?’ he asked when he realized she was finished.

‘It didn’t fit over his shoulders,’ she said. Then, in a softer voice, she added, ‘I felt sorry for him when he tried it on and he couldn’t even get his other arm into the sleeve.’ She shook her head, her sympathy obvious. Then she added, ‘We usually keep our eyes on people who try on the suede jackets so they don’t steal them. But I couldn’t. He seemed almost surprised by it, sort of, but sad, really sad that he couldn’t make it fit.’

‘Did he buy anything at all?’ Vianello asked.

‘No, he didn’t. I wish he could have found a jacket that fitted him, though.’ Then, so they wouldn’t misunderstand: ‘Not because I wanted the sale or anything, but just so that he could find one that would fit him. Poor man.’

Brunetti asked, ‘Did he actually say he lived in Mestre?’

She looked at her colleague, as if to ask her please to remind her what the man had said to make her believe he was from Mestre. She tilted her head to one side in a very birdlike way. ‘He said that he’d bought a few pairs there, and I just sort of assumed that he must live there. After all, you usually buy shoes where you live, don’t you?’

Brunetti nodded his agreement, thinking that you usually don’t have the good fortune to be served by such a kind person, no matter where you buy your shoes.

He thanked both her and her manager, gave Letizia his card and asked her to call him if she remembered anything else the man had said that might give further information about him.

As they turned towards the door, Letizia made a noise. It wasn’t a word, little more than a voiced aspirant. Brunetti turned back and she asked, ‘Was he the man in the water?’