Joseph Kanon - Alibi

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“But you still want to know.”

I sat up, looking straight at her. “I saw the body. What he looked like after. I can’t explain-it’s different when you see what it really means.” I dropped my head. “It won’t take long. Nobody suspects.” I ran my hand over the grass. “How else are we going to live with this?”

She smiled slightly, giving up, a movement of the lips, not really a smile at all. “Oh, how. You can live with anything. Anything.”

“What was Paolo like?”

“Paolo? A puppy,” Bertie said. “Why Paolo all of a sudden?”

We were having coffee in Santo Stefano, a chance meeting on my way to Ca’ Maglione, where Giulia was waiting with Gianni’s papers. The sun was bright enough for umbrellas at the cafe tables, but the air was still cool. Bertie was wearing a three-piece oyster-colored suit, perfectly pitched, like the weather, somewhere between winter and summer.

“I don’t know about him. About any of Gianni’s family, for that matter.”

“ Now you want to know?”

“It might help.”

“Who? Your friends at the Questura? I hear you’re thick as thieves. Is this an official visit?” he said, his voice rising slightly, like an arched eyebrow.

I smiled. “I’m just trying to help. It was Giulia’s idea.”

“Oh, Giulia’s idea. The fair Giulia.” He looked over at me, then tilted his head, his eyes beginning to twinkle. “No, it’s too penny dreadful. Still.”

“Having fun?”

“I admit it’s a little novelettish, but think how suitable.”

“Well, don’t.”

“And Grace the dogaressa after all.” He giggled.

“Bertie.”

“Oh, I know, I know. Very bad. It’s just a thought. Anyway, you’re otherwise attached. As we know. There’d be that to contend with, wouldn’t there?” His voice casual, Claudia still an inappropriate affair to him, unaware we were joined by blood now, our hands streaked with it.

“Yes, there would.” I leaned forward, serious. “Bertie, tell me something. What happened at the Accademia?”

“Me? Why ask me?”

“Because you know.”

“I don’t always, you know. Better not to. Venice is a very small town. You don’t want to be telling tales out of school-people don’t like it.”

“Tell this one.”

He looked at me, then nodded. “I don’t want any reactions, please. It’s not perfect, the world, not even here.” He glanced around the sunny campo, the terra-cotta planters sprouting bits of white, the first spring flowers. “Some attitudes-not very nice, but they just don’t go away overnight, either. And at first, of course, no one thought to ask. There’d never been any, you know, not in the curatorial department.” He let it hang, awkward, and took a sip of coffee.

“Are you trying to tell me they fired her because she’s Jewish?”

“I didn’t say that,” Bertie said quickly. “And I don’t want you saying it either. I merely said they didn’t think she was-suitable.”

I thought of the Montanaris. Just a look.

“Who didn’t?”

“Oh, what does it matter? All right, old Buccati, if you must know. He’s nearly ninety. At that age, all you’ve got is old ideas, whatever they are. Mostly he just naps away the afternoon, like an old tabby, but this time he pricks up his ears and makes a fuss. And of course it is Buccati, so they can’t very well say no. What a tear. Even me, if you please. Because I’d recommended her. Which I only did because Emilio asked. I thought, a cousin. And then not even that. I had no idea-”

“But how did he hear? Buccati?”

“Hear what? About her? Well, who didn’t, after that awful scene?”

“But Gianni didn’t say anything?”

“Gianni? Adam, what are you talking about?”

“I thought Gianni might have had something to do with it.”

“What, at the Accademia? Gianni never looked at a painting in his life. I doubt he’d ever been inside, much less-what? Do you think he was prattling away to old Buccati? What for?”

“To get her fired.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have blamed him-so unpleasant, that business at the party-but no. No. Nobody’s even suggested it. This was Buccati’s own particular nonsense, and what a mess. I’m sorry about the girl, of course, but think of me. And the staff. Nervous as hens now that they see what he’s really like.”

“So you don’t think it was Gianni,” I said, partly to myself.

“No, I don’t,” he said steadily. “And I would have heard.”

I finished the rest of the coffee, thinking. “He showed me some frescoes once,” I said.

“And? Adam, I’m having a little trouble following.”

“You said he never looked at pictures. But he knew these.”

“Where?”

“At the hospital.”

“Well, the hospital. And Ca’ Maglione. I’m sure he knew every wall. And I’d still bet he’d never been inside the Accademia. Adam, he was a doctor. They’re all a bit Home Counties, really, aren’t they? He was a very conventional man. He wasn’t really interested in-” He waved his hand to take in the city. “You know, this.”

“But he loved Venice.”

“As property. Not as-this extraordinary thing. No eye, none. He was just a conventional man.” He paused, putting down his cup. “Except for Grace, I suppose. I’ve been thinking about it since-well, since-and you know, she’s the one thing that doesn’t make sense in his life. He does his work. He cares about his family-oh, that dreary wife, the marriage must have been a penance. Everything what it should be. Except for her. Maybe she was this for him,” he said, waving his hand again at the campo. “This whole other side that must have been there. I never saw it, but it must have been, don’t you think? Mad for her, even years later. I think she was the only idea he ever had about-whatever it was that was missing.”

I looked out at the square, the faded red and melon plasterwork warm in the sun. This extraordinary thing.

“You’re a romantic, Bertie.”

He smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I just like a good mystery story. It’s the ultimate mystery, isn’t it? People. Not who done it. Who they are. Of course, you’re one of the ‘done it’ people, you and your friends at the Questura. Somebody done him in. Well, yes, but who was he? That’s what I want to know. Here’s a man I’ve known for-well, if I did. Anyway, who wants to know his doctor? And it turns out I didn’t. Sometimes I think we’re all little mysteries, whirling around.” He moved his finger in a circle. “And none of us has the faintest clue about the other. Think of it. Gianni in love. I didn’t know he was capable of it. But I suppose he was. Then murdered. What could he have done to make somebody want to do that?”

“That’s what they’re trying to find out.”

“Are they? Well, good luck. Cavallini couldn’t catch a fly.” He shook his head. “And you. Such nonsense. You’d be better off getting Grace out of here. Mooning about with Mimi and Celia and probably getting sloshed, if I know my Celia. Talk about the bad penny turning up. Oh, I know,” he said, seeing my look, “her heart’s broken, but it so happens I don’t believe in broken hearts.” He peered over his glasses. “I’m not that romantic. What she needs is a change. But here you are, playing Father Brown. What a world.”

“How do you know Cavallini?”

“I had to report during the war-all the neutrals. I’ve told you this. All present and accounted for, you know. Make-work. Actually, he was nice about it-he’d come to me. Of course, that was right up his street. He’s a policeman who likes a canal view.”

“Maybe he’s better than you think. He’s talked to everybody. I’ve seen the reports.”