Brunetti realized that Murino was attempting to set the tone of their interview, and the tone he aimed for was friendly and relaxed, the verbal manifestation of his own innocence. ‘Thank you, don’t bother,’ Brunetti answered, and with his response grabbed the tone back into his own command. ‘Could you tell me how long he was a partner in your business?’
Murino gave no sign that he had registered the struggle for dominance of the conversation. ‘Five years,’ he answered, ‘from when I opened this shop.’
‘And what about your shop in Milan? Did his partnership extend to that?’
‘Oh, no. They’re kept as separate businesses. His partnership pertained only to this one.’
‘And how is it that he became a partner?’
‘You know how it is. Word travels.’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t know how it is, Signor Murino. How did he become your partner?’
Murino’s smile was consistently relaxed; he was willing to ignore Brunetti’s rudeness. ‘When I was given the opportunity to rent this space, I contacted some friends of mine here in the city and tried to borrow money from them. I had most of my capital tied up in the stock in the Milan shop, and the market for antiques was very slow at that time.’
‘But still you wanted to open a second shop?’
Murino’s smile was cherubic. ‘I had hope in the future. People might stop buying for a period, but that always comes to an end, and people will always return to buying beautiful things.’
If Murino had been a woman, Brunetti would have said he was fishing for a compliment and nudging Brunetti to admire the pieces in the shop and, with that, relax the tension created by the questions.
‘And was your optimism rewarded, Signor Murino?’
‘Oh, I can’t complain.’
‘And your partner? How was it that he found out about your interest in borrowing money?’
‘Oh, voices travel. Word spreads.’ That, apparently, was as much of an explanation as Signor Murino was prepared to give.
‘And so he appeared, money in hand, asking to become a partner?’
Murino walked over to a Renaissance wedding chest and wiped at a fingerprint with his handkerchief. He bent down to get his eyes horizontal with the surface of the chest and wiped repeatedly at the smear until it was gone. He folded his handkerchief into a neat rectangle, put it back into the pocket of his jacket, and leaned back against the edge of the chest. ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’
‘And what did he get in return for his investment?’
‘Fifty per cent of the profits for ten years.’
‘And who kept the books?’
‘We have un contabile who takes care of all that for us.’
‘Who does the buying for the shop?’
‘I do.’
‘And the selling?’
‘I. Or my daughter. She works here two days a week.’
‘So it’s you and your daughter who know what gets bought, and at what price, and what gets sold, and at what price?’
‘I have receipts for all purchases and sales, Dottor Brunetti,’ Murino said, voice just short of indignation.
Brunetti considered for a moment the option of telling Murino that everyone in Italy had receipts for everything and that all of those receipts were utterly meaningless as anything other than evidence faked to avoid paying taxes. But one did not point out that rain fell from the sky to the earth below or that it was in the spring that trees blossomed. Just so, one did not have to point out the existence of tax fraud, especially not to an antique dealer, and most especially not to a Neapolitan antique dealer.
‘Yes, I’m sure you have, Signor Murino,’ Brunetti said, and changed the subject. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’
Murino had apparently been expecting this question, for his answer was immediate. ‘Two weeks ago. We met for a drink, and I told him I was planning a buying trip up into Lombardy at the end of the month. I told him I wanted to close the shop for a week and asked him if he had any objection if I did so.’
‘And did he?’
‘No, none at all.’
‘What about your daughter?’
‘She’s busy studying for her exams. She’s studying law. And whole days pass when no one comes into the shop. So I thought this was a good time to close for a while. We also needed to get some work done.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘We’ve got a door that opens to the canal, and it’s come off its hinges. So if we want to use it, a whole new frame has to be built,’ he said, gesturing towards the velvet curtains. ‘Would you like to see?’ Murino asked.
‘No, thank you,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Signor Murino, did it ever occur to you that there might be a certain conflict of interest for your partner?’
Murino smiled inquisitively, ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Then let me try to make it clearer. His other position might have served to, let us say, work to the advantage of your joint investment here.’
‘I must apologize, but I still don’t understand what you mean.’ Murino’s smile would not have seemed out of place on the face of an angel.
Brunetti gave examples. ‘Using you, perhaps, as a consultant or learning that certain pieces or collections were going to come up for sale. Perhaps recommending the shop to people who expressed an interest in a particular sort of item.’
‘No, that never occurred to me.’
‘Did it occur to your partner?’
Murino took his handkerchief and leaned over to wipe at another smudge. When he was satisfied that the surface was clean, he said, ‘I was his business partner, Commissario, not his confessor. I’m afraid that’s a question only he could answer.’
‘But that, alas, is not to be.’
Murino shook his head sadly. ‘No, that is not to be.’
‘What will happen to his share of the shop now?’
Murino’s face was all astonished innocence. ‘Oh, I’ll continue dividing the profits with his widow.’
‘And you and your daughter will continue to do the buying and selling?’
Murino’s answer was slow in coming, but when it came, it was no more than an acknowledgement of the self-evident. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Brunetti echoed, though the words neither sounded the same nor conveyed the same idea when he said them.
Murino’s face suffused with sudden anger, but before he could speak, Brunetti said, ‘Thank you for your time, Signor Murino I hope you have a successful trip to Lombardy.’
Murino pushed himself away from the chest and went over to the door to retrieve Brunetti’s umbrella. He held it by the still-wet cloth and offered it, handle first, to Brunetti. He opened the door and held it politely for Brunetti, then closed it softly behind him. Brunetti stood in the rain and raised his umbrella. As he did, a sudden gust of wind tried to pull it from his hands, but he tightened his grip and turned towards home. During the entire conversation, neither of them had once used Semenzato’s name.