AHMM, December 2007 Read online

  "Oh, it's you Signor Ziani. Have they taken the poor old fellow away?"

  "Yes. And it's Nicco."

  "I feel so bad ... Nicco. It's all my fault, you know.” Marina's eyes were swollen and the whites reddened, marring the plump prettiness of her face. Except for the plunging bodice of her day dress, she looked the part of an innocent dove newly released from the cage of a convent school. Give her two more years, I thought, and then her softness will have given way to the brittle coarseness of her sisters on the street.

  "What do you mean? Your fault?” I asked smoothly, noting the dressing table emblazoned with a slash of spilled powder, the unmade bed piled with rumpled corsets and petticoats.

  Marina blew out the candle and rose from the floor in one insufferably fluid motion. What I wouldn't have traded for those young knees. She sent me a wan smile as she tidied the bed. The underclothes she tossed behind a folding screen; then she unfurled a lacy shawl that disgorged a hail of something. Dust? Powder? One gritty piece lodged in the corner of my eye, but not before I'd caught a glimpse of a drawstring bag falling to the mattress with a metallic clink. While I rubbed my eye, a blushing Marina quickly stuffed the bag in a drawer, as if she were ashamed of how she'd earned those coins.

  Only then was Marina ready to discuss what had sent her to her prayers. She drifted over to the window and beckoned me to join her. “A man selling peaches came down the canal this morning,” she said in a low voice.

  "I heard him.” I indicated the balcony that jutted out over her window. “That's my room on the third floor."

  "Is it, now?” She cocked her head, then continued, “I lowered my basket and bought half a dozen. They were sheer heaven—perfectly ripe and dripping with juice. I ate till I thought I would burst and still had two left. Then I thought of Signor Tartini. You know the way he talked?"

  I nodded.

  "Sometimes I wasn't sure what he meant by his fancy words, but he spoke like such a polite gentleman, never mocking. Just yesterday he called to me as I was going out. ‘Sweet Helen, make me immortal with thy kiss,’ he said. I thought my name had slipped his mind. ‘I'm Marina,’ I called back. He just laughed. But not at me. His laugh sounded sad in a way, as if he really meant to cry.” She propped her head against the window frame and gave her own ambiguous chuckle. “Do you know what he was talking about?"

  "He was comparing you to Helen of Troy, a woman so beautiful that two nations went to war over her."

  Marina twisted her lips into a shrewd sneer. “That's ridiculous. Men don't fight over beauty. They fight over land and power. Or gold."

  I shrugged. “So you decided to give smooth-tongued Tartini some peaches?"

  "Yes, I thought they would make a nice treat for him.” She pressed fingers to her eyes and continued in jerky sobs. “If I'd only known—if I thought for one minute that he would have slipped on the skins—I never would have done anything to hurt him."

  "You heard what happened then?"

  She nodded, sniffing. “The sbirri were talking about it. I admitted giving him the peaches, but they didn't care."

  I dug into my jacket pocket. “Then this must be yours.” I produced the handkerchief I'd carried away from Tartini's room. The white linen was stained with golden peach juice and a few flecks of reddish-brown.

  "Yes, I carried the fruit over in this.” She pinched the handkerchief between two fingers, wrinkled her nose, and surprised me by tossing it out the window. I made a grab for the linen square, but a puff of wind whisked it away and deposited it on the sun-kissed water of the canal. I lost sight of it among the gondolas and barges.

  "You could have laundered it,” I observed.

  Shaking her head, she crossed her arms against her tight-fitting bodice. “It's trash now. I never want to see it again."

  The window must have been Marina's exclusive trash basket. Eggshells and peach skins and scraps of paper littered the ledge that separated the first and second story.

  "What was Tartini doing when you delivered the peaches?"

  "I don't know. He opened the door and invited me in, but I said no. I was still in my nightclothes, with just a shawl over my shoulders. I handed him the fruit and popped back over here."

  "You didn't step in his room, even for a minute?"

  "No."

  "Was anyone else with him? Perhaps someone using his services?"

  She considered, one finger tracing the outline of her rosy mouth. “He only opened the door a crack, so I couldn't see anyone. But ... people were always coming to his door to have something written out. I suppose he could have had a visitor. Why, Nicco?"

  "It's possible that Signor Tartini's death was not a simple accident."

  "But the sbirri said—"

  "The sbirri are not the closest of observers. They snap at the obvious conclusion like a sturgeon at a minnow. Several of us believe there is more to the story."

  "You and Signor Bianchi?"

  I nodded.

  "What makes you think so?"

  "If you don't mind, I'd rather keep that to myself for now."

  Her hand fluttered to her heart. “I would be so relieved to hear that my peaches were not the cause of my neighbor's demise. But—” She paused and her eyes grew round as buttons. “I can't imagine why anyone would harm such a nice old man."

  "That is what I will be trying to discover."

  As I turned toward the door, Marina detained me with a hand on my arm. The gossamer grip I expected felt more like an iron clamp. Her voice took on a husky note. “You will keep me informed, Nicco? Now that you've found your way to my room, you will always be a welcome visitor."

  I pried her hand loose and, after kissing her fingertips, took my leave.

  * * * *

  The lobby of the Ca’ Renaldo had once been a spacious room of elegant proportions, its walls hung with sky blue silk damask and its ceiling molded with coffers of ornamental stucco. Now the stairway from the upper stories issued into a wretched passageway flanked with small, hastily built apartments. Shreds of mildewed silk still clung to the crumbling plaster in odd corners.

  A giant named Mimmo ruled this tiny kingdom. The throne that contained his pendulous backside was a broken-down armchair by the front entrance. More watchman than doorkeeper, Mimmo kept the tarnished bronze doors propped open in all but the most inclement weather and surveyed our comings and goings with a gimlet eye. His family delivered his food and he ate nearly all the time: fritters dusted with sugar, bowls of steaming mussel soup, and fried fish wrapped in news-sheets. When he slept was a mystery.

  I asked Mimmo who had passed through the lobby that morning.

  Scratching his head, he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. At the same time, his right hand turned palm up and inched forward.

  "I'm flushed out, Mimmo. Don't have so much as a soldo. I was hoping you'd tell me for Tartini's sake. The old man was always good to you, wasn't he?"

  "So he was.” Mimmo grunted and wiped greasy hands on his breeches. “Not like some others who think they're still masters of the palazzo."

  "Well?"

  Mimmo named the men who still had jobs to go to. Then the women who were domestic enough to go to the market for food to prepare for the midday meal.

  "And who came in from outside?"

  "The water boy made his rounds. The apple woman. The man who sells the lottery tickets. Just the usual folk."

  It was as Bianchi had said. No strangers.

  "Do you know of anyone who bore a grudge against Signor Tartini?"

  Mimmo grinned, revealing brown stumps in shiny gums. “The old man didn't slip, did he?"

  When he saw I didn't intend to answer, he continued, “You need to talk to Claudio Pisani. Know him?"

  I nodded. The Pisani name had been inscribed in the Golden Book centuries ago and distant cousins had given epic service in Venice's quest to dominate Mediterranean shipping. But family trees always sprout a few brittle branches. Like both myself and Signor Tartini, Claudio Pisani wa
s merely an impoverished aristocrat who lived from hand to mouth on a tiny government allowance supplemented by whatever funds he could scare up on his own. I knew him for an arrogant, bitter man.

  "Pisani had a problem with Tartini?"

  "They had a fight on the water landing. I saw the whole thing.” He nodded through the open door toward the narrow pavement where gondolas drew up.

  "What happened?"

  "Pisani took one of the old man's little sayings as an insult. His face got red as a beet, and he laid his walking stick about Tartini's head and shoulders. Poor Tartini was driven down on one knee. Only his hat and wig kept him from getting a busted crown."

  "Did you go to help him?"

  Mimmo shifted his bulk in the chair. “Weren't no need. The boatmen jumped in and pulled Pisani off. Tartini must've been all right. He stepped in a gondola and away he went."

  "Pisani too?"

  "He went the other way, but only after he shook his stick at the stern of Tartini's boat, yelling threats."

  "What did Pisani threaten exactly?"

  Mimmo sat up a little straighter. He raised his eyebrows and lengthened his jaw. In an amazing rendition of Pisani's patrician drawl, he declaimed, “I'll send you to Hades if you ever dare address me in that manner again."

  "When was this?"

  "A week ago, near as like."

  "Is Pisani in his room?"

  Mimmo shook his head and sank back down in his pillows. “He went out a few minutes after the sbirri left."

  I nodded thoughtfully. A visit to the Broglio was in order. I stepped toward the sun-drenched entrance and then turned. “One more thing, Mimmo. Did you happen to hear what set Pisani off in the first place?"

  "Partly. Tartini said something about weak fruit dropping early to the ground."

  * * * *

  In theory, the Most Serene Republic of Venice was governed by the Senate, which met in the Ducal Palace every Thursday and Saturday. Presided over by the doge, this body admitted only patrician men of good families who had attained the age of forty and been voted in by their peers.

  In practice, everybody knew that decisions of state were made more informally, on the Broglio outside the palace. Influential senators in their black robes of office strolled along that celebrated arcade, linking arms and deciding the fate of our city in mellow whispers. Once plots were well hatched, they called to their lackeys waiting at the base of Saint Mark's column and delivered their orders.

  That's where I would find Pisani. As a minor senator kept in office by his betters, he lined his pockets by selling his vote.

  I ignored the boats at the Ca’ Renaldo's mooring posts. I might be able to beg my dinner with a smile and a promise, but gondoliers demanded hard silver. I rounded the building, crossed a courtyard hung with flapping linen, and darted down an alley that led toward the Rialto Bridge. The sight of a bookseller's awning made me pause. If Tartini had been selling off his books, this would've been the most convenient spot.

  I squeezed between a pair of stalls piled with used volumes and entered a dark shop that smelled of ink and glue overlaid with dust. A dried-up fellow in a coat the color of cheap snuff manned the counter.

  "Do you know a book collector named Tartini?” I asked.

  "Arcangelo the Pest?” The bookseller grinned. “That's my name for him. He's not so bad really. Not many gentlemen scholars like him around these days. We sometimes take a dish of coffee together."

  With a sinking feeling in my belly, I realized I'd have to tell the man about Tartini's death. I didn't mince words.

  The bookseller's eyes searched mine as he made a slow sign of the cross. “How can I help you?"

  "I need to know if Tartini sold any books recently."

  "Arcangelo sell his precious books? Not likely."

  "But ... I thought perhaps he needed money. His letter writing couldn't have made enough to keep a cat alive."

  The man shook his head. “When he didn't have money, he would come in to read, not to sell. He devoured books with his eyes, like a hungry man falls on a plate of macaroni."

  "Did he get in your way?"

  "Sometimes, but I generally let him stay as long as he liked. Arcangelo was far from my best customer, but when his purse was jingling, he'd always buy a few favorites."

  I rubbed my chin, trying to imagine my moth-eaten neighbor with a bulging purse. “How often would that be?"

  "He bought in fits and starts. Mostly a book or two a month but once in a while, an armload."

  "When was the last time that happened?"

  The bookseller swept his gaze over the towering shelves. He sighed. “Must have been during Carnevale. There were several other customers in the shop that day—Englishmen in masks looking for books their London censors would never allow."

  "Carnevale runs from October through February,” I observed dryly.

  "It was October, I think. Perhaps November."

  "Did the old man ever mention how he came by these funds?"

  "Only in his way. I once remarked that his copying business must be going well. With a wink and a nod, he recited, ‘At every word a reputation dies.’”

  I contemplated those words as I crossed the bridge and dodged the shoppers on the bustling Mercerie. By the time I'd reached the Piazza, I was wondering if my neighbor was really the harmless old man that he appeared.

  When I'd allowed Tartini to copy out my lovesick musings, I suppose I thought he would forget my words as soon as the ink was dry. But what if he hadn't? If he could recite snatches of poetry from so many books in his collection, he possessed a formidable memory. What if he remembered all the words he copied and repeated them for his own gain? I could hardly blame the old man for surviving: Even as I crossed the warm paving stones, I was battling the cold ball of fear that settled behind my breastbone whenever my purse was empty. Perhaps Tartini had crossed someone with less sympathy for an old man's plight.

  Once I'd reached the Ducal Palace, I spotted Claudio Pisani having his boots shined at the base of the column that bears the winged lion of Saint Mark. He was a thin man with narrow shoulders, a long neck, and a prominent Adam's apple that he tried to hide with a ruffled cravat. His muddy brown eyes narrowed as I propped a foot on the step.

  "I need to talk to you,” I said.

  Pisani tossed the bootblack a coin and pushed to his feet with the aid of his silver-headed walking stick. He stretched its shaft toward the sparkling water of the lagoon. “We'll walk on the jetty,” he replied with a smirk. “Finally getting smart, Ziani?"

  "Eh?"

  "You have an ancient name. No one has forgotten that a Ziani once occupied the Ducal Palace.” He waved his stick toward the structure of pink marble on our left. “If you'd let me introduce you to the right people, you could be holding down a senate seat by next year."

  "That wouldn't leave much time for my work."

  "Retrieving Marchesa Tebaldi's lost lapdog?” He gave a snide laugh. “Yes, I heard about that one. Or discovering which apprentice has his hand in the master's till? Hardly work for a gentleman."

  "But work that suits me,” I murmured.

  "Then what do you want with me?"

  I shaded my eyes with my hand as if I were staring at the islands rising from the jade water of the lagoon; I was really keeping a sidelong watch on Pisani. “I came to ask you about the murder of Signor Tartini."

  "What? That sheep-faced old rattlebrain finally got his comeuppance?"

  "He's dead, if that's what you mean. I thought everyone at the Ca’ Renaldo had heard the news by now."

  "Not me. I arose late this morning and had to hurry to attend Senator Erizzo.” Pisani glanced back toward the Broglio, fiddling with the lace at his collar. “What on earth could Tartini's murder have to do with me?"

  "I'm told you quarreled recently."

  "By Mimmo, I presume? That jabbering lard-ass doesn't have the sense God gave him."

  "Do you deny arguing with Tartini?"

  Pisani tapp
ed his stick on the paving stones. “No. I'll admit I let Tartini get my goat. The man couched his impudence in learned discourse, but he was still insulting. Men of our class shouldn't tolerate insults."

  "Or betrayal."

  He cocked his head and sent me a puzzled look. “No, not that either."

  "Yet it would hardly be honorable to challenge a feeble, elderly man to a duel."

  "Of course not."

  "So perhaps you restored your honor in a different fashion."

  "A covert dagger in the ribs? Surely that sort of intrigue went out with the last century."

  "Tartini wasn't stabbed. Someone delivered a blow to the back of his head while he bent over his writing table. Would you mind if I took a look at your stick?"

  Pisani's jaw dropped until he resembled a dumfounded puppet in a Punch and Judy show. But he handed me the stick. I curled my fingers around the smooth ebony and tested its heft by beating its silver knob against my palm. Then I inspected it more closely, paying particular attention to the junction where the wood met the silver.

  "An excellent weapon,” I said. “No trace of blood, but the material would be easy to wipe clean."

  A flush rose to Pisani's sharp cheekbones. “You turd-sucking son of a whore. I'll have your head for that vile accusation."

  "Are you challenging me to a duel? We could meet on the Lido at dawn. I possess a fine pair of pistols."

  The color drained from his face as quickly as it had come. He shook his head without making a sound.

  "No?” I asked. “Thought not. You're better at hurling names than bullets. Did you call Tartini ‘a sheep-faced old rattlebrain’ before you beat him over the head?"

  "I didn't kill him, Ziani. I've never even been in his room. What makes you think he would let me in? He liked me no better than I liked him."

  "I think he would admit anyone who hired him to copy letters, especially letters that pertained to affairs of state."

  Pisani snatched his stick back. “I'm quite capable of writing my own letters, and if you think Senator Erizzo would direct me to do otherwise, you're a ... um ... thoroughly mistaken."