Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [90]
The deposits, the first for four thousand euros, the second for three, had been made by cheques written by Nicola Turchetti, a name which resounded in Brunetti’s memory. Vianello had gone back to the squad room, so Brunetti was left to search for the name on his own. After some time, having found no resonant chord, he pulled the phone book from his bottom drawer and opened it to the Ts.
For some reason, seeing the name in print was enough to nudge Brunetti’s memory. Turchetti, the art dealer, was a man with a Janus-like reputation: his expertise was never questioned; the probity of his dealings sometimes was. To the best of Brunetti’s knowledge, no charges had ever been brought against the man. His name, however, was often mentioned when sharp business practices were discussed: positively by those who found rarities in his shop; negatively by those who speculated about the sources of some of his acquisitions. Brunetti’s father-in-law, ignoring both opinions, remained a client of Turchetti’s and had, over the years, acquired from him many paintings and drawings.
Drawings. Brunetti’s thoughts flew to the legendary Reynard auction and the drawings that had not appeared on the block, thus disappointing so many collectors of the chance to add to their collections. Had no one done an inventory? Or, as was most likely, had the inventory been overseen by Avvocato Cuccetti? The Reynard palazzo was now a hotel, Brunetti knew, and the objects that had once filled it had long since been consigned to the hands of eager buyers. Avvocato Cuccetti was wherever Madame Reynard had preceded him, neither of them having been able to take anything with them.
Because the phone book was open in front of him, Brunetti dialled the number. His call was answered by a female secretary with the sloppy sort of Roman accent that irritated Brunetti. Brunetti gave his name, not his rank, and when the woman explained that Signor Turchetti was busy, he added his father-in-law’s name, and his title, whereupon the waters parted and the call was transferred immediately to Dottor Turchetti.
‘Ah, Dottor Brunetti,’ a deep voice intoned, ‘Conte Orazio has spoken of you often.’
‘And of you, Dottore,’ Brunetti answered with oleaginous civility.
‘In what way may I be of service to you?’ Turchetti asked after a moment’s hesitation.
‘I wonder if you’d have time to speak to me about one of your clients.’
‘Of course,’ he said easily. ‘Which one?’
‘I’ll come over and tell you, shall I?’ Brunetti asked and, without waiting for an answer, replaced the phone and left his office.
Brunetti took the Number One and got off at Accademia, turned left and started back in the direction of the Guggenheim. Before the first bridge, he found the gallery, paused to study the paintings in the window, and then entered. The space was large and low-ceilinged, though the effect was counteracted by the lighting, which angled up from the walls and thus effectively disguised the lowness. More light reflected from the canal in front, augmenting the sense of space.
A man Brunetti recognized from having seen him on the street more than a few times rose to greet him from a catalogue-covered desk at the back of the gallery. There was no trace of the woman who had answered the phone.
‘Ah, Dottor Brunetti,’ Turchetti said as he approached, hand extended. He was a man best described as ‘robusto’, not particularly tall and thus seeming thicker because of that. Had he been a taller man, the brisk energy of his movements would have been imposing; because he was not, there remained something faintly pugnacious about him, as though all that energy stuffed into such a low space would be forced to find some other means of escape. He had dark eyes set in a very broad face and a nose that veered to the left, as if to give further suggestion of something that might turn into belligerence.
His smile was pleasant and inviting, evident in both his eyes and mouth, but Brunetti could not help seeing it as a salesman’s smile. His grip