The Bellini Card

61

Sergeant Vosper was a slow and methodical man, for whom orders were orders. Other than questioning the procedural validity of taking over another man’s case, he did not doubt his chief. Finkel had analyzed the murderer’s motives. Vosper’s job was to furnish the supporting evidence.

The contessa, of course, would be able to name the guilty lover easily, but Vosper was not a policeman for nothing. He was sly enough to know that she would refuse to give away the name-even if she suspected him. She was probably flattered by the passions she had aroused. Questioning her was, therefore, a waste of time.

The truth was, Vosper was slightly scared by the prospect of interviewing the Contessa d’Aspi d’Istria, with her titles and protocols, and the opportunities for making a fool of himself. But Vosper’s own aunt had been in service, many years ago, and he knew how to talk to servants. He knew, too, that servants kept their eyes open; they were a mine of information.

“So, Andrea?” he said pleasantly to the contessa’s footman, as he slipped into a chair in the little cafe on the Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini.

“It’s Antonio. Who are you?”

“Police. Don’t worry, I’m not here to put a finger on you. I just want to have a little chat.”

“It’s Barbieri, is it? I know nothing about it.”

“I see. And what makes you so sure it is about Barbieri?”

Antonio looked at the policeman and frowned. “What else would it be?”

Vosper considered the question. He couldn’t think of an answer, so he said, “The contessa, your mistress. She’s an attractive woman.”

Antonio didn’t respond.

“Unmarried, curiously.” For Vosper, an unmarried woman was a rare and rather unappealing idea. “But she has men in her life, I’m thinking. Admirers.”

Antonio looked blank. “It’s not for me to say.”

“You can confide in me, Antonio, because I am a policeman.” Vosper took out a toothpick and put it into his mouth; he saw no point in beating about the bush. “I wonder, has anyone new come calling on her recently? A new friend, perhaps?”

Antonio smiled to himself. He didn’t have much time for the friends, or their policemen. “You mean, the American?”

“The American,” Vosper returned, noncommittally. “Tell me about him.”

Antonio obliged. There was very little to tell, but he was reasonably sure that a fellow as stupid as Vosper could waste a lot of time pondering Signor Brett’s involvement in the case. He hoped Signor Brett would not be much inconvenienced: he had seemed like a decent man.

“He took the neighboring apartment? Interesting.” How better to manage an affair?

He found the details of Brett’s last-albeit first-public visit to the palazzo interesting, too.

“He felt sick, you say?” Sick with jealousy, no doubt. Brett had seen his rival in the room. He left early and then, having carefully brought Antonio to the door of his apartment to establish an alibi, he waited until the coast was clear and doubled back.

An open-and-shut case, just like the chief said.

“Thank you, Andrea, you’ve been most helpful.”

“My pleasure,” Antonio said.

Only one thing troubled Vosper as he made his way back to the Procuratie.

He was not, he would have admitted, the brightest candle in the chandelier. So why hadn’t Brunelli pounced already?