‘Signor Vittori was just telling me about his work,’ Brunetti said.
‘You’re an architect, aren’t you, Signore?’ Griffoni asked.
‘Well,’ Vittori said modestly, ‘I took a degree in architecture, but I have to confess I prefer working on interiors, using the various elements of space and light to create a setting in which people will feel comfortable and at home while still being aware of the beauty around them.’
‘You Venetians have the advantage of living with beauty around you everywhere,’ she said with an admiring smile.
Vittori returned her smile. What sort of fool was he, Brunetti asked himself. He’s in front of two commissari di polizia and he thinks he’s Casanova: if he charms Claudia, she’ll help him against me. Well, let him give that a try.
‘Yes, that’s certainly true,’ Brunetti interrupted abruptly. ‘But I asked you to come here, Signor Vittori, to talk about the meeting on the street with Manuela Lando-Continui, to which both the Commissario and I were parties.’
‘Oh, was that you?’ Vittori asked Griffoni. ‘I was distracted by the screaming of that woman,’ he said and quickly added, ‘Or I certainly would have noticed you.’
Griffoni gave him another smile but turned her attention, with visible reluctance, to Brunetti. ‘For the sake of correctness, should we be recording this, Commissario?’ she asked, careful to use his title, while he had called her by her first name, to show that the men were in charge in this room, and let there be no doubt of it.
With a smile in Vittori’s direction, Brunetti said, ‘Only if Signor Vittori has no objections.’
In the ensuing silence, Vittori looked from Brunetti’s face to Griffoni’s encouraging smile. ‘No, of course not,’ he said, and Brunetti pressed the button on the front of his desk that activated the tape recorder, gave the date, time, and location, adding, ‘Conversation among Alessandro Vittori, Commissario Guido Brunetti, and Commissario Claudia Griffoni.’
He moved the pile of papers in front of him to the side, pulled his chair closer to the desk, and gave his attention to Vittori.
‘Signor Vittori,’ he began, ‘yesterday afternoon, in Calle del Tintor, Commissario Griffoni and I were witnesses to a heated meeting between you and Signorina Manuela Lando-Continui. Could you tell us what happened?’
‘Why do you think it was a meeting, Commissario?’ Vittori asked with easy curiosity. ‘I was walking with a friend, when this woman began – and I think you will have to bear witness that I was at some distance from her when she started – screaming, either at me or at my friend: it was impossible to say.’ Vittori sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘After all, we were walking side by side.’
‘She appeared to be pointing at you,’ Brunetti said. ‘And she kept looking at you.’
‘You sound very certain of that,’ Vittori said condescendingly. ‘It was raining heavily, both my friend and I were wearing raincoats but were soaked to the skin, so I rather doubt that even our mothers would have been sure which of us was which.’
Griffoni smiled, then pretended that she had not. She looked at Brunetti, who said, ‘From where I was standing, she was pointing at you, Signor Vittori. And you say you know her.’
Vittori held up a monitory hand. ‘Don’t be putting words in my mouth, Commissario. I said I recognized her, not that I knew her. I’ve seen her on the street a few times, but I’ve never met her.’ He looked to Griffoni, as if asking her to confirm the truth of what he’d just said.
She nodded, held up a hand, palm toward Brunetti in a repetition of Vittori’s gesture, then suddenly pulled it back and put it over her mouth. She coughed lightly, then more strongly, and then bent over and started to cough violently, gasping for air. Vittori turned to her and placed a hand on her arm, but she continued to cough, her entire body shaking now. She removed her hand in an effort to breathe, then slapped it back over her mouth but failed to stop coughing.
Vittori, at a loss, did the gentlemanly thing and handed her the handkerchief from his breast pocket. She pressed it to her mouth and continued to cough but managed to give him a few nods and hold up one hand to show him she was all right. Slowly, she stopped and sat in the chair, breathing heavily.
‘Are you all right, Signora?’ Vittori asked, leaning towards her.
She nodded. ‘Thank you. Yes,’ she said in a small, rough voice. Brunetti saw that her face was still red, and her voice had grown hoarse.
At a loss for what to do, Brunetti could only wait until it seemed she was breathing normally, when he asked, ‘Would you like some water?’