Murder in Venice

by Maria Luisa Minarelli

But even that small comfort disappeared when they got to the cell. In the light of a flickering candle end he saw a straw mattress and a rough crate and, lying on a blanket in the corner and snoring loudly, a filthy old man dressed in rags. The smell that emanated from him nearly choked Labia.

  ‘Must I stay here?’ he mumbled. ‘And who is he?’

  ‘We don’t have single rooms in the Piombi,’ said Marco. ‘But I don’t doubt that tomorrow someone will think it worth their while to offer you something more comfortable.’

  When he awoke the next morning, Marco was greeted by a smiling Rosetta.

  ‘Good morning, paròn,’ she said, pouring him his coffee. ‘Do you know, Signorina Chiara’s medicine has worked wonders? Maso brought me some yesterday and my backache has vanished. That woman really is clever!’

  The woman did seem to be moving around with greater ease, despite the heavy mist that hung over the garden. So that’s how Chiara has won over Rosetta, thought Marco with satisfaction as he got ready for his day.

  Having disembarked in the Piazzetta after giving instructions to Nani, Marco headed to the office. There was one thing he needed to do straight away. He asked Tiralli to summon the head of police, and when he arrived, Marco informed him of the latest developments.

  ‘So one of the two cases is solved,’ commented Messer Grando. ‘We still need to know who killed the three young men . . .’

  ‘I’ve not troubled you to come here to discuss the investigations.’ Pisani seemed annoyed by the policeman’s comments. ‘I am very busy today and I need to ask you to do me two favours. First of all, I am relying on you to inform the inquisitors about Labia’s arrest.’ Pisani preferred to see the supreme magistrates after the meeting he was about to attend. ‘Then, I would like you to recover the body of that poor girl, Marianna Biondini, which seems to have been buried in a sepulchre in the old Jewish cemetery on the Lido.’ Marco gave the policeman the precise location of the tomb.

  ‘Don’t worry, Your Excellency. I will send a boat with four of my guards and I’ll have them accompanied by two Capuchin monks. What should we do with the body?’

  Pisani had already thought about this. ‘Close it in a coffin. But make sure it’s not one of those used for paupers. I’d like a solid, carved coffin; she deserves it, poor girl. Take the coffin to the cathedral of San Pietro in Castello and lay it in a side chapel. Don’t tell anyone who it is. I want to inform the family myself.’

  It was only once Messer Grando had left to carry out his orders that Marco felt the need to see how Labia was getting on, so he climbed up to the attic prisons.

  ‘Your Excellency,’ complained the young man as soon as Pietruccio opened the cell door with one of his enormous keys. ‘I can’t stay in here! That old man snored all night and he stinks like a sewer. This is not what I’m accustomed to.’

  He was lying in a comfortable bed, surrounded by braziers and well provisioned with silver jugs and porcelain cups. The old man had also been fed and was looking at Labia with gratitude. The family had clearly intervened, thanks to their substantial financial resources, but, judging from what Pietruccio had said, none of them had turned up in person.

  ‘Be patient and you’ll grow used to it,’ Marco reassured him, looking around with an ironic smile. In spite of the various luxury items that had now been provided, the cell still looked squalid.

  ‘There was a rat here too!’ Paolo continued. ‘I heard it gnawing something in the corner, and I saw its red eyes in the dark.’

  ‘You could try to train it; apparently they’re highly intelligent animals,’ said the avogadore as he walked off, laughing. To Labia’s ears, it was a sinister sound.

  The office of the secretary to the inquisitors, which Marco had to walk through on his way out of the palace, was more crowded than usual. At his appearance, all the black-gowned gentlemen drew aside, like a stage curtain, respectfully making way so Marco could approach their leader: Carlo Dandolo, the most renowned criminal lawyer in Venice, who had brought this crowd of employees with him from his office.

  ‘Your Excellency, what an honour!’

  The lawyer bowed deeply to Marco. He was rather stout and wore a velvet cloak and an elegant wig. While his mouth smiled, his searching dark eyes scrutinised Marco.

  ‘I am here to defend young Labia,’ he went on. Marco had realised this when he’d first seen him. ‘I am sure there must be a misunderstanding. A young man from such a noble family cannot possibly have carried out the crime of which he stands accused.’ The man stared at Marco somewhat furtively. ‘I hope that the misunderstanding can be clarified before you prepare the case. My office is obviously at your complete disposal for any type of investigation—’

  ‘My dear Dandolo,’ interrupted Pisani. ‘I am the first person to wish that the crime had not been committed. But rest assured, you know better than I that our Republic has recourse to the death penalty only in increasingly rare circumstances, and it does not use torture. If your client can demonstrate that he was not directly complicit in the crime, he may perhaps be exiled intact, and he’ll have a chance to reflect on his errors far from Venice.’

  With a nod, Marco turned and left the ducal palace, walking out into the cold, fresh air. It was midday but the fog still lay heavily over Saint Mark’s Square. On the left, the outline of the bell tower looked like the mast of a drifting ship, and the shadowy outlines of the Procuratie were barely visible. From behind the misted windows of the caffès under the porticoes, Marco could just make out the glimmer of lights.

  He opened the door into the Caffè del Arabo and was met by a wall of heat. There was a vacant table in the corner and he ordered a snack. He needed a break in order to focus on the interview that awaited him, especially because he did not know what the outcome would be.

  The murder of Marianna Biondini had been solved, but Labia’s arrest and confession had not helped to identify the man who had strangled the three men.

  What was known about the shadowy figure who attacked by night and vanished without trace? Marco went over the known facts: he was tall, strong, perhaps he was lame, and he must have a wound somewhere on his body. He had either been in the Orient, or had known people there, but he must have been in Venice for a month or more in order to have had time to organise the crimes.

  He was an intelligent man, thought the magistrate, savouring a plate of sardines in a rich sauce. And he didn’t lack means. An idea was floating on the edge of Marco’s mind, but he couldn’t bring it into focus. He had the strange sensation of staring at the truth and not being able to see it.

  The man must also have had relations with the Corner household, Marco thought. The sash that had been found in the garden of the locanda on the Giudecca was proof enough of that. But a sash might also have been stolen and left there on purpose.

  A gondolier’s sash. Who were the Corner family’s gondoliers? Old Matteo had spoken of several. There had been Biagio, then that man called Beppino, who’d been with Corner on the night of the crime. Then came Marietto, who had worked for Dario for about a month. Could it have been him? Matteo had described him as weak and easily tired, but that might have been just a façade. If nothing else came up, Marco thought, he’d have to be questioned. Then last of all there was Gigio, who used to accompany the ladies of the house but who left to set up a company of travelling actors.

  Marco took a generous sip of wine. Again he had the strange sensation that the truth was here in plain sight. Who else? Yes, there was that gondolier who’d been with Dario Corner for a couple of weeks, before Marietto. He’d left because he’d found another job. What was his name? Matteo hadn’t said. He’d have to ask him again.

  Was Dario Corner guilty? He certainly had the means, the stature and a motive, and what was more, he was in love with his sister-in-law. But the more Marco thought about him, the less sure he felt. He continued to have the feeling that he’d missed something.

  Was it Giorgione? From what he’d been told, Giorgione was also tall and stro
ng. He’d been in Constantinople, he knew the names of the men who’d killed Marianna, and he’d been back in the city for a few months . . . But Giorgione worked in the bakery all night.

  The time had come to question him. If Nani had done his job well, Giorgione would be waiting in Daniele’s office right now.

  Nani was waiting for his master in front of the church in Campo San Moisè, trying to keep warm by hopping around on his long legs.

  ‘Go on in, paròn,’ he greeted Pisani. ‘I’ve done as you told me and brought him here.’

  The gondolier had gone to the Ghetto late that morning and had kept watch on Giorgione’s window on the eighth floor, above the bakery. Two guards were hidden behind the corner, ready to intervene should the young man have made a break for it.

  When Nani saw the shutters being opened, he went upstairs. ‘Eight floors, paròn, what a climb!’ He’d introduced himself with his usual show of honesty and had told Giorgione that he’d been sent by the Guild of Bakers. If Giorgione wanted the time he’d spent working in Constantinople to count towards his apprenticeship and to gain his mastership, then he should come immediately to the office of Avvocato Zen to sign the papers.

  ‘He fell for it, paròn, as I was certain he would!’

  ‘Of course he would, Nani. No one can match you when it comes to telling lies.’

  ‘He dressed himself nicely, and even combed his hair to make himself look respectable, and then he followed me like a lamb. He’s here now, waiting inside.’

  ‘And the guards?’

  ‘Oh, I told them they could go and then watched as they headed straight for the nearest tavern.’

  Sitting quietly in Daniele’s office, Giorgione had just finished drinking his coffee. He was handsome and no mistake, thought Marco. Tall and muscular, he had grey eyes and a full head of chestnut, almost red hair. A passionate sort, most probably.

  ‘Avogadore Pisani,’ Marco said, introducing himself. The young man jumped. ‘I am here to talk about your fiancée’s disappearance.’

  ‘Marianna?’ cried Giorgio, leaping to his feet in astonishment. ‘So I’m not here to sign the guild papers? I should have realised. But why is the law getting involved after so long?’ Then he fell silent and sat down again, his head in his hands. When he lifted it, his eyes were red.

  He spoke in a low voice. ‘I’ve always known how she died, and I also know who killed her. If you’ve asked me to come here, it must mean that you’ve reopened the case. I can tell you who her murderers are and I hope you can punish them accordingly.’

  Pisani and Zen looked at each other. Either Sporti was the murderer and he was also an excellent actor, or he was the only person in Venice who’d not heard about the recent killings.

  ‘Tell us what you know,’ Pisani encouraged him.

  ‘When Marianna disappeared, I couldn’t stop looking for her and my family decided that I should leave before I got into trouble. She . . .’ A tear ran down his face. ‘She was my whole life. I found work on a ship sailing for the East. But before leaving, I made my sister, who was the last to have seen her alive, tell me everything. I know her well and I knew she was hiding something important.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then she told me. Marianna was forcibly abducted by four young men. I’ll never forget their names. They are Piero Corner, Paolo Labia, Biagio Domenici and Marino Barbaro, may God curse them in eternity. They carried her away wrapped in her cloak and she was never seen again. It’s up to you,’ he added, looking at Pisani again, ‘to find the evidence and punish them as they deserve.’

  Marco shot a glance at Daniele, who was on the verge of interrupting. ‘What did you do in the East?’

  ‘I don’t know how that helps your inquiries, but I’ll tell you, if you think it’s important.’

  Marco noted that Sporti was not as naïve as he seemed. The young man told them how he remembered very little of the first few weeks onboard. He carried out orders, ate and slept, but he was in a daze. He disembarked at Constantinople and on the very first evening, being ravenously hungry, he sought employment as a dockworker. There was no shortage of work there and he stayed for a few months.

  Slowly he came to realise where he was and what he was doing. The memory of Marianna was still very painful, but the anger had started to fade. Then one day he had looked at his filthy, torn clothes and decided to clean himself up and see what other work he could find. In the Venetian quarter he had found a shop that needed a baker and had spent the remaining months there, until homesickness had brought him home. But being back in his old neighbourhood had stirred up such painful memories that he had had to leave the area, at least for a while, until he could really accept that Marianna was no longer there.

  ‘Your Excellency,’ he ended, turning to Pisani, ‘I’ve told you everything; will you tell me what’s happened and why you’ve asked me here?’

  ‘Do you not know that three of Marianna’s killers are dead?’

  Giorgio’s astonishment was genuine. ‘Have they been executed? I didn’t know.’

  ‘How long is it since you’ve seen your parents?’

  ‘Why do you need to know? It must be over a month. How did they die?’

  ‘It appears there’s a murderer on the loose who strangled them at night with a rope,’ interrupted Daniele. ‘Only Paolo Labia has survived.’

  ‘A murderer? You think it’s me?’

  ‘No,’ Pisani reassured him. ‘We know that you work at night. But did you really not know anything about the murders? All Venice is talking about them.’

  ‘But I work in the Ghetto,’ said the youngster, ‘where they have their own worries. What’s more, I sleep in the day and never see anyone.’

  As Giorgio spoke, Marco mentally checked what he’d said against the other information he’d amassed. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, a flash of intuition hit him and the different pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

  The truth had always been staring him in the face, but it was not the outcome he wished for, and perhaps that was why he’d been unable to see it.

  ‘One more thing, Giorgio,’ he asked, watching him carefully. ‘While you were in Constantinople, you didn’t meet anyone, did you? You didn’t tell your story to anyone?’

  ‘Yes, once . . .’ replied Giorgio without thinking. Then he hesitated. He fell silent for a while as if collecting his thoughts.

  In the room there was complete silence.

  ‘I . . .’ he continued, sitting bolt upright and looking around as if seeking inspiration. Finally, his words came tumbling out: ‘Once at the bakery, to one of my colleagues, another assistant working there, like myself . . . I said . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told him I’d come from Venice.’ By now he’d regained his composure but he was as red as a lobster. ‘And I said I’d left because my fiancée had died.’

  Pisani knew he was lying.

  CHAPTER 28

  Frowning, Pisani rushed out of the office without a word as Daniele Zen and Giorgio Sporti watched in astonishment.

  Lost in thought, Marco reached the gondola at the quay by San Moisè and ordered Nani to take him to the Arsenale. Night was falling and the young man had to concentrate on his course in order to avoid the other vessels. The fog was so thick that it shrouded the boat lanterns, forcing the gondoliers to signal their direction using a series of guttural cries.

  Alvise Cappello was still in his office and was astonished when Marco, enveloped in a damp cloak and clearly agitated, asked to see some documents. When a clerk brought them into the office, he watched as Marco leafed through them with shaking hands.

  ‘What is it, Marco?’ asked Alvise. ‘At least let me offer you a glass of Aleatico.’ He didn’t press him further because he knew him well enough to know that if he was in such a state, then there must be a good reason.

  Pisani drained the glass in one as he turned over the pages and compared a couple of dates, then he snapped the register shut and left, barely
remembering to salute his friend. He almost ran back to the gondola.

  ‘And now,’ he said to Nani, ‘take me to Rio Sant’Anna.’

  Nani rowed in silence. From Saint Mark’s Basin he found it difficult to turn into Rio Sant’Anna, which seemed to have been swallowed by the fog.

  He rowed down the canal for a short distance, then Marco indicated where to moor the gondola. ‘Wait for me in the warmth,’ he advised Nani, pointing to the flickering lights of a tavern. Then he vanished into the dark calle.

  The door was open. Marco climbed the stairs, helped by the light of a candle stub placed at the top. No one looked down as he approached.

  On the first floor, he saw a pair of flamboyant Turkish trousers and a turban lying on a bed. The room on the upper floor was lit only by the flames from the fireplace.

  ‘I was waiting for you, Your Excellency.’

  Menico Biondini, known as the Levantino, was alone. He was sitting at the table with a glass of wine, holding a rag doll dressed in bride-like white lace.

  He stood up stiffly and lit a lamp with a flint. He was not wearing gloves and the firelight revealed a long red scar on his left hand.

  ‘Sit down, Your Excellency.’ He motioned towards a chair. He stared at Pisani. ‘I knew you’d put two and two together.’

  Marco took off his cloak and sat down with a sigh. He drank the wine that the man had poured and looked back at him. In this light, Menico seemed less imposing than he had on that first evening. His white hair contrasted with his sun-scorched face. His eyes, red and swollen, had deep lines under them. Looking at him, Marco felt his heart ache.

  ‘You are here to arrest me,’ continued the man. Marco had not yet even opened his mouth. ‘What does it matter to me? Whatever happens now will happen. Until a few days ago, avenging my daughter’s death seemed like a duty. But now, I’m not so sure. I feel empty . . .’

  ‘Tell me how you heard about Marianna’s death.’

  ‘You see this?’ He held out the rag doll with a sad smile. ‘It was hers. Giorgio gave it to her as a marriage token.’ He pulled himself together. ‘You already know the first part of the story. I’d recently arrived in Syria on a cargo ship. It was summer when my sister wrote to tell me that Marianna was ill, then in the second letter . . . she said she’d not survived the illness. I thought I’d go out of my mind. That little girl was my reason for living. I wish you’d seen her. She looked like a lady, so blonde and refined. She was going to be married when I got home. I liked Giorgione, he was a hard worker and sharp. They’d have been happy together. They would have given me grandchildren. What else can a man wish for? And then’ – Menico wiped away his tears – ‘a damned illness carried her off.’