by Donna Leon
‘Va l à ,’ Brunetti said, smiling in spite of himself.
‘What is it?’ Danilo asked. ‘Or who is it?’
Brunetti made no move towards the door, thinking it might be better to have this conversation inside the closed pharmacy than in one of the three bars in the campo. ‘Angelina and Massimo Volpato,’ he said.
‘Madre di Dio,’ Danilo exclaimed. ‘You’d be better taking the money from me. Come on,’ he said, grabbing Brunetti’s arm and pulling him towards the back room of the pharmacy, ‘I’ll open the safe and then say the thief wore a ski mask, I promise.’ Brunetti thought it was a joke until Danilo continued, ‘You aren’t thinking of going to them, are you, Guido? Really, I’ve got money in the bank you can have, and I’m sure Mauro could let you have more,’ he said, including his boss in his offer.
‘No, no,’ Brunetti said, laying a quieting hand on Danilo’s arm. ‘I just need to know about them.’
‘Don’t tell me they’ve finally made a mistake, and someone’s filed a complaint against them?’ Danilo said with the beginnings of a smile. ‘Ah, what joy.’
‘You know them that well?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I’ve known them for years,’ he said, almost spitting out his disgust. ‘Especially her. She’s in here once a week, with her little pictures of her saints, and her rosary in her hands.’ He hunched over and brought his hands together under his chin. He tilted his head to one side and looked up at Brunetti, his mouth pulled together in a purse-lipped smile. Turning his usual Trentino dialect into purest Veneziano and pitching his voice into a high squeal, he said, ‘Oh, Dottor Danilo, you don’t know how much good I’ve done to the people in this city. You don’t know how many people are grateful to me for what I’ve done for them and how they should pray for me. No, you have no idea.’ Though Brunetti had never heard Signora Volpato speak, he heard in Danilo’s savage parody the echo of every hypocrite he’d ever known.
Suddenly Danilo stood upright, and the old woman he had become disappeared. ‘How does she do it?’ Brunetti asked.
‘People know her. And him. They’re always in the campo, one of them, in the morning, and people know where to find them.’
‘How do they know?’
‘How do people ever know anything?’ Danilo asked by way of response. ‘Word gets around. People who need enough to pay their taxes, or who gamble, or who can’t meet the expenses for their business until the end of the month. They sign a paper saying they’ll pay them back in a month, and the interest has always been added to the sum. But these are people who will have to borrow more money to pay that money back. Gamblers don’t win; people never get any better at running their businesses.’
‘What amazes me,’ Brunetti said after a moment’s reflection, ‘is that all of this is legal.’
‘If they’ve got the paper, drawn up by a notary and signed by both parties, nothing is more legal.’
‘Who are the notaries?’
Danilo named three of them, respectable men with wide practices in the city. One of them worked for Brunetti’s father-in-law.
‘All three?’ Brunetti asked, unable to hide his astonishment.
‘You think the Volpatos declare what they pay them? You think they pay taxes on what they earn from the Volpatos?’
Brunetti was not in the least surprised that notaries would sink to being part of something as squalid as this; his surprise was only at the names of the three men involved, one of them a member of the Knights of Malta and another a former city councillor.
‘Come on,’ Danilo encouraged him, ‘let’s have a drink, and you can tell me why you want to know all this.’ Seeing Brunetti’s expression, he amended this to, ‘Or don’t tell me.’
Across the calle at Rosa Salva, Brunetti told him no more than that he was interested in the moneylenders in the city and their twilight existence between the legal and the criminal. Many of Danilo’s clients were old women, and most of them were in love with him, so he was often the recipient of their endless streams of gossip. Amiable and patient, always willing to listen to them as they talked, he had over the years accumulated an Eldorado of gossip and innuendo and in the past had proven an invaluable source of information for Brunetti. Danilo named a few of the most famous moneylenders to Brunetti, describing them and cataloguing the wealth they had managed to accumulate.
Sensitive to both Brunetti’s mood and his sense of professional discretion, Danilo kept up his stream of gossip, aware that Brunetti would ask him no more questions. Then, with a quick glance at his watch, Danilo said, ‘I’ve got to go. Dinner’s at eight.’
Together they left the bar and walked as far as Rialto, chatting idly about ordinary things. At the bridge they separated, both hurrying home for dinner.
The scattered pieces of information had been rattling about in Brunetti’s mind for days now, and he’d been prodding them and toying with them, trying to work them into some sort of coherent pattern. People at the Ufficio Catasto, he realized, would know who was going to have to do restorations or would have to pay fines for work done illegally in the past. They’d know how much the fines were. They might even have had some say in deciding how much the fines should be. Then all they’d have to do would be find out what sort of financial shape the owners were in - there was never any trouble in finding that out. Surely, he reflected, Signorina Elettra was not the only genius in the city. Then to anyone who complained that they didn’t have enough money to pay the fine, all they had to do was suggest they go and have a talk with the Volpatos.
It was high time to visit the Ufficio.
* * * *
When he arrived at the Questura the next morning, a bit after eight thirty, the guard at the door told him a young woman had come in earlier, asking to speak to him. No, she hadn’t explained what it was she wanted and, when the guard told her Commissario Brunetti had not arrived yet, had said she’d go and have a coffee and come back. Brunetti told the young man to bring her up when she did.
In his office, he read the first section of the Gazzettino and was thinking about going out to get a coffee when the guard appeared at his door and said that the young woman had returned. He stepped aside and a woman who seemed little more than a girl slipped into the room. Brunetti thanked the guard and told him he could return to duty. The officer saluted and closed the door as he left. Brunetti gestured to the young woman, who still stood by the door as if fearful of the consequences of coming any farther into the room.
‘Please, Signorina, make yourself comfortable.’
Leaving it to her to decide what to do, he walked slowly around his desk and took his normal place.
Slowly she crossed the room and sat on the edge of the chair, her hands in her lap. Brunetti gave her a quick glance then bent to move a paper from one side of his desk to the other to give her some time to relax into a more comfortable position.
When he looked back at her, he smiled in what he thought might be a welcoming way. She had dark brown hair cut as short as a boy’s and wore jeans and a light blue sweater. Her eyes, he noticed, were as dark as her hair, surrounded by lashes so thick that at first he thought they were false until he noticed that she wore no makeup at all and dismissed the idea. She was a pretty girl in the way most young girls are pretty: delicate bones, short straight nose, smooth skin, and a small mouth. Had he seen her in a bar having a coffee, he wouldn’t have looked twice at her, but seeing her here, the thought came to him of how lucky he was to live in a country where pretty girls were so thick upon the ground and far more beautiful ones a normal enough event.
She cleared her throat once, twice, and then said, ‘I’m Marco’s friend.’ Her voice was extraordinarily beautiful, low and musical and rich with sensuality, the sound one would expect from a woman who had lived a long life filled with pleasure.
Brunetti waited for her to explain, but when she said nothing further, Brunetti asked, ‘And why have you come to speak to me, Signorina?’
‘Because I want to help you find the peo
ple who killed him.’
Brunetti kept his face expressionless while he processed the information that this must be the girl who had called Marco from Venice. ‘Are you the other rabbit, then?’ he asked kindly.
His question startled her. She pulled her closed hands up towards her chest and automatically pursed her lips into a narrow circle, making herself look, indeed, very like a rabbit.
‘How do you know about that?’ she asked.
‘I saw his drawings,’ Brunetti explained, then added, ‘and I was struck both by his talent and by the obvious affection he had for the rabbits.’
She bowed her head and at first he thought she had begun to cry. But she did not; instead, she raised her head again and looked at him. ‘I had a pet rabbit when I was a little girl. When I told Marco about that, he told me how much he hated the way his father used to shoot and poison them on their farm.’ She stopped here, then added, ‘They’re pests when they’re outside. That’s what his father said.’
Brunetti said, ‘I see.’
Silence fell but he waited. Then she said, as if no mention had been made of the rabbits, ‘I know who they are.’ Her hands tortured one another in her lap, but her voice remained calm, almost seductive. It occurred to him that she had no idea of its power or its beauty.
Brunetti nodded to encourage her, and she continued, ‘Well, that is, I know the name of one of them, the one who sold it to Marco. I don’t know the name of the people he gets it from, but I think he’d tell you if you frightened him enough.’
‘I’m afraid we’re not in the business of frightening people,’ Brunetti said, smiling, wishing it were true.
‘I mean frightening him so that he’d come and tell you what he knows. He’d do that if he thought you knew who he is and were going to get him.’
‘If you give me his name, Signorina, we can bring him in and question him.’
‘But wouldn’t it be better if he came in by himself and told you what he knows, told you voluntarily?’
‘Yes, it certainly would...’
She interrupted him. ‘I don’t have any proof, you know. It’s not like I can testify that I saw him sell it to Marco or Marco told me that he did.’ She moved around uneasily in her chair, then put her folded hands back in her lap. ‘But I know he’d come in if he didn’t have any other choice, and then it wouldn’t be so bad for him, would it?’
This intense concern could be directed only at family, Brunetti realized. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t told me your name, Signorina.’
‘I don’t want to tell you my name,’ she answered, some of the sweetness gone from her voice.
Brunetti opened his hands, spreading his fingers wide in symbol of the liberty he extended, ‘That’s entirely your right, Signorina. In that case, the only thing I suggest to you is that you tell this person that he should come in.’
‘He won’t listen to me. He never has,’ she said, adamant.
Brunetti considered his options. He studied his wedding band, saw that it was thinner than it was when he had studied it last, worn away by the years. He looked up and across at her. ‘Does he read the newspaper?’
Surprised, her answer was instant, ‘Yes.’
‘The Gazzettino?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you see that he reads it tomorrow?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Good. I hope it will be enough to make him talk to us. Will you encourage him to come?’
She looked down after he said this, and again he thought she was going to begin to cry. Instead, she said, ‘I’ve been trying to do that since Marco died.’ Her voice broke, and her hands balled themselves into tight fists again. She shook her head. ‘He’s afraid.’ Again, a long pause. ‘I can’t do anything to make him. My par . . . ‘ she broke off before finishing the word, confirming what he already knew. She shifted her weight forward, and he saw that, message delivered, she was ready to escape.
Brunetti got slowly to his feet and came around the desk. She stood and turned towards the door.
Brunetti opened it for her. He thanked her for having come to talk to him. As she started down the stairs, he closed the door, ran back to the phone, and dialled the number of the guard desk at the front door. He recognized the voice of the young man who had brought her up.
‘Masi, say nothing. When that girl comes down, take her into your office and see that she stays there at least a few minutes. Tell her you have to record in your ledger what time she left, make up some sort of story, but keep her there. Then let her leave.’
Giving him no chance to answer, Brunetti replaced the phone and walked to the large wooden closet that stood against the wall by the door. He yanked the door open, letting it slam back against the wall. Inside, he saw an old tweed jacket he had left there more than a year ago and ripped it from the hanger. Clutching it in one hand, he moved to the door of his office, opened it, looked down the stairs and took them two at a time down to the officers’ room on the floor below.
Panting at the effort, he ran into the room and gave a sigh of silent thanks when he saw Pucetti at his desk. ‘Pucetti,’ he said, ‘get up and take off your jacket.’
Instantly, the young officer was on his feet and his jacket flung on the desk in front of him. Brunetti handed him the woollen jacket, saying, ‘There’s a girl downstairs near the entrance. Masi’s holding her for a few minutes in his office. When she leaves, I want you to follow her. Follow her all day if you have to, but I want to know where she goes, and I want to know who she is.’
Pucetti was already moving towards the door. The jacket hung loosely on him, so he flipped over the cuffs then pushed them up his forearms; he ripped off his tie and tossed it in the general direction of his desk. When he left the office, asking Brunetti for no explanation, he looked like a casually dressed young man who had chosen to wear a white shirt and dark blue trousers that day but had offset the military cut of the trousers by wearing an overlarge Harris tweed jacket with the sleeves pushed up in quite a dashing manner.
Brunetti went back to his office, dialled the news office of Il Gazzettino and identified himself. The story he gave them explained how the police investigating the drug-related death of a young student had discovered the identity of the young man believed to have been responsible for selling the drugs that had caused his death. An arrest was imminent, and it was hoped that this would lead to the arrest of even more people involved in the drug traffic in the Veneto area. When he put the phone down, he hoped only that this would be enough to force the young girl’s relative, whoever he was, to find the courage to come into the Questura so that something positive could come of the stupid waste of Marco Landi’s life.
* * * *
He and Vianello presented themselves at the Ufficio Catasto at eleven. Brunetti gave his name and rank to the secretary on the first floor, and she told him that Ingeniere dal Carlo’s office was on the third floor and she’d be glad to call ahead and tell him that Commissario Brunetti was on the way up. Brunetti, a uniformed Vianello silent in his wake, walked up to the third floor, amazed at the number of people, almost all of them men, who flowed up and down the stairs in two opposing streams. On each landing, they milled outside the doors of offices, rolls of blueprints and heavy folders of papers held to their chests.
Ingeniere dal Carlo’s was the last office on the left. The door was open, so they went in. A small woman who looked old enough to be Vianello’s mother sat at a desk facing them, next to the immense screen of a computer. She glanced at them over the thick lenses of her half-frame reading glasses. Her hair, heavily streaked with grey, was pulled back in a tight bun that forced Brunetti to think of Signora Landi, and her narrow shoulders were hunched forward as if with the beginning of osteoporosis. She wore no makeup, as if she’d long ago abandoned the idea of its possible utility.
‘Commissario Brunetti?’ she asked, remaining in her seat.
‘Yes. I’d like to speak to Ingeniere dal Carlo.’
‘May I ask what this i
s in aid of?’ she asked, speaking precise Italian and using a phrase he hadn’t heard in decades.
‘I’d like to ask some questions about a former employee.’
‘Former?’
‘Yes. Franco Rossi,’ he said.
‘Ah yes,’ she said, raising a hand to her forehead and shielding her eyes. She lowered her hand and removed her glasses, then looked up. ‘The poor young man. He’d worked here for years. It was terrible. Nothing like this has ever happened before.’ There was a crucifix on the wall above her desk, and she turned her eyes to it, her lips moving in a prayer for the dead young man.
‘Did you know Signor Rossi?’ Brunetti asked, then continued, as if he hadn’t quite caught her name, ‘Signora ... ?’
