Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

by Donna Leon

  ‘Why?’ Ratti asked, immediately suspicious.

  ‘I’d like to have a clearer idea of when this began,’ Brunetti lied, thinking that he could have their phone records checked for calls to Venice at that time.

  Though he looked and sounded sceptical, Ratti answered. ‘It was in March, two years ago. Towards the end of the month. We moved in here at the beginning of May.’

  ‘I see,’ said Brunetti. ‘And since you’ve been living in the apartment, have you had anything to do with the Lega?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ Ratti said.

  ‘What about receipts?’ Brunetti asked.

  Ratti shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘We get one from the bank every month.’

  ‘For how much?’

  ‘Two hundred and twenty thousand.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you want to show it to Sergeant Vianello?’

  His wife broke in again and answered for him. ‘We didn’t want to get involved in anything.’

  ‘Mascari?’ Brunetti suddenly asked.

  Ratti’s nervousness seemed to increase. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When the director of the bank that sent you the receipts for the rent was killed, you didn’t find it strange?’

  ‘No, why should I?’ Ratti said, putting anger into his voice. ‘I read about how he died. I assumed he was killed by one of his “tricks”.’

  ‘Has anyone been in touch with you recently about the apartment?’

  ‘No, no one.’

  ‘If you should happen to receive a call or perhaps a visit from the man you pay the rent to, I expect you to call us immediately.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Commissario,’ Ratti said, restored to his role as irreproachable citizen.

  Suddenly sick of them, their posing, their designer clothes, Brunetti said, ‘You can go downstairs with Sergeant Vianello. Please give him as detailed a description as you can of the man you pay the rent to.’ Then, to Vianello, ‘If it sounds like anyone we might know, let them take a look at some pictures.’

  Vianello nodded and opened the door. The Rattis both stood, but neither made any effort to shake Brunetti’s hand. The professor took his wife’s arm for the short trip to the door, then stood back to allow her to pass through it in front of him. Vianello glanced across at Brunetti, allowed himself the smallest of smiles, and followed them out of the office, closing the door after them.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  His conversation with Paola that night was short. She asked if there was any news, repeated her suggestion that she come down for a few days; she thought she could leave the children alone at the hotel, but Brunetti told her it was too hot even to think of coming to the city.

  He spent the rest of the evening in the company of the Emperor Nero, whom Tacitus described as being ‘corrupted by every lust, natural and unnatural’. He went to sleep only after reading the description of the burning of Rome, which Tacitus seemed to attribute to Nero’s having gone through a marriage ceremony with a man, during which the emperor shocked even the members of his dissolute court by ‘putting on the bridal veil’. Everywhere, transvestites.

  The next morning, Brunetti, ignorant of the fact that the story of Burrasca’s arrest had appeared in that morning’s Corriere, a story that made no mention of Signora Patta, attended the funeral of Maria Nardi. The Chiesa dei Gesuiti was crowded, filled with her friends and family and with most of the police of the city. Officer Scarpa from Mestre attended, explaining that Sergeant Gallo could not get away from the trial in Milan and would be there for at least another three days. Even Vice-Questore Patta attended, looking sombre in a dark blue suit. Though he knew it was a sentimental and no doubt politically incorrect view, Brunetti could not rid himself of the idea that it was worse for a woman to die in the course of police duty than a man. When the Mass was finished, he waited on the steps of the church while the coffin was carried out by six uniformed policemen. When her husband emerged, weeping brokenly and staggering with grief, Brunetti turned his eyes to the left and looked out across the waters of the laguna towards Murano. He was still standing there when Vianello came up to him and touched him on the arm.

  ‘Commissario?’

  He came back. ‘Yes, Vianello?’

  ‘I’ve got a probable identification from those people.’

  ‘When did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t know until this morning. Yesterday afternoon, they looked at a number of pictures, but they said they weren’t sure. I think they were but wanted to talk to their lawyer. In any case, they were back in this morning, at nine, and they identified Pietro Malfatti.’

  Brunetti gave a silent whistle. Malfatti had been in and out of their hands for years; he had a record for violent crimes, among them rape and attempted murder, but the accusations seemed always to dissipate before Malfatti came to trial, when witnesses changed their minds or said that they had been wrong in their original identification. He had been sent away twice, once for living off the earnings of a prostitute, and once for attempting to extort protection money from the owner of a bar. The bar had burned down during the two years Malfatti was in jail.

  ‘Did they identify him positively?’

  ‘Both of them were pretty sure.’

  ‘Do we have an address for him?’

  ‘The last address we had was an apartment in Mestre, but he hasn’t lived there for more than a year.’

  ‘Friends? Women?’

  ‘We’re checking.’

  ‘What about relatives?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. It ought to be in his file.’

  ‘See who he’s got. If it’s someone close, a mother or a brother, get someone into an apartment near them and watch for him. No,’ he said, remembering what little he knew of Malfatti’s history, ‘get two.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’

  ‘The papers from the bank and from the Lega?’

  ‘Both of them are supposed to give us their records today.’

  ‘I want them. I don’t care if you have to go in there and take them. I want all the records that have to do with the payments of money for these apartments, and I want everyone in that bank interviewed to see if Mascari said anything to them about the Lega. At any time. If you have to ask the judge to go with you to get them, then do it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘When you go to the bank, try to find out whose job it was to oversee the accounts of the Lega.’

  ‘Ravanello?’ Vianello asked.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘We’ll see what we can find out. What about Santomauro, sir?’

  ‘I’m going to speak to him today.’

  ‘Is that…’ Vianello stopped himself before asking if that was wise and asked, instead, ‘Is that possible, without an appointment?’

  ‘I think Avvocato Santomauro will be very interested in talking to me, Sergeant.’

  And so it was. The Avvocato’s office was in Campo San Luca, on the second floor of a building that was within twenty metres of three different banks. How fitting that proximity was, Brunetti thought, as Santomauro’s secretary showed him into the lawyer’s office, only a few minutes after his arrival.

  Santomauro sat at his desk, behind him a large window that looked out on the campo. The window, however, was tightly sealed, and the office cooled to an almost uncomfortable degree, especially in view of what could be seen below: naked shoulders, legs, backs, arms all passed across the campo, yet here it was cool enough for a jacket and tie.

  The lawyer looked up when Brunetti was shown in but didn’t bother to smile or stand. He wore a conservative grey suit, dark tie, and gleaming white shirt. His eyes were wide-spaced and blue and looked out on the world with candour. He was pale, as pale as if it were midwinter: no vacations for those who labour in the vineyards of the law.

  ‘Have a seat, Commissario,’ he said. ‘What is it you want to see me about?’ He reached out and moved a photo in a silver frame slightly to the right so as to p
rovide himself with a clear view of Brunetti and Brunetti with a clear view of the photo. In it stood a woman about Santomauro’s age and two young men, both of whom resembled Santomauro.

  ‘Any one of a number of things, Avvocato Santomauro,’ Brunetti replied, sitting opposite him, ‘but I’ll begin with La Lega della Moralità.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask my secretary to give you information about that, Commissario. My involvement is almost entirely ceremonial.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean by that, Avvocato.’

  ‘The Lega always needs a figurehead, someone to serve as president. But as I’m sure you’ve already ascertained, we members of the board have no say in the day-to-day running of the affairs of the Lega. The real work is done by the bank director who handles the accounts.’

  ‘Then what is your precise function?’

  ‘As I explained,’ Santomauro said, giving a minimal smile, ‘I serve as a figurehead. I have a certain – a certain, shall I say stature? – in the community, and so I was asked to become president, a purely titular post.’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  ‘The authorities at the bank which handles the accounts of the Lega.’

  ‘If the bank director attends to the business of the Lega, then what are your duties, Avvocato?’

  ‘I speak for the Lega in those cases when a question is put to us by the press or when the Lega’s view is sought on some issue.’

  ‘I see. And what else?’

  ‘Twice a year, I meet with the bank official charged with the Lega’s account to discuss the financial status of the Lega.’

  ‘And what is that status? If I might ask.’

  Santomauro laid both palms on the desk in front of him. ‘As you know, we are a non-profit organization, so it is enough to us that we manage, as it were, to keep our head above water. In the financial sense.’

  ‘And what does that mean? In the financial sense, that is.’

  Santomauro’s voice grew even calmer, his patience even more audible. ‘That we manage to collect enough money to allow us to continue to bestow our charitable bequests upon those who have been selected to receive them.’

  ‘And who, if I might ask, decides who will receive them?’

  ‘The official at the bank, of course.’

  ‘And the apartments which the Lega has in its care, who is it that decides to whom they will be given?’

  ‘The same person,’ Santomauro said, permitting himself a small smile, then added, ‘The board routinely approves his suggestions.’

  ‘And do you, as president, have any say in this, any decision-making power?’

  ‘If I were to choose to use it, I suppose I might have. But, as I’ve already told you, Commissario, our positions are entirely honorary.’

  ‘What does that mean, Avvocato?’

  Before he answered, Santomauro placed the very tip of his finger on his desk and picked up a small speck of dust. He moved his hand to his side and shook it, removing the speck. ‘As I said, my position is merely titular. I do not feel that it would be correct, knowing so many people in the city as I do, for me to attempt to select those who might profit in any way from the charity of the Lega. Nor, I am sure and if I might take the liberty of speaking for them, would my fellow members of the board.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said, making no attempt to disguise his scepticism.

  ‘You find that hard to believe, Commissario?’

  ‘It would be unwise of me to tell you what I find hard to believe, Avvocato,’ Brunetti said and then asked, ‘And Signor Crespo. Are you handling his estate?’

  It had been years since Brunetti had seen a man purse his lips, but that is precisely what Santomauro did before he answered. ‘I am Signor Crespo’s lawyer, so of course I am handling his estate.’

  ‘Is it a large estate?’

  ‘That is privileged information, Commissario, as you, having taken your degree in law, should know.’

  ‘Ah, yes, and I suppose the nature of whatever dealings you might have had with Signor Crespo is similarly privileged?’

  ‘I see you do remember the law, Commissario,’ Santomauro said and smiled.

  ‘Could you tell me if the records of the Lega, the financial records, have been given to the police?’

  ‘You speak of them as though you were no part of the police, Commissario.’

  ‘The records, Signor Santomauro? Where are they?’

  ‘Why, in the hands of your colleagues, Commissario. I had my secretary make copies of them this morning.’

  ‘We want the originals.’

  ‘Of course it’s the originals I’ve given you, Commissario,’ Santomauro said, measuring out another small smile. ‘I took the liberty of making copies for myself, just in case something should get lost while they are in your care.’

  ‘How cautious of you, Avvocato,’ Brunetti said, but he didn’t smile. ‘But I don’t want to take any more of your time. I realize how precious time is to someone who has your stature in the community. I have only one more question. Could you tell me who the bank official is who handles the accounts of the Lega. I’d like to speak to him.’

  Santomauro’s smile blossomed. ‘I’m afraid that will be impossible, Commissario. You see, the Lega’s accounts were always handled by the late Leonardo Mascari.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He went back to his office, marvelling at the skill with which Santomauro had suggested Mascari’s guilt. It all rested on such fragile premises: that the papers in the bank now looked like Mascari had been in charge of them; that people at the bank would not know or could be induced not to remember if anyone else had ever handled the accounts of the Lega; that nothing would be discovered about the murders of Mascari or Crespo.

  At the Questura, he discovered that the papers of both the Banca di Verona and the Lega had been given to the police who went to collect them, and a trio of men from the Guardia di Finanza were even then going over them in search of any indication of who had overseen the accounts into which rents were paid and out of which cheques were written for the Lega’s charity works.

  Brunetti knew that nothing was to be gained by going down and standing over them while they worked, but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting at least to walk past the room in which they had been placed. To prevent this, he went out for lunch, deliberately choosing a restaurant in the Ghetto, even though this meant a long walk there and back in the worst heat of the day. When he got back, after three, his jacket was soaked through, and his shoes felt as though they had melted to his feet.

  Vianello came into his office only minutes after he got back. Without preamble, he said, ‘I’ve been checking the list of the people who receive cheques from the Lega.’

  Brunetti recognized his mood. ‘And what have you found?’

  ‘That Malfatti’s mother has remarried and taken the name of her new husband.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she’s receiving cheques under that name and under her former name. What’s more, her new husband also receives a cheque, as do two of his cousins, but it looks like each of them is getting them under two separate names.’

  ‘What does that make the total for the Malfatti family?’

  ‘The cheques are all about five hundred thousand a month, so it makes it close to three million a month.’ Involuntarily, the question sprang from Vianello’s mouth, ‘Didn’t they ever think they’d be caught?’

  Brunetti thought that too obvious to answer and so, instead, he asked, ‘What about the shoes?’

  ‘No luck here. You talk to Gallo?’

  ‘He’s still in Milano, but I’m sure Scarpa would have called me if they found anything. What are those men from Finance doing?’

  Vianello shrugged. ‘They’ve been in there since the morning.’

  ‘Do they know what they’re supposed to be looking for?’ Brunetti asked, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  ‘Some sign of who handled it all, I th
ink.’

  ‘Would you go down there and ask them if they’ve found anything? If Ravanello’s involved, I want to move on him as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Vianello said and left the office.

  While he waited for Vianello to come back, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, more for something to do with his hands than from any hope that it would make him feel any cooler.

  Vianello came back, and the answer was written on his face. ‘I just spoke to their captain. He said that, so far, from what they can tell, it looks like Mascari was in charge.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Brunetti snapped.

  ‘It’s what they told me,’ Vianello said very slowly, voice level, and then added, after a long pause, ‘sir.’ Neither spoke for a moment. ‘Perhaps if you were to speak to them yourself, you’d get a clearer idea of what it means.’

  Brunetti looked away and rolled down his sleeves. ‘Let’s go downstairs together, Vianello.’ It was as close as he could come to an apology, but Vianello seemed to accept it. Given the heat in the office, it was probably all he was going to get.

  Downstairs, Brunetti went into the office where three men in the grey uniforms of the Guardia di Finanza were working. The men sat at a long desk covered with files and papers. Two small pocket calculators and a laptop computer stood on the desk, one man in front of each. In concession to the heat, they had removed their woollen jackets, but they still wore their ties.

  The man at the computer looked up when Brunetti came in, peered over his glasses for a moment, then looked back down and tapped some more information into the keyboard. He looked at the screen, glanced down at one of the papers beside the keyboard, punched some more keys, then looked at the screen again. He picked up the sheet of paper from the pile to the right of the computer, placed it face down on the left, and started to read more numbers from the next sheet of paper.

  ‘Which of you is in charge?’ Brunetti asked.

  A small red-headed man looked up from one of the calculators and said, ‘I am. Are you Commissario Brunetti?’