by Donna Leon
‘Yes, I am,’ Brunetti answered, coming to stand beside him and extending his hand.
‘I’m Captain de Luca.’ Then less formally, taking Brunetti’s hand, he added, ‘Beniamino.’ He waved his hand over the papers. ‘You wanted to know who was in charge of all of this at the bank?’
‘Yes.’
‘It looks, right now, like it was all handled by Mascari. His key codes have been tapped into all of the transactions, and what look like his initials appear on many of the documents we’ve got here.’
‘Could that have been faked?’
‘What do you mean, Commissario?’
‘Could someone else have changed these documents to make it look like Mascari had handled them?’
De Luca thought about this for a long time, then answered, ‘I suppose so. If whoever did it had a day or two to work on the files, I suppose he could have done it.’ He considered this for a while, as if working out an algebraic formula in his head. ‘Yes, anyone could have done it, if he knew the key codes.’
‘In a bank, how private are those access codes?’
‘I would imagine they aren’t private at all. People are always checking one another’s accounts, and they need to know the codes in order to get into them. I would say it could be very easy.’
‘What about the initials on the receipts?’
‘Easier to forge than a signature,’ de Luca said.
‘Is there any way to prove that someone else did it?’
Again, de Luca considered the question for a long time before he answered. ‘With the computer entries, not at all. Maybe the initials could be shown to be false, but most people just scribble them on things like this; often it’s difficult to tell them apart or, for that fact, to recognize your own.’
‘Could a case be made that the records had been changed?’
De Luca’s look was as clear as his answer. ‘Commissario, you might want to make that case, but you wouldn’t want to make it in a courtroom.’
‘So Mascari was in charge?’
De Luca hesitated this time. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. It looks like it, but it is entirely possible that the records were changed to make it look like he was.’
‘What about the rest of it, the process of selection for apartments?’
‘Oh, it’s clear that people were chosen to get apartments for reasons other than need and, in the case of those who received money, that poverty didn’t have much to do with a lot of the grants.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘In the first case, the letters of application are all here, divided into two groups: those who did get apartments and those who were turned down.’ De Luca paused for a moment. ‘No, I’m overstating the case. A number of the apartments, a large number of them, went to people who seemed to have real need, but the letters of application for almost a quarter of the applications come from people who aren’t even Venetian.’
‘The ones who were accepted?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes. And your boys haven’t even finished checking on the complete list of tenants.’
Brunetti glanced towards Vianello, who explained, ‘They’ve gone through about half of the list, and it looks like a lot of them are rented to young people who live alone. And who work nights.’
Brunetti nodded. ‘Vianello, when you have a complete report on everyone on both lists, let me have it.’
‘It’s going to take at least another two days, sir,’ Vianello said.
‘There’s no longer any need to hurry, I’m afraid.’ Brunetti thanked de Luca for his help and went back up to his office.
It was perfect, he reflected, about as perfect as anyone could hope. Ravanello had spent his weekend all to good purpose, and the records now showed that Mascari had been in charge of the accounts of the Lega. What better way to explain those countless millions that had been pilfered from the Lega than to lay them at the feet of Mascari and his transvestites? Who knew what he had got up to when he travelled for the bank, what orgies he had not engaged in, what fortunes he had not squandered, this man who was too frugal to make a longdistance call to his wife? Malfatti, Brunetti was sure, was far from Venice and would not soon reappear, and he had no doubt that Malfatti would be recognized as the man who collected the rents and who had arranged that a percentage of the charity cheques be given back to him as a condition of their being granted in the first place. And Ravanello? He would reveal himself as the intimate friend who, out of mistaken loyalty, had not betrayed Mascari’s sinful secret, never imagining what fiscal enormities his friend had engaged in to pay for his unnatural lusts. Santomauro? No doubt there would be a first wave of ridicule as he was revealed to have been such a gullible tool of his banker friend, Mascari, but, sooner or later, popular opinion was bound to see him as the selfless citizen whose instinct to trust had been betrayed by the duplicity to which Mascari was driven by his unnatural lust. Perfect, absolutely perfect and not the slightest fissure into which Brunetti could introduce the truth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
That night, the high moral purpose of Tacitus provided Brunetti no consolation, nor did the violent destinies of Messalina and Agrippina serve as vindication of justice. He read the grim account of their much-merited deaths but could not rid himself of the realization that the evil spawned by these malevolent women endured long beyond their passing. Finally, well after two, he forced himself to stop reading and spent what remained of the night in troubled sleep, assailed by the memory of Mascari, of that just man, dispatched before his time, his death even more sordid than those of Messalina and Agrippina. Here, as well, evil would long endure his passing.
The morning was suffocating, as though a curse had been laid upon the city, condemning it to stagnant air and numbing heat, while the breezes abandoned it to its fate and went elsewhere to play. As he passed through the Rialto market on his way to work, Brunetti noticed how many of the produce vendors were closed, their usual spots in the ordered ranks of stalls gaping open like missing teeth in a drunkard’s smile. No sense trying to sell vegetables during Ferragosto: residents fled the city, and tourists wanted only panini and acqua minerale.
He arrived early at the Questura, reluctant to walk through the city after nine, when the heat grew worse and the streets even more crowded with tourists. He turned his thoughts from them. Not today.
Nothing satisfied him, not the thought that the illegal dealings of the Lega would now be stopped, and not the hope that de Luca and his men might still find some thread of evidence that would lead them to Santomauro and Ravanello. Nor did he have any hope of tracing either the dress or the shoes that Mascari had been wearing: too much time had already passed.
In the midst of this grim reverie, Vianello burst into his office without knocking and shouted, ‘We’ve found Malfatti!’
‘Where?’ Brunetti asked, getting up and moving towards him, suddenly filled with energy.
‘At his girlfriend’s, Luciana Vespa, over at San Barnaba.’
‘How?’
‘Her cousin called us. He’s on the list, been getting a cheque from the Lega for the last year.’
‘Did you make a deal?’ Brunetti asked, not at all disturbed by the illegality of this.
‘No, he didn’t even dare ask. He told us he wanted to help.’ Vianello’s snort told how much faith he put in this.
‘What did he tell you?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Malfatti’s been there for three days.’
‘Is she in the file?’
Vianello shook his head. ‘Just the wife. We’ve had someone in the apartment next to hers for two days, but there’s been no sign of him there.’ While they spoke, they walked down the stairs to the office where the uniformed branch worked.
‘Did you call a launch?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It’s outside. How many men do you want to take?’
Brunetti had never been directly involved with any of Malfatti’s many arrests, but he had read the reports. ‘Three. Armed. And with vests.’<
br />
Ten minutes later, he and Vianello and the three officers, these last ballooned out and already sweating from the thick bullet-proof vests they wore over their uniforms, climbed aboard the blue and white police launch that stood, motor running, in front of the Questura. The three officers filed down into the cabin, leaving Brunetti and Vianello on deck to try to catch what little breeze was created by their motion. The pilot took them out into the bacino of San Marco, then turned right and headed up towards the entrance to the Grand Canal. Glory swept past on both sides as Brunetti and Vianello stood, heads together, talking against the force of the wind and the roar of the motor. They decided that Brunetti would go to the apartment and try to make contact with Malfatti. Since they knew nothing about the woman, they had no idea what her involvement with Malfatti might be, and so her safety had to be their chief concern.
At that thought, Brunetti began to regret having brought the officers along. If passers-by saw four policemen, three of them heavily armed, standing near an apartment, a crowd was sure to form, and that would draw the attention of anyone in the building.
The launch pulled up at the Ca’ Rezzonico vaporetto stop, and the five men filed off, much to the surprise and curiosity of the people waiting for the boat. Single file, they walked down the narrow calle that led to Campo San Barnaba and then out into the open square. Though the sun had not yet reached its zenith, heat radiated up from the paving stones and seared at them from below.
The building they sought was at the far right corner of the campo, its door just in front of one of the two enormous boats which sold fruit and vegetables from the embankment of the canal which ran alongside the campo. To the right of the door was a restaurant, not yet open for the day, and beyond it a bookstore. ‘All of you,’ Brunetti said, conscious of the stares and comments the police and their machine-guns were causing among the people around them, ‘get into the bookstore. Vianello, you wait outside.’
Awkwardly, seeming too big for it, the men trooped through the door of the store. The owner stuck her head out, saw Vianello and Brunetti, and ducked back into the shop without saying anything.
The name ‘Vespa’ was written on a piece of paper taped to the right of one of the bells. Brunetti ignored it and rang the one above. After a moment, a woman’s voice came across the intercom. ‘Si?’
‘Posta, Signora. I have a registered letter for you. You have to sign for it.’
When the door clicked open, Brunetti turned back to Vianello, ‘I’ll see what I can find out about him. Stay down here, and keep them off the street.’ The sight of the three old women who now surrounded him and Vianello, shopping trolleys parked beside them, made him regret even more bringing the other officers with him.
He opened the door and went into the entrance, where he was greeted by the heavy, thudding sound of rock music spilling down towards him from one of the upper floors. If the bells on the outside corresponded to the location of the apartments, Signorina Vespa lived one floor above, and the woman who let him in on the floor above her. Brunetti walked quickly up the stairs, passed the door to the Vespa apartment, from which the music blasted.
At the top of the next flight of steps, a young woman with a baby balanced on her hip stood at the door of an apartment. When she saw him, she stepped back and reached for the door. ‘One moment, Signora,’ Brunetti said, stopping where he was on the steps so as not to frighten her. ‘I’m from the police.’
The woman’s glance, beyond him and down the steps, to the source of the music that thundered up the stairs behind him, suggested to Brunetti that she might not be surprised by his arrival. ‘It’s about him, isn’t it?’ she asked, pointing with her chin towards the source of the heavy bass that continued to flow up the stairs.
‘Signorina Vespa’s friend?’ he asked.
‘ Si. Him,’ she said, spitting out the syllables with such force that Brunetti wondered what else Malfatti had done in the time he had been in the building.
‘How long has he been here?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, taking another step back into her apartment. ‘The music’s been on all day, ever since early morning. I can’t go down and complain.’
‘Why not?’
She pulled her baby closer to her, as if to remind the man in front of her that she was a mother. ‘The last time I did, he said terrible things to me.’
‘What about Signorina Vespa, can’t you ask her?’
Her shrug dismissed the usefulness of Signorina Vespa.
‘Isn’t she there with him?’
‘I don’t know who’s with him, and I don’t care. I just want that music to stop so my baby can get to sleep.’ On that cue, the baby, which had been heavily asleep in her arms, opened his eyes, drooled, and went immediately back to sleep.
The music gave Brunetti the idea, that and the fact that the woman had already complained to Malfatti about it.
‘Signora, go inside,’ he said. ‘I’m going to slam your door and then go down and talk to him. I want you to stay inside. Stay in the back of your apartment and don’t come out until one of my men comes up and tells you that you can.’
She nodded and stepped back from the door. Brunetti bent forward, reached into the apartment, and grabbed the door by its handle. He pulled it towards him violently, crashing it shut with a sound that rang out in the stairway like a shot.
He turned and slammed his way down the steps, pounding his heels as hard as he could, creating a torrent of noise that momentarily obscured the music. ‘Basta con quella musica!’’ he screamed in a wild voice, a man driven beyond the limits of patience. ‘Enough of that music!’ he screamed again. When he got to the landing below, he pounded on the door from behind which the music came, screaming as loud as he could, ‘Turn that goddamned music down. My baby’s trying to sleep. Turn it down or I’ll call the police.’ At the end of each sentence, he banged, then kicked, at the door.
He must have been at it for a full minute before the volume of the music suddenly grew lower, though it was still fully audible through the door. He forced his voice up into a higher register, shouting now as though he had finally lost all control of himself, ‘Turn the goddamned music oft Turn it off or I’ll come in there and turn it off for you.’
He heard quick footsteps approaching and braced himself. The door was pulled back suddenly, and a stocky man filled the doorway, a short metal rod gripped in his hand. Brunetti had only an instant, but in that instant he recognized Malfatti from his police photos.
Holding the rod down at his side, Malfatti took one step forward, bringing himself half-way through the door. ‘Who the hell do you-’ he began but stopped when Brunetti lunged forward and grabbed him, one hand on his right forearm and the other on the cloth of his shirt. Brunetti swiveled, turned on his hip, and swung out with all his strength. Caught completely off guard, Malfatti was pulled forward and off balance. For an instant, he balked at the top of the stairs, trying vainly to shift his weight and pull himself backwards, but then he lost his balance and toppled forward down the steps. As he fell, he dropped the iron bar and wrapped both arms around his head, turning himself into an acrobatic ball that tumbled down the steps.
Brunetti scrambled down the stairs after him, screaming Vianello’s name as loud as he could. Half-way down the steps, Brunetti stepped on the iron bar and slipped to his side, crashing against the wall of the stairway. When he looked up, he saw Vianello pushing open the heavy door at the bottom of the steps. But by that time, Malfatti had scrambled to his feet and was standing just behind the door. Before Brunetti could shout a warning, Malfatti kicked the door, slamming it into Vianello’s face, knocking the gun from his hand and him out into the narrow calle. Malfatti pulled the door open and disappeared into the sunlight beyond.
Brunetti got to his feet and ran down the steps, drawing his pistol, but by the time he got to the street, Malfatti had disappeared, and Vianello lay against the low wall of the canal, blood streaming from his nose on to his white
uniform shirt. Just as Brunetti bent over him, the three other officers piled out of the bookstore, machine-guns pointed in front of them but no one to point them at.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Vianello’s nose was not broken, but he was badly shaken. With Brunetti’s help, he got to his feet, weaved unsteadily for a moment, wiping at his nose with his hand.
People crowded around them, old women demanding to know what was happening, the fruit vendors already explaining to their newest customers what they had seen. Brunetti turned away from Vianello and almost tripped over a metal grocery cart filled to the top with vegetables. He kicked it angrily aside and turned to the two men who worked on the nearest boat. They had a clear view of the door to the building and must have seen everything.
‘Which way did he go?’
Both pointed down toward the campo, but then one pointed to the right, in the direction of the Accademia bridge, while the other pointed to the left and towards Rialto.
Brunetti signalled to one of the officers, who helped him lead Vianello towards the boat. Angrily, the sergeant pushed their hands away, insisting he could walk by himself. From the deck of the boat, Brunetti radioed the Questura with a description of Malfatti, asking that copies of his photo be distributed to all the police in the city and that his description be radioed to everyone on patrol.
When the officers were aboard, the pilot backed the boat towards the Grand Canal, then swung it round and headed towards the Questura. Vianello went down into the cabin and sat with his head tilted back to stop the bleeding. Brunetti followed him. ‘Do you want to go to the hospital?’
‘It’s only a bloody nose,’ Vianello said. ‘It’ll stop in a minute.’ He wiped at it with his handkerchief. ‘What happened?’
‘I banged on his door, complaining about his music, and he opened it. I pulled him out and threw him down the stairs.’ Vianello looked surprised. ‘It was all I could think of,’ Brunetti explained. ‘But I didn’t think he’d recover so quickly.’
