Donna Leon - Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

‘We are two hearts that beat as one, Dottore.’ Brunetti knew Vianello’s politics had changed. But his rhetoric, as well?

‘What is very strange, Dottore, is that Nadia wasn’t able to find anyone who actually belonged to the Lega. Not even the woman at the bank, as it turns out. Lots of people said they knew someone who they thought was a member, but, after Nadia asked, it turned out that they weren’t sure. Twice, she spoke to the people who were said to be members, and it turned out that they weren’t.’

‘And the good works?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Also very elusive. She called the hospitals, but none of them had ever had any contact with the Lega. I tried the social service agency that takes care of old people, but they’ve never heard of anyone from the Lega doing anything for the old people.’

‘And the orphanages?’

‘She spoke to the mother superior of the order that runs the three largest ones. She said she had heard of the Lega but had never had any help from them.’

‘And the woman in the bank. Why did Nadia think she was a member?’

‘Because she lives in an apartment the Lega administers. But she’s never been a member, and she said she didn’t know anyone who was. Nadia’s still trying to find someone who is.’ If Nadia put this time down, as well, Vianello would probably end up asking for the rest of the month oft

‘And Santomauro?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Everyone seems to know he’s the boss, but no one seems to know how he became it. Nor, interestingly enough, does anyone have an idea of what it means to be boss.’

‘Don’t they have meetings?’

‘People say they do. In parish houses or private homes. But, again, Nadia couldn’t find anyone who had ever actually been to one.’

‘Have you spoken to the boys in Finance?’

‘No, I thought Elettra would take care of that.’ Elettra? What was this, the informality of the converted?

‘I’ve asked Signorina Elettra to put Santomauro into her computer, but I haven’t seen her yet this morning.’

‘She’s down in the archives, I think,’ Vianello explained.

‘What about his professional life?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Success and success and nothing else. He represents two of the biggest building firms in the city, two city councillors, and at least three banks.’

‘Is one of them the Bank of Verona?’

Vianello looked down at his notebook and flipped back a page. ‘Yes. How did you know that?’

‘I didn’t know it. But that’s where Mascari worked.’

‘Two plus two makes four, doesn’t it?’ Vianello asked.

‘Political connections?’ Brunetti asked.

‘With two city councillors as clients?’ Vianello asked by way of answering the question.

‘And his wife?’

‘No one seems to know much about her, but everyone seems to believe she’s the real power in the family.’

‘And is there a family?’

‘Two sons. One’s an architect, the other a doctor.’

‘The perfect Italian family,’ Brunetti observed, then asked, ‘And Crespo? What did you find out about him?’

‘Have you seen his record from Mestre?’

‘Yes. Usual stuff. Drugs. Trying to shake down a customer. Nothing violent. No surprises. Did you find out anything else?’

‘Not much more than that,’ Vianello answered. ‘He was beaten up twice, but both times he said he didn’t know who did it. The second time, in fact-’ he flipped a few pages ahead in his notebook’-here it is. He said he was “set upon by thieves”.’

‘“Set upon?”‘

‘That’s what it said in the report. I copied it down just like it was.’

‘He must read a lot of books, Signor Crespo.’

‘More than is good for him, I’d say.’

‘Did you find out anything else about him? Whose name is on the contract for the apartment where he lives?’

‘No. I’ll check and see.’

‘And see if you can get Signorina Elettra to find anything there might be about the finances of the Lega, or Santomauro, or Crespo, or Mascari. Tax returns, bank statements, loans. That sort of information should be available.’

‘She’ll know what to do,’ Vianello said, noting it all down. ‘Will there be anything else?’

‘No. Let me know as soon as you hear anything or if Nadia finds someone who’s a member.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Vianello said, getting to his feet. ‘This is the best thing that could have happened.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nadia’s getting interested in this. You know how she’s been for years, not liking it when I have to work late or on the weekends. But once she got a taste of it, she was off like a bloodhound. And you should have heard her on the phone. She could get people to tell her anything. It’s too bad we don’t hire free lance.’

If he hurried, Brunetti could get to the Bank of Verona before it closed, that is, if an office that functioned from the second floor and appeared to have no place in which to fulfil the public functions of a bank bothered to observe regular hours. He arrived at 12.20 and, finding the downstairs door closed, rang the bell next to the simple brass plate that bore the bank’s name. The door snapped open, and he found himself back in the same small lobby where he had stood with the old woman on Saturday afternoon.

At the top of the stairs, he saw that the door to the bank’s office was closed, so he rang a second bell at its side. After a moment, he heard steps approach the door, and then it was pulled open by a tall blond man, clearly not the one he had seen go down the steps on Saturday afternoon.

He took his warrant card from his pocket and held it out to him. ‘ Buon giorno, I’m Commissario Guido Brunetti from the Questura. I’d like to speak to Signor Ravanello.’

‘Just one moment, please,’ the man said and closed the door so quickly that Brunetti didn’t have time to stop him. At least a full minute passed before the door was opened again, this time by another man, neither tall nor blond, though neither was he the man Brunetti had seen on the stairs. ‘Yes?’ he asked Brunetti, as though the other man had been a mirage.

‘I’d like to speak to Signor Ravanello.’

‘And who shall I say is here?’

‘I just told your colleague. Commissario Guido Brunetti.’

‘Ah, yes, just a moment.’ This time, Brunetti was ready, had his foot poised above the ground, ready to jam it into the door at the first sign the man might try to close it, a trick he had learned from reading American murder mysteries but which he had never had the chance to try.

Nor was he to get the chance to try it now. The man pulled the door back and said, ‘Please come in, Signor Commissario. Signor Ravanello is in his office and would be happy to see you.’ It seemed a lot for the man to assume, but Brunetti allowed him the right to his own opinion.

The main office appeared to occupy the same area as did the old woman’s apartment. The man led him across a room that corresponded to her living-room: the same four large windows looked out on the campo. Three men in dark suits sat at separate desks, but none of them bothered to look up from his computer screen as Brunetti crossed the room. The man stopped in front of a door that would have been the door to the old woman’s kitchen. He knocked and entered without waiting for an answer.

The room was about the same size as the kitchen, but where the old woman had a sink, this room had four rows of filing cabinets. In the space where she had her marble-topped table, there was a broad oak desk, and behind it sat a tall, dark-haired man of medium build who wore a white shirt and dark suit. He did not have to turn round and show the back of his head for Brunetti to recognize him as the man who had been working in the office on Saturday afternoon and whom he had seen on the vaporetto.