Donna Leon - Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

‘It is clear that many of these apartments have been rented illegally and that someone associated with the Lega has been collecting rents illegally for years.’ When Professore Ratti began to object, Brunetti raised a hand for an instant, then quickly folded his fingers back together. ‘Were it only a case of fraud, then perhaps you would be better advised to continue to maintain that you know nothing about all of this. But, unfortunately, it is far more than a case of fraud.’ He paused here. He’d have it out of them, by God.

‘What is it a case of?’ Ratti asked, speaking more softly than he had since he entered Brunetti’s office.

‘It is a case of murder. Three murders, one of them a member of the police. I tell you this so that you will begin to realize that we are not going to let this go. One of our own has been killed, and we are going to find out who did that. And punish them.’ He paused a moment to let that sink in.

‘If you persist in maintaining your current story about the apartment, then you will eventually become involved in a prosecution for murder.’

‘We know nothing about murder,’ Signora Ratti said, voice sharp.

‘You do now, Signora. Whoever is at the back of this plan to rent the apartments is also responsible for the three murders. By refusing to help us discover who is responsible for renting you your apartment and collecting your rent each month, you are also obstructing a murder investigation. The penalty for that, I need not remind you, is far more severe than for being evasive in a case involving fraud. And I add, but quite at the personal level, that I will do everything in my power to see that it is imposed upon you if you continue to refuse to help us.’

Ratti got to his feet. ‘I’d like some time to speak to my wife. In private.’

‘No,’ Brunetti said, raising his voice for the first time.

‘I have that right,’ Ratti demanded.

‘You have the right to speak to your lawyer, Signor Ratti, and I will gladly allow you to do that. But you and your wife will decide that other matter now, in front of me.’ He was way beyond his legal rights, and he knew it; his only hope was that the Rattis did not.

They looked at one another for so long that Brunetti lost hope. But then she nodded her burgundy head and they both sat back down in their chairs.

‘All right,’ Ratti said, ‘but I want to make it clear that we know nothing about this murder.’

‘Murders,’ Brunetti said and saw that Ratti was shaken by the correction.

‘Three years ago,’ Ratti began, ‘a friend of ours in Milano told us he knew someone he thought could help us find an apartment in Venice. We had been looking for about six months, but it was very difficult to find anything, especially at that distance.’ Brunetti wondered if he was going to have to listen to a series of complaints. Ratti, perhaps sensing Brunetti’s impatience, continued, ‘He gave us a phone number we could call, a number here in Venice. We called and explained what we wanted, and the person on the other end asked us what sort of apartment we had in mind and how much we wanted to pay.’ Ratti paused, or did he stop?

‘Yes?’ Brunetti urged, his voice just the same as that priest’s had been when the children had some question or uncertainty about the catechism.

‘I told him what I had in mind, and he said he’d call me back in a few days. He did, and said he had three apartments to show us, if we could come to Venice that weekend. When we came, he showed us this apartment and two others.’

‘Was he the same man who answered the phone when you called?’

‘I don’t know. But it was certainly the same man who called us back.’

‘Do you know who the man was? Or is?’

‘It’s the man we pay the rent to, but I don’t know his name.’

‘And how do you do that?’

‘He calls us in the last week of the month and tells us where to meet him. It’s usually a bar, though sometimes, during the summer, it’s outside.’

‘Where, here in Venice or in Milano?’

His wife interrupted. ‘He seems to know where we are. He calls us here if we’re in Venice or Milano if we’re there.’

‘And then what do you do?’

Ratti answered this time. ‘I meet him and I give him the money.’

‘How much?’

‘Two and a half million lire.’

‘A month?’

‘Yes, though sometimes I give him a few months in advance.’

‘Do you know who this man is?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No, but I’ve seen him on the street here a few times.’

Brunetti realized there would be time to get a description later and let that pass. ‘And what about the Lega? How are they involved?’

‘When we told this man that we were interested in the apartment, he suggested a price, but we bargained him down to two and a half million.’ Ratti said this with ill-disguised self-satisfaction.

‘And the Lega?’ Brunetti asked.

‘He told us that we would receive application forms from the Lega and that we were to fill them out and return them, and that we would be able to move into the apartment within two weeks of that.’

Signora Ratti broke in here. ‘He also told us not to tell anyone about how we had got the apartment.’

‘Has anyone asked you?’

‘Some friends of ours in Milano,’ she answered, ‘but we told them we found it through a rental agency.’

‘And the person who gave you the number – do you know how he got it?’

‘He told us someone had given it to him at a party.’

‘Do you remember the month and year when you made that original call?’ Brunetti asked.

‘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.