Donna Leon - Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

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 provide 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.’