Donna Leon - Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

‘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.’

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 think.’

‘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.