Donna Leon: Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

‘How many times did you hit him?’

‘Only once. I didn’t want to get blood on Crespo’s furniture. And I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted them to do that.’

‘And did they?’

‘I don’t know. That is, I don’t know which one of them did it. They were in the bedroom. I called them and we carried him into the bathroom. He was still alive then; I heard him groan.’

‘Why the bathroom?’

Malfatti’s glance showed that he was thinking he’d overestimated Brunetti’s intelligence. ‘The blood.’ There was a long pause, and when Brunetti didn’t say anything, Malfatti continued, ‘We laid him down on the floor, and then I went back and got the iron bar. Santomauro had been saying that we needed to destroy his face – we’d planned it all, put it together like a puzzle, and he had to be unrecognizable so there would be enough time to change the records in the bank. Anyway, he kept saying that we had to destroy his face, so I gave him the bar and told him to do it himself. Then I went back into the living-room and had a cigarette. When I came back, it was done.’

‘He was dead?’

Malfatti shrugged.

‘Ravanello and Santomauro killed him?’

‘I’d already done my share.’

‘Then what?’

‘We stripped him and shaved his legs. Jesus, what a job that was.’

‘Yes, I imagine so,’ Brunetti permitted himself. ‘And then what?’

‘We put the make-up on him.’ Malfatti paused a moment in thought. ‘No, that’s wrong. They did that before they hit his face. One of them said it would be easier. Then we put his clothes back on him and carried him out, like he was drunk. But we didn’t have to bother; no one saw us. Ravanello and I took him down to Santomauro’s car and drove him out to the field. I knew about what goes on out there, and I thought it would be a good place to dump him.’

‘What about the clothes? Where did you change them?’

‘When we got there, out in Marghera. We pulled him out of the back seat and stripped him. Then we put those clothes on him, that red dress and everything, and I carried him over to a place at the other side of the field and left him there. I stuffed him under a bush so it would take longer for him to be found.’ Malfatti paused for a moment, summoning memory. ‘Ravanello stuffed the shoes into my pockets. I dropped one beside him. They were Ravanello’s idea, the shoes, I think.’

‘What did you do with his clothes?’

‘I stopped on the way back to Crespo’s place and put them in a garbage can. It was all right; there was no blood on them. We were very careful. We wrapped his head in a plastic bag.’

The young officer coughed but turned his head away so the sound wouldn’t register on the tape.

‘And afterwards?’ Brunetti asked.

‘We went back to the apartment. Santomauro had cleaned it up. That was the last I heard of them until the night you came out to Mestre.’

‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Not mine. Ravanello called me and explained things to me. I think they hoped the investigation would stop if we could get rid of you.’ Malfatti sighed. ‘I tried to tell them things don’t work that way, that it wouldn’t make any difference, killing you, but they didn’t want to listen. They insisted that I help them.’

‘So you agreed?’

Malfatti nodded.

‘You have to give an answer, Signor Malfatti, or the tape doesn’t register it,’ Brunetti explained coolly.

‘Yes, I agreed.’

‘What made you change your mind and agree to do it?’

‘They paid enough.’

Because the young officer was there, Brunetti didn’t ask how much his life was worth. It would come out in time.

‘Did you drive the car that tried to push us off the road?’

‘Yes.’ Malfatti paused for a long time and then added, ‘You know, I don’t think I would have done it if I’d known there was a woman in the car with you. It’s bad luck to kill a woman. She was my first.’ It hit him then and he looked up. ‘See, it is bad luck, isn’t it?’

‘Probably more for the woman than for you, Signor Malfatti,’ Brunetti answered, but before Malfatti could react, Brunetti asked, ‘What about Crespo? Did you kill him?’

‘No, I didn’t have anything to do with that. I was in the car with Ravanello. We left Santomauro with Crespo. When we got back there, it was finished.’

‘What did Santomauro tell you?’

‘Nothing. Not about that. He just told us it had happened, and then he told me to stay out of sight, if possible to get out of Venice. I was going to, but now I guess I won’t get the chance to.’

‘And Ravanello?’

‘I went there this morning, after you came to my place.’ Malfatti stopped here, and Brunetti wondered what he he was preparing.

‘What happened?’ Brunetti prodded him.

‘I told him that the police were after me. I said I needed money to get out of the city and go somewhere. But he panicked. He started shouting that I had ruined everything. That’s when he pulled the knife.’

Brunetti had seen the knife. A switchblade seemed a strange thing for a banker to carry on his person, but he said nothing.

‘He came at me with it. He was completely wild. We fought over it, and I think he fell on it.’ He did, Brunetti remarked to himself. Twice. In the chest.

‘And then?’

‘Then I went to my mother’s. That’s where your men found me.’ Malfatti stopped speaking, and the only sound in the room was the soft humming of the tape recorder.

‘What happened to the money?’ Brunetti asked.

‘What?’ Malfatti said, surprised by this sudden change of pace.

‘The money. That was made from all the rents.’

‘I spent mine, spent it every month. But it was nothing compared to what they got.’

‘How much was it you got?’

‘Between nine and ten million.’

‘Do you know what they did with theirs?’

Malfatti paused for a moment, as though he had never speculated about this. ‘I’d guess Santomauro spent a large part of his on boys. Ravanello, I don’t know. He looked like one of those people who invested money.’ Malfatti’s tone turned this into an obscenity.

‘Have you anything else to say about this or your involvement with these men?’

‘Only that the idea to kill Mascari was theirs, not mine. I went along with it, but it was their idea. I didn’t have much to lose if anyone found out about the rents, so I didn’t see any reason to kill him.’ It was clear that, had he believed he had anything to lose, he would have had no hesitation to kill Mascari, but Brunetti said nothing.

‘That’s all,’ Malfatti said.

Brunetti rose and signalled to the young officer to come with him. ‘I’ll have this typed up and you can sign it.’

‘Take your time,’ Malfatti said and laughed. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

An hour later, Brunetti took three copies of the typed statement down to Malfatti, who signed them without bothering to read it. ‘Don’t you want to know what you’re signing?’ Brunetti asked him.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Malfatti replied, still not bothering to raise himself from the cot. He waved the pen Brunetti had given him at the paper. ‘Besides, there’s no reason to think anyone’s going to believe that.’

Since the same thing had occurred to Brunetti, he didn’t argue the point.

‘What happens now?’ Malfatti asked.

‘There’ll be a hearing within the next few days, and the magistrate will decide if you should be offered the chance of bail.’

‘Will he ask your opinion?’

‘Probably.’

‘And?’

‘I’ll argue against it.’

Malfatti moved his hand along the barrel of the pen and then reversed his hold on it and offered it to Brunetti.