Donna Leon - Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

‘Perhaps you could give us a clearer idea of what he looked like, Signore.’

‘I told you, Commissario, a man in a suit. All these men,’ he said, pointing to the pile of photos that lay before him, ‘well, they all look like criminals.’ Vianello stole a look at Brunetti. There had been three photos of police officers mixed in with the others, one of them of Officer Alvise. ‘I told you, he wore a suit,’ Gravi repeated. ‘He looked like one of us. You know, someone who goes to work every day. In an office. And he spoke like an educated man, not a criminal.’

The political naivety of that remark caused Brunetti to wonder, for a moment, if Signor Gravi was really an Italian. He nodded to Vianello, who picked up the second folder from where he had set it on the desk and handed it to Gravi.

As the two policemen watched, Gravi leafed through a smaller stack of photos. When he got to Ravanello’s, he paused and looked up at Brunetti. ‘That’s the banker who was killed yesterday, isn’t it?’ he asked, pointing down at the photo.

‘He’s not the man who bought the shoes, Signor Gravi?’ he asked.

‘No, of course not,’ Gravi answered. ‘If it had been, I would have told you when I came in.’ He looked at the photo again, a studio portrait that had appeared in a brochure which carried photos of all of the officers of the bank. ‘It’s not the man, but it’s the type.’

‘The type, Signor Gravi?’

‘You know, suit and tie and polished shoes. Clean white shirt, good haircut. A real banker.’

For an instant, Brunetti was seven years old, kneeling beside his mother in front of the main altar of Santa Maria Formosa, their parish church. His mother looked up at the altar, crossed herself, and said, voice palpitant with pleading and belief, ‘Maria, Mother of God, for the love of your Son who gave His life for all of us unworthy sinners, grant me this one request, and I will never ask a special grace of you in prayer for as long as I may live.’ It was a promise he was to hear repeated countless times in his youth, for, like all Venetians, Signora Brunetti always placed her trust in the influence of friends in high places. Not for the first time in his life, Brunetti regretted his own lack of faith, but still he prayed.

He returned his attention to Gravi. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t have a photo of the other man who might have bought these shoes from you, but if you could come with me, perhaps you could help us by taking a look at him in the place where he works.’

‘You mean literally take part in the investigation?’ Gravi’s enthusiasm was childlike.

‘Yes, if you’d be willing.’

‘Certainly, Commissario. I’d be glad to help you in any way I can.’

Brunetti stood, and Gravi jumped to his feet. As they walked towards the centre of the city, Brunetti explained to Gravi what he wanted him to do. Gravi asked no questions, content only to do as told, a good citizen helping the police in their investigation of a serious crime.

When they got to Campo San Luca, Brunetti pointed out the doorway that led up to Santomauro’s office and suggested to Signor Gravi that he have a drink in Rosa Salva and allow Brunetti five minutes before he came upstairs.

Brunetti went up the now familiar stairway and knocked on the door to the office. ’ Avanti ,’ the secretary called out, and he went in.

When she looked up from her computer and saw who it was, she couldn’t resist the impulse that brought her half-way out of her chair. ‘I’m sorry, Signorina,’ Brunetti said, putting both hands up in what he hoped was an innocent gesture. ‘I’d like to speak to Avvocato Santomauro. It’s official police business.’

She seemed not to hear him, looked at him with her mouth open in a widening O, either of surprise or fear, Brunetti had no idea which. Very slowly, she reached forward and pressed a button on her desk, keeping her finger on it and getting to her feet but staying safely behind her desk. She stood there, finger still on the button, staring at Brunetti, silent.

A few seconds later, the door was pulled open from inside, and Santomauro came into the outer office. He saw his secretary, silent and still as Lot’s wife, then saw Brunetti by the door.

His rage was immediate and fulminant. ‘What are you doing here? I called the Vice-Questore and told him to keep you away from me. Get out, get out of my office.’ At the sound of his voice, the secretary backed away from her desk and stood against the wall. ‘Get out,’ Santomauro said again, almost shouting now. ‘I will not be subjected to this sort of persecution. I’ll have you…’ he began but stopped as another man came into the office behind Brunetti, a man he didn’t recognize, a short man in a cheap cotton suit.

‘The two of you, get back to the Questura where you came from,’ Santomauro shouted.

‘Do you recognize this man, Signor Gravi?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, I do.’

Santomauro stopped at this, though he still didn’t recognize the little man in the cheap suit.

‘Could you tell me who he is, Signor Gravi?’

‘He’s the man who bought the shoes from me.’

Brunetti turned away from Gravi and looked across the office at Santomauro, who seemed now to have recognized the little man in the cheap suit. ‘And what shoes were they, Signor Gravi?’

‘A pair of red women’s shoes. Size forty-one.’

Santomauro fell apart. Brunetti had observed the phenomenon often enough to recognize what was happening. The arrival of Gravi when Santomauro believed himself to have triumphed over all risk, when the police had not responded to the accusations in Malfatti’s confession, had fallen so suddenly, from the very heavens themselves, that Santomauro had neither the time nor the wit to create some sort of story to explain his purchase of the shoes.

At first, he shouted at Gravi, telling him to get out of his office, but when the little man insisted that he would know Santomauro anywhere, knew that he was the man who had bought those shoes, Santomauro collapsed sideways against his secretary’s desk, arms wrapped around his chest, as if he could that way protect himself from Brunetti’s silent gaze and from the puzzled faces of the other two.

‘That’s the man, Commissario. I’m sure of it.’

‘Well, Avvocato Santomauro?’ Brunetti asked and signalled with his hand for Gravi to remain silent.

‘It was Ravanello,’ Santomauro said, his voice high and tight and close to tears. ‘It was his idea, all of it. About the apartments and the rents. He came to me with the idea. I didn’t want to do it, but he threatened me. He knew about the boys. He said he’d tell my wife and children. And then Mascari found out about the rents.’,

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. Records at the bank. Something in the computer. Ravanello told me. It was his idea to get rid of him.’ None of this made any sense to two of the people in the room, but neither of them said anything, riveted by Santomauro’s terror.

‘I didn’t want to do anything. But Ravanello said we had no choice. We had to do it.’ His voice had grown softer as he spoke, and then he stopped and looked up at Brunetti.

‘What did you have to do, Signor Santomauro?’

Santomauro stared at Brunetti and then shook his head, as if to clear it after a heavy blow. Then he shook it again but this time in clear negation. Brunetti knew these signs, as well. ‘I am placing you under arrest, Signor Santomauro, for the murder of Leonardo Mascari.’

At the mention of that name, both Gravi and the secretary stared at Santomauro, as though seeing him for the first time. Brunetti leaned over the secretary’s desk and, using her phone, called the Questura and asked that three men be sent to Campo San Luca to pick up a suspect and escort him back to the Questura for questioning.