by Donna Leon
At the top of the stairs, he saw that the door to the bank’s office was closed, so he rang a second bell at its side. After a moment, he heard steps approach the door, and then it was pulled open by a tall blonde man, clearly not the one he had seen go down the steps on Saturday afternoon.
He took his warrant card from his pocket and held it out to him. “Buon giorno, I’m Commissario Guido Brunetti from the Questura di Venezia. I’d like to speak to Signor Ravanello.”
“Just one moment, please,” the man said and closed the door so quickly that Brunetti didn’t have time to stop him. At least a full minute passed before the door was opened again, this time by another man, he neither tall nor blonde, although neither was he the man Brunetti had seen on the stairs. “Yes?” he asked Brunetti, as though the other man had been a mirage.
“I’d like to speak to Signor Ravanello.”
“And who shall I say is here?”
“I just told your colleague. Commissario Guido Brunetti.”
“Ah, yes, just a moment.” This time Brunetti was ready, had his foot poised above the ground, ready to jam it into the door at the first sign the man might try to close it, a trick he had learned from reading American murder mysteries but which he had never had the chance to try.
Nor was he to get the chance to try it now. The man pulled the door back and said, “Please come in, Signor Commissario. Signor Ravanello is in his office and would be happy to see you.” It seemed a lot for the man to assume, but Brunetti allowed him the right to his own opinion,
The main office appeared to occupy the same area as did the old woman’s apartment. The man led him across a room that corresponded to her living room: the same four large windows looked out on the campo. Three men in dark suits sat at separate desks, but none of them bothered to look up from his computer screen as Brunetti crossed the room. The man stopped in front of a door that would have been the door to the old woman’s kitchen. He knocked and entered without waiting for an answer.
The room was about the same size as the kitchen, but where the old woman had a sink, this room had four rows of filing cabinets. In the space where she had her marble-topped table, there was a broad oak desk, and behind it sat a tall, dark-haired man of medium build who wore a white shirt and dark suit. He did not have to turn around and show the back of his head for Brunetti to recognize him as the man who had been working in the office on Saturday afternoon and whom he had seen on the vaporetto.
He had been at some distance, and he had been wearing dark glasses when Brunetti saw him, but it was the same man. He had a small mouth and a long, patrician nose. This, coupled with narrow eyes and heavy dark eyebrows, succeeded in pulling all attention to the center of his face so that the viewer tended at first to ignore his hair, which was very thick and tightly curled.
“Signor Ravanello,” Brunetti began, “I’m Commissario Guido Brunetti.”
Ravanello stood behind his desk and extended his hand. “Ah, yes, I’m sure you’ve come about this terrible business with Mascari.” Then, turning to the other man, he said, “Thank you, Aldo. I’ll speak to the commissario.” The other man left the office and closed the door.
“Please, have a seat,” Ravanello offered and came around the desk to turn one of the two straight-backed chairs that stood there so that it was more directly facing his own. When Brunetti was seated, Ravanello went back to his own chair and sat down. “This is terrible, terrible. I’ve been speaking to the directors of the bank in Verona. None of us has the least idea what to do about this.”
“About replacing Mascari? He was the director here, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he was. But, no, our problem isn’t about who will replace him. That’s been taken care of.”
Although Ravanello clearly meant this as a pause before he got to the real business of the bank’s concern, Brunetti asked, “And who replaced him?”
Ravanello looked up, surprised by the question. “I have, as I was assistant director. But, as I said, this is not the reason for the bank’s concern.”
To the best of Brunetti’s knowledge—and experience had never interfered to prove him wrong—the only reason for a bank’s concern about anything was how much money it made or lost. He smiled a curious smile and asked, “And what is that, Signor Ravanello?”
“The scandal. The awful scandal. You know how discreet we have to be, bankers, you know how careful.”
Brunetti knew they couldn’t be seen in a casino, couldn’t write a bad check or they could be fired, but these hardly seemed onerous demands to place upon someone who, after all, had in trust the money of other people.
“Which scandal are you talking about, Signor Ravanello?”
“If you’re a police commissario, then you know the circumstances in which Leonardo’s body was found.”
Brunetti nodded.
“That, unfortunately, has become common knowledge here and in Verona. We have already had a number of calls from our clients, from people who dealt with Leonardo for a number of years. Three of them have asked to transfer their funds from this bank. Two of those represent substantial losses for the bank. And today is only the first day.”
“And you believe these decisions are the result of the circumstances in which Signor Mascari’s body was found?”
“Obviously. I should think that would be self-evident,” Ravanello said, but he sounded worried, not angry.
“Do you have reason to believe that there will be more withdrawals as a result of this?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. In those cases, the real losses, we can trace them directly to Leonardo’s death. But we are far more worried about the immeasurable loss to the bank.”
“Which would be?”
“People who choose not to invest with us. People who hear about this or read about this and, as a result, choose to entrust their finances to another bank.”
Brunetti thought about this for a while, and he also thought about the way bankers always avoided using the word “money,” thought of the broad panoply of words they’d invented to replace that crasser term: funds, finances, investments, liquidity, assets. Euphemism was usually devoted to crasser things: death and bodily functions. Did that mean there was something fundamentally sordid about money and that the language of bankers attempted to disguise or deny this fact? He pulled his attention back to Ravanello.
“Have you any idea of how much this might be?”
“No,” Ravanello said, shaking his head as at the mention of death or serious illness. “There’s no way to calculate it.”
“And what you call the real losses, how great have they been?”
Ravanello’s look became more guarded. “Could you tell me why you want that information, Commissario?”
“It’s not a case of my wanting that information, Signor Ravanello, not specifically. We are still in the opening stages of this investigation, and so I want to acquire as much information as possible, from as many sources as possible. I’m not sure what will prove important, but we won’t be able to make that determination until we have acquired all of the information there is to be had regarding Signor Mascari.”
“I see, I see,” Ravanello said. He reached out and pulled a folder toward him. “I have those figures here, Commissario. I was just looking at them.” He opened the folder and ran his finger down a computer printout of names and numbers. “The combined worth of the liquidated assets, just from the two depositors I mentioned—the third hardly matters—is roughly eight billion lire.”
“Because he was wearing a dress?” Brunetti said, intentionally exaggerating his response.
Ravanello disguised his distaste at such levity, but just barely. “No, Commissario, not because he was wearing a dress. But because that sort of behavior is suggestive of a profound lack of responsibility, and our investors, perhaps rightly, are concerned that this same lack of responsibility might have characterized his professional as well as his personal life.”
“So people are bailing out before it’s disc
overed that he’s bankrupted the bank by spending it all on stockings and lace underwear?”
“I see no reason to treat this as a joke, Commissario,” Ravanello said in a voice that must have brought countless creditors to their knees.
“I am merely attempting to suggest that this is an excessive response to the man’s death.”
“But his death is very compromising.”
“For whom?”
“For the bank, certainly. But far more so for Leonardo himself.”
“Signor Ravanello, however compromising Signor Mascari’s death may seem to be, we have no definite facts regarding the circumstances of that death.”
“Is that supposed to mean that he was not found wearing a woman’s dress?”
“Signor Ravanello, if I dress you in a monkey suit, that does not mean you are a monkey.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ravanello asked, no longer attempting to disguise his anger.
“It’s supposed to mean exactly what it does mean: the fact that Signor Mascari was wearing a dress at the time of his death does not necessitate the fact that he was a transvestite. In fact, it does not necessitate the fact that there was the least irregularity in his life.”
“I find that impossible to believe,” Ravanello said.
“Apparently so do your investors.”
“I find it impossible to believe for other reasons, Commissario,” Ravanello said and looked down at the folder, closed it, and set it to the side of the desk.
“Yes?”
“This is very difficult to talk about,” he said, taking the folder and shifting it to the other side of the desk.
When he said nothing more, Brunetti urged in a softer voice, “Go on, Signor Ravanello.”
“I was a friend of Leonardo’s. Perhaps his only close friend.” He looked up at Brunetti, then down again at his hands. “I knew about him,” he said in a soft voice.
“Knew what, Signor Ravanello?”
“About the dressing up. And about the boys.” His color rose as he said this, but he kept his eyes steadily on his hands.
“How did you know it?”
“Leonardo told me.” He paused here and took a deep breath. “We’ve worked together for ten years. Our families know each other. Leonardo is my son’s godfather. I don’t think he had other friends, not close ones.” Ravanello stopped talking, as if this was all he could say.
Brunetti allowed a moment to pass and then asked, “How did he tell you? And what did he tell you?”
“We were here, working on a Sunday, just the two of us. The computers had been down on Friday and Saturday, and we couldn’t begin to work on them until Sunday. We were sitting out at the terminals in the main office, and he just turned to me and told me.”
“What did he say?”
“It was very strange, Commissario. He just looked over at me. I saw that he had stopped working, thought he wanted to tell me something or ask me something about the transaction he was recording, so I stopped and looked at him.” Ravanello paused, conjuring up the scene. “He said, ‘You know, Marco, I like boys.’ Then he bent down over the computer and continued to work, just as if he’d given me a transaction number or the price of a stock. It was very strange.” Brunetti allowed silence to emanate out from this for a while, and then he asked, “Did he ever explain the remark or add to it?”
“Yes. When we finished working that afternoon, I asked him what he meant, and he told me.”
“What did he say?”
“That he liked boys, not women.”
“Boys or men?”
“Raggazzi. Boys.”
“Did he say anything about the dressing?”
“Not then. But he did about a month later. We were on the train, going out to the main office in Verona, and we passed a few of them on the platform in Padova. He told me then.”
“How did you respond to what he told you?”
“I was shocked, of course. I never suspected Leonardo was that way.”
“Did you warn him?”
“About what?”
“His position at the bank?”
“Of course. I told him that if anyone learned about it his career would be ruined.”
“Why? I’m sure many homosexuals work in banks.”
“No, it’s not that. It was the dressing up. And the whores.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes. He told me that he used them and that he would do the same sometimes.”
“Do what?”
“Whatever you call it—solicit? He would take money from men. I told him that this could destroy him.” Ravanello paused for a moment and then added, “And it did destroy him.”
“Signor Ravanello, why haven’t you told the police any of this?”
“I’ve just told you, Commissario. I’ve told you everything.”
“Yes, but I came here to question you. You didn’t contact us.”
“I saw no reason to destroy his reputation,” Ravanello finally said.
“It would seem, from what you’ve told me about your clients, that there isn’t much left to destroy.”
“I didn’t think it was important.” Seeing Brunetti’s look, he said, “That is, everyone seemed to believe it already. So I saw no reason to betray his confidence.”
“I suspect there’s something you aren’t telling me, Signor Ravanello.”
The banker met Brunetti’s gaze and quickly looked away. “I also wanted to protect the bank. I wanted to see if Leonardo had been, if he had been indiscreet.”
“Is that bankers language for ‘embezzle’?”
Again, Ravanello’s lips expressed his opinion of Brunetti’s choice of words. “I wanted to be sure that the bank had been in no way affected by his indiscretions.”
“Meaning what?”
“All right, Commissario,” Ravanello said, leaning forward and speaking angrily. “I wanted to see that his accounts were in order, that nothing was missing from any of the clients or institutions whose funds he handled.”
“You’ve had a busy morning, then.”
“No, I came in this weekend to do it. I spent most of Saturday and Sunday at the computer, checking through his files, going back three years. That’s all I had time to check.”
“And what did you find?”
“Absolutely nothing. Everything is perfectly as it should be. However disorderly Leonardo’s private life might have been, his professional life is perfectly in order.”
“And if it had not been?” Brunetti asked.
“Then I would have called you.”
“I see. Can copies of these records be made available to us?”
“Of course,” Ravanello agreed, surprising Brunetti by the speed with which he did so. In his experience, banks were even more reluctant to disclose information than to give money. Usually, it was available only with a court order. What a pleasant, accommodating gesture for Signor Ravanello to make.
“Thank you, Signor Ravanello. One of our finance people will be down to get them from you, perhaps tomorrow.”
“I’ll have them ready.”
“I’d also like you to think of anything else Signor Mascari might have confided in you about his other, his secret, life.”
“Of course. But I think I’ve told you everything.”
“Well, perhaps the emotion of the moment might be preventing you from remembering other things, minor things. I’d be very grateful if you’d make a note of anything that comes to mind. I’ll be in touch with you in a day or two.”
“Of course,” Ravanello repeated, perhaps made amiable by the clear sense that the interview was soon to end.
“I think that will be all for today,” Brunetti said, getting to his feet. “I appreciate both your time and your candor, Signor Ravanello. I’m sure this time is very difficult for you. You’ve lost not only a colleague, but a friend.”
“Yes, I have,” Ravanello said, nodding.
“Again,” Brunetti said, extending his hand, “let
me thank you for your time and your help.” He paused a moment and then added, “And your honesty.”
Ravanello looked up sharply at this but said, “You’re welcome, Commissario,” and came around the desk to lead Brunetti to the door. He went out of his office with Brunetti and accompanied him to the door of the main office. They shook hands again there, and Brunetti let himself out onto those same steps down which he had followed Ravanello Saturday afternoon.
18
Because he was near the Rialto, it would have been easy for Brunetti to go home for lunch, but he neither wanted to cook for himself nor risk the rest of the insalata di calamari, now in its fourth day and hence suspect. Instead, he walked down to Corte dei Milion and had an adequate lunch in the small trattoria that crouched in one corner of the tiny campo.
He got back to his office at three and thought it might be wise to go down and talk to Patta without having to be summoned. Outside the Vice-Questore’s office, he found Signorina Elettra standing by the table that stood against the wall of her tiny office, pouring water from a plastic bottle into a large crystal vase that held six tall calla lilies. The lilies were white, but not so white as the cotton of the blouse she wore with the skirt of her purple suit. When she saw Brunetti, she smiled and said, “It’s remarkable, how much water they drink.”
He could think of no adequate rejoinder, so he contented himself with returning her smile and asking, “Is he in?”
“Yes. He just got back from lunch. He’s got an appointment at four-thirty so if you want to talk to him, you better do it now.”
“Do you know what kind of appointment it is?”
“Commissario, are you asking me to reveal a confidence about the Vice-Questore’s private life?” she asked, managing to sound properly shocked, then continued, “The fact that his appointment is with his lawyer is one I do not feel myself at liberty to reveal.”
“Ah, yes,” Brunetti said and looked down at her shoes, the same purple as her skirt. She had worked for Patta for little more than a week. “Then perhaps I better see him now.” He stepped a bit to the side and knocked on Patta’s door, waited for the “Avanti” that answered his knock, and went in.