by Donna Leon
The woman’s glance, beyond him and down the steps, to the source of the music that thundered up the stairs behind him, suggested to Brunetti that she might not be surprised by his arrival. “It’s about him, isn’t it?” she asked, pointing with her chin toward the source of the heavy bass that continued to flow up the stairs.
“Signorina Vespa’s friend?” he asked.
“Si. Him,” she said, spitting out the syllables with such force that Brunetti wondered what else Malfatti had done in the time he had been in the building.
“How long has he been here?” Brunetti asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, taking another step back into her apartment. “The music’s been on all day, ever since early morning. I can’t go down and complain.”
“Why not?”
She pulled her baby closer to her, as if to remind the man in front of her that she was a mother. “The last time I did, he said terrible things to me.”
“What about Signorina Vespa, can’t you ask her?”
Her shrug dismissed the usefulness of Signorina Vespa.
“Isn’t she there with him?”
“I don’t know who’s with him, and I don’t care. I just want that music to stop so my baby can get to sleep.” On that cue, the baby, which had been heavily asleep in her arms, opened his eyes, drooled, and went immediately back to sleep.
The music gave Brunetti the idea, that and the fact that the woman had already complained to Malfatti about it.
“Signora, go inside,” he said. “I’m going to slam your door and then go down and talk to him. I want you to stay inside. Stay in the back of your apartment and don’t come out until one of my men comes up and tells you that you can.”
She nodded and stepped into the apartment. Brunetti bent forward, reached into the apartment, and grabbed the door by its handle. He pulled it toward him violently, crashing it shut with a sound that rang out in the stairway like a shot.
He turned and slammed his way down the steps, pounding his heels as hard as he could, creating a torrent of noise that momentarily obscured the music. “Basta con quella musica” he screamed in a wild voice, a man driven beyond the limits of patience. “Enough of that music,” he screamed again. When he got to the landing below, he pounded on the door from behind which the music came, screaming as loud as he could, “Turn that goddamned music down. My baby’s trying to sleep. Turn it down or I’ll call the police.” At the end of each sentence, he banged, then kicked, at the door.
He must have been at it for a full minute before the volume of the music suddenly became lower, although it was still fully audible through the door. He forced his voice up into a higher register, shouting now as though he had finally lost all control of himself, “Turn the goddamned music off. Turn it off or I’ll come in there and turn it off for you.”
He heard quick footsteps approaching and braced himself. The door was pulled back suddenly, and a stocky man filled the doorway, a short metal rod gripped in his hand. Brunetti had only an instant, but in that instant he recognized Malfatti from his police photos.
Holding the rod down at his side, Malfatti took one step forward, bringing himself halfway through the door. “Who the hell do you—” he began but stopped when Brunetti lunged forward and grabbed him, one hand on his right forearm and the other on the cloth of his shirt. Brunetti swiveled, turned on his hip, and swung out with all his strength. Caught completely off guard, Malfatti was pulled forward and off balance. For an instant, he balked at the top of the stairs, trying vainly to shift his weight and pull himself backward, but then he lost his balance and toppled forward down the steps. As he fell, he dropped the iron bar and wrapped both arms around his head, turning himself into an acrobatic ball that tumbled down the steps.
Brunetti scrambled down the stairs after him, screaming Vianello’s name as loudly as he could. Halfway down the steps, Brunetti stepped on the iron bar and slipped to his side, crashing against the wall of the stairway. When he looked up, he saw Vianello pushing open the heavy door at the bottom of the steps. But by that time Malfatti had scrambled to his feet and was standing just behind the door. Before Brunetti could shout a warning, Malfatti kicked the door, slamming it into Vianello’s face, knocking the gun from his hand and him out into the narrow calk. Malfatti pulled the door open and disappeared into the sunlight beyond.
Brunetti got to his feet and ran down the steps, drawing his pistol, but by the time he got to the street, Malfatti had disappeared, and Vianello lay against the low wall of the canal, blood streaming from his nose onto his white uniform shirt. Just as Brunetti bent over him, the three other officers piled out of the bookstore, machine guns pointed in front of them but no one to point them at.
27
Vianello’s nose was not broken, but he was badly shaken. With Brunetti’s help, he got to his feet and wove unsteadily for a moment, wiping at his nose with his hand.
People crowded around them, old women demanding to know what was happening, the fruit vendors already explaining to their newest customers what they had seen. Brunetti turned away from Vianello and almost tripped over a metal grocery cart filled to the top with vegetables. He kicked it aside angrily and turned to the two men who worked on the nearest boat. They had a clear view of the door to the building and must have seen everything.
“Which way did he go?”
Both pointed down toward the campo, but then one pointed to the right, in the direction of the Accademia Bridge, while the other pointed to the left and toward the Rialto.
Brunetti signaled to one of the officers, who helped him lead Vianello toward the boat. Angrily, the sergeant pushed their hands away, insisting he could walk by himself. From the deck of the boat, Brunetti radioed the Questura with a description of Malfatti, asking that copies of his photo be distributed to all the police in the city and that his description be radioed to everyone on patrol.
When the officers were aboard, the pilot backed the boat toward the Grand Canal, then swung it around and headed toward the Questura. Vianello went down into the cabin and sat with his head tilted back to stop the bleeding. Brunetti followed him. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“It’s only a bloody nose,” Vianello said. “It’ll stop in a minute.” He wiped at it with his handkerchief. “What happened?”
“I banged on his door, complaining about his music, and he opened it. I pulled him out and threw him down the stairs.” Vianello looked surprised. “It was all I could think of,” Brunetti explained. “But I didn’t think he’d recover so quickly.”
“What now?” Vianello asked.
“What do you think he’ll do?”
“Try to get in touch with Ravanello and Santomauro, I’d say.”
“Do you want to warn them?”
“No,” Brunetti answered immediately. “But I want to know where they are, and I want to see what they do. I want them watched.” The launch swung into the canal that led to the Questura, and Brunetti climbed back on deck. When they pulled up to the small dock, he jumped ashore and waited while Vianello followed him. As they passed through the front door, the officers on guard stared at the sergeant’s bloody shirt but said nothing. When the other officers came off the boat, the guards crowded around and asked for an explanation.
At the second landing, Vianello went off toward the bathroom at the end of the corridor, and Brunetti went up to his own office. He called the Banca di Verona and, using a false name, asked to speak to Signor Ravanello. When the man he spoke to asked him what this was in regard to, Brunetti explained that it was about the estimate the banker had asked for on a new computer. He was told that Signor Ravanello was not in that morning but could be reached at home. Asked, the man supplied the banker’s home number, and Brunetti dialed it immediately, only to find it busy.
He found the number of Santomauro’s office, dialed it, and, giving the same false name, asked if he could speak to Avvocato Santomauro. The lawyer, his secretary explained, was busy with another client and coul
d not be disturbed. Brunetti said he would call back and hung up.
He dialed Ravanello’s number again, but it was still busy. He pulled the phone book from his bottom drawer and looked up Ravanello’s name, curious to find the address. From the listing, he guessed that it would have to be in the vicinity of Campo San Stefano, not far from Santomauro’s office. He considered how Malfatti would get there; the obvious answer was the traghetto, the public gondola that plied the waters back and forth between Ca’ Rezzonico and Campo San Samuele on the opposite side of the Grand Canal. From there it was only minutes to Campo San Stefano.
He dialed the number again, but it was still busy. He called the operator and asked her to check the line and, after waiting less than a minute, was told that the line was open although not in contact with any other number, which meant that the phone was either out of order or had been left off the hook. Even before he hung up, Brunetti was mapping out the fastest way to get there; the launch was best. He went down the stairs and into Vianello’s office. The sergeant, wearing a clean shirt, looked up when Brunetti came in.
“Ravanello’s phone is off the hook.”
Vianello was out of his chair and on the way to the door before Brunetti said anything else.
Together, they went downstairs and out into the blanketing heat. The pilot was hosing down the deck of the launch but, seeing the two men come running out the front door, he tossed the hose to the sidewalk and jumped to the wheel.
“Campo San Stefano,” Brunetti called to him. “Use the siren.”
Klaxon shouting out its double-noted call, the boat pulled away from the dock and once again out into the bacino. Boats and vaporetti slowed to allow it to speed past them, only the elegant black gondolas paying it no heed; by law, all boats had to defer to the slow passage of the gondola.
Neither of them spoke. Brunetti went down into the cabin and consulted a city guide to see where the address was located. He was right: the apartment was directly opposite the entrance to the church that gave the campo its name.
As the boat neared the Accademia Bridge, Brunetti went back on deck and told the pilot to cut the siren. He had no idea what they would find at San Stefano, but he would like their arrival there to go unannounced. The pilot switched the siren off and pulled the boat into the Rio del Orso and over to the landing stage on the left side. Brunetti and Vianello climbed up onto the embankment and walked quickly through the open campo. Lethargic couples sat at tables in front of a café, hunched over pastel drinks; everyone walking in the campo looked to be carrying the heat like a palpable yoke across their shoulders.
They quickly found the door, between a restaurant and a shop that sold patterned Venetian paper. Ravanello’s bell was on the top right of the two rows of names. Brunetti rang the one below it, then, when there was no answer, the one under that. When a voice answered, asking who it was, he declared, “Polizia,” and the door snapped open immediately.
He and Vianello went into the building, and, from above them, a high, querulous voice called out, “How did you get here so fast?”
Brunetti started up the stairs, Vianello close behind him. On the first floor, a grey-haired woman, little taller than the bannister over which she leaned, called down again, “How did you get here so fast?”
Ignoring her question, Brunetti asked, “What’s wrong, Signora?”
She moved back from the bannister and pointed above her. “Up there. I heard shouting from Signor Ravanello’s, and then I saw someone run down the steps. I was afraid to go up.”
Brunetti and Vianello swept past her, taking the stairs two at a time now, both of them with their pistols in their hands. At the top, light spilled out of the apartment onto the broad landing in front of the open door. Brunetti crouched low and moved to the other side of the door, but he moved too quickly to be able to see anything inside. He looked back at Vianello, who nodded. Together they burst into the apartment, both bent low. As soon as they were through the door, they moved to either side of the room, making of themselves two separate targets.
But Ravanello was not going to shoot at them: one glance at him was enough to show that. His body lay across a low chair that had fallen to its side in the fight that must have taken place in this room. He lay on his side, facing the door, staring with unseeing eyes, eternally removed from any curiosity about these men who had burst suddenly and without invitation into his home.
Not for an instant did Brunetti suspect that Ravanello might still be alive; the marmoreal weight of his body rendered that impossible. There was very little blood; that was the first thing Brunetti noticed. Ravanello appeared to have been stabbed twice, for there were two bold red patches on his jacket, and some blood had spilled to the floor beneath his arm, but hardly enough to suggest that its passing had taken his life with it.
“Oh Dio,” he heard the old woman gasp behind him, turned and found her at the door, one fist clenched in front of her mouth, staring across at Ravanello. Brunetti moved two steps to his right and into her line of vision. She looked up at him with chilled eyes. Could it be that she was angry with him for having blocked her sight of the body?
“What did he look like, Signora?” he asked.
She shifted her eyes to his left but couldn’t see around him.
“What did he look like, Signora?”
Behind him, he heard Vianello moving around, going off into another room of the apartment, then he heard the phone being dialed and Vianello’s voice, soft and calm, reporting to the Questura what had happened, asking for the necessary people.
Brunetti walked directly toward the woman and, as he had hoped, she retreated before him out into the corridor. “Could you tell me exactly what you saw, Signora?”
“A man, not very tall, running down the steps. He had a white shirt. Short sleeves.”
“Would you know him if you saw him again, Signora?”
“Yes.” So would Brunetti.
Behind them, Vianello appeared from the apartment, leaving the door open. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Stay here,” Brunetti said, moving toward the stairs. “Santomauro?” Vianello asked.
Brunetti waved his hand in acknowledgment and ran down the steps. Outside, he turned left and hurried up toward Campo San Angelo and, beyond it, Campo San Luca and the lawyer’s office.
It was like wading through a heavy surf, pushing his way through the late morning crowds of people who gawked in front of shop windows, paused to talk to one another, or stood in the momentary relief of a cool breeze escaping from an air-conditioned shop. Down through the narrow confines of Calle della Mandorla he raced, using his elbow and his voice, careless of the angry stares and sarcastic remarks created by his passing.
In the open space of Campo Manin, he broke into a trot, although every step brought sweat pouring out onto his body. He cut around the bank and into Campo San Luca, crowded now with people meeting for a drink before lunch.
The downstairs door that led up to Santomauro’s office was ajar; Brunetti pushed himself through it and took the steps two at a time. The door to the office was closed, the light below it gleaming out into the dim hallway. He took out his gun and pushed the door open, moving quickly to the side in a protective crouch, just as he had when entering Ravanello’s office.
The secretary screamed. Like a character in a comic book, she covered her mouth with both hands and let out a loud shriek, then pushed herself backward and toppled from her chair.
Seconds later the door to Santomauro’s office opened, and the lawyer came rushing from his office. In a glance, he took it all in—his secretary cowering behind her desk, butting her shoulder repeatedly against the top as she tried, vainly, to crawl under it, and Brunetti, rising to his feet and putting his gun away.
“It’s all right, Louisa,” Santomauro said, going to his secretary and kneeling down beside her. “It’s all right, it’s nothing.”
The woman was incapable of speech, beyond thought or reason. She sobbed, turned toward her employ
er and stretched out her hands to him. He put an arm around her shoulder and she pressed her face against his chest. She sobbed deeply and gasped for breath. Santomauro bent over her, patting her on the back and speaking softly to her. Gradually, the woman calmed and after a moment pushed herself back from him. “Scusi, Avvocato,” was the first thing she said, her formality restoring full calm to the room.
Silent now, Santomauro helped her to her feet and toward a door at the back of the office. When he closed it behind her, Santomauro turned to face Brunetti. “Well?” he said, voice calm but no less lethal for being calm.
“Ravanello’s been killed,” Brunetti said. “And I thought you’d be next. So I came here to try to stop it.”
If Santomauro was surprised at the news, he gave no sign of it. “Why?” he asked. When Brunetti didn’t answer, he repeated the question. “Why would I be next?”
Brunetti didn’t answer him.
“I asked you a question, Commissario. Why would I be next? Why, in fact, would I be in any danger at all?” In the face of Brunetti’s continuing silence, Santomauro continued. “Do you think I’m somehow involved in all of this? Is that why you’re here, playing cowboys and Indians and terrifying my secretary?”
“I had reason to believe he would come here,” Brunetti finally explained.
“Who?” the lawyer demanded
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”
Santomauro bent down and picked up the secretary’s chair. He righted it and pushed it into place behind her desk. When he looked back at Brunetti, he said, “Get out. Get out of this office. I am going to make a formal complaint to the Minister of the Interior. And I am going to send a copy of it to your superior. I will not be treated as a criminal, and I will not have my secretary terrified by your Gestapo techniques.”