Anonymous Venetian

by Donna Leon

  ‘To whom did you apply?’

  ‘To the Lega della Moralità, of course.’

  ‘And how did you happen to learn that the Lega had apartments which it rented?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge here in the city, isn’t it, Commissario?’

  ‘If it is not now, then it soon will be, Professore.’

  Neither of the Rattis said anything to this, but Signora Ratti glanced quickly at her husband and then back at Brunetti.

  ‘Do you remember anyone in particular who told you about the apartments?’

  Both of them answered instantly, ‘No.’

  Brunetti allowed himself the bleakest of smiles. ‘You seem very sure of that.’ He made a meaningless squiggle against their name on the list. ‘And did you have an interview in order to obtain this apartment?’

  ‘No,’ Ratti said. ‘We filled out the paperwork and sent it in. And then we were told that we had been selected.’

  ‘Did you receive a letter, or perhaps a phone call?’

  ‘It’s been so long ago. I don’t remember,’ Ratti said. He turned to his wife for confirmation, and she shook her head.

  ‘And you’ve been in this apartment for two years now?’

  Ratti nodded.

  ‘And you haven’t saved any of the receipts for the rent you’ve paid?’

  This time his wife shook her head.

  ‘Tell me, Professore, how much time do you spend in the apartment each year?’

  He thought about this for a moment. ‘We come for Carnevale.’

  His wife finished his sentence with a firm, ‘Of course.’

  Her husband continued. ‘Then we come for September, and sometimes for Christmas.’

  His wife broke in here and added, ‘We come for the odd weekend during the rest of the year, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Brunetti repeated. ‘And the maid?’

  ‘We bring her with us from Milano.’

  ‘Of course,’ Brunetti nodded and added another squiggle to the paper in front of him.

  ‘May I ask you, Professore, if you are familiar with the purposes of the Lega? With its goals?’

  ‘I know that it aims at moral improvement,’ the professor answered in a tone that declared there could never be too much of that.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘But beyond that, to its purpose in renting apartments?’

  This time, it was Ratti who glanced at his wife. ‘I think their purpose was to attempt to give the apartments to those they considered worthy of them.’

  Brunetti continued, ‘Knowing this, Professore, did it at any time seem strange to you that the Lega, which is a Venetian organization, had given one of the apartments it controls to a person from Milano, a person who would, moreover, make use of the apartment only a few months of the year?’ When Ratti said nothing, Brunetti urged him, ‘Surely, you know how difficult it is to find an apartment in this city?’

  Signora Ratti chose to answer this. ‘I suppose we believed that they wanted to give an apartment like this to people who would know how to appreciate it and care for it.’

  ‘By that are you suggesting that you would be better able to care for a large and desirable apartment than would, for example, the family of a carpenter from Cannaregio?’

  ‘I think that goes without saying,’ she answered.

  ‘And who, if I might ask, pays for repairs to the apartment?’ Brunetti asked.

  Signora Ratti smiled and answered, ‘So far, there has been no need to make any repairs.’

  ‘But surely there must be a clause in your contract - if you were given a contract - which makes clear who is responsible for repairs.’

  ‘They are,’ Ratti answered.

  ‘The Lega?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So then maintenance is not the responsibility of the people who rent?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you are there for - ‘ Brunetti began and then glanced down at the paper in front of him, as though he had the number written there,’ - for about two months a year?’ When Ratti said nothing, Brunetti asked, ‘Is that correct, Professore?’

  His question was rewarded with a grudging, ‘Yes.’

  In a gesture he made consciously identical to the one used by the priest who taught catechism to his grammar-school class, Brunetti folded his hands neatly in front of him, just short of the bottom of the sheet of paper on his desk, and said, ‘I think it is time to begin making choices, Professore.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can explain it to you. The first choice is that I have you repeat this conversation and your answers to my questions into a tape recorder or that we have a secretary come in and take it down in shorthand. Either way, I would ask you to sign a copy of that statement, ask both of you to sign it, since you are telling me the same thing.’ Brunetti paused long enough for that to register. ‘Or you could, and I suggest this is by far the wiser course, begin to tell me the truth.’ Both feigned surprise, Signora Ratti going so far as to add outrage.

  ‘In either case,’ Brunetti added calmly, ‘the least that will happen to you is that you will lose the apartment, though that might take some time to happen. But you will lose it; that is little, but it is certain.’ He found it interesting that neither demanded that he explain what he was talking about.

  ‘It is clear that many of these apartments have been rented illegally and that someone associated with the Lega has been collecting rents illegally for years.’ When Professore Ratti began to object, Brunetti raised a hand for an instant, then quickly folded his fingers back together. ‘Were it only a case of fraud, then perhaps you would be better advised to continue to maintain that you know nothing about all of this. But, unfortunately, it is far more than a case of fraud.’ He paused here. He’d have it out of them, by God.

  ‘What is it a case of?’ Ratti asked, speaking more softly than he had since he entered Brunetti’s office.

  ‘It is a case of murder. Three murders, one of them a member of the police. I tell you this so that you will begin to realize that we are not going to let this go. One of our own has been killed, and we are going to find out who did that. And punish them.’ He paused a moment to let that sink in.

  ‘If you persist in maintaining your current story about the apartment, then you will eventually become involved in a prosecution for murder.’

  ‘We know nothing about murder,’ Signora Ratti said, voice sharp.

  ‘You do now, Signora. Whoever is at the back of this plan to rent the apartments is also responsible for the three murders. By refusing to help us discover who is responsible for renting you your apartment and collecting your rent each month, you are also obstructing a murder investigation. The penalty for that, I need not remind you, is far more severe than for being evasive in a case involving fraud. And I add, but quite at the personal level, that I will do everything in my power to see that it is imposed upon you if you continue to refuse to help us.’

  Ratti got to his feet. ‘I’d like some time to speak to my wife. In private.’

  ‘No,’ Brunetti said, raising his voice for the first time.

  ‘I have that right,’ Ratti demanded.

  ‘You have the right to speak to your lawyer, Signor Ratti, and I will gladly allow you to do that. But you and your wife will decide that other matter now, in front of me.’ He was way beyond his legal rights, and he knew it; his only hope was that the Rattis did not.

  They looked at one another for so long that Brunetti lost hope. But then she nodded her burgundy head and they both sat back down in their chairs.

  ‘All right,’ Ratti said, ‘but I want to make it clear that we know nothing about this murder.’

  ‘Murders,’ Brunetti said and saw that Ratti was shaken by the correction.

  ‘Three years ago,’ Ratti began, ‘a friend of ours in Milano told us he knew someone he thought could help us find an apartment in Venice. We had been looking for about six months
, but it was very difficult to find anything, especially at that distance.’ Brunetti wondered if he was going to have to listen to a series of complaints. Ratti, perhaps sensing Brunetti’s impatience, continued, ‘He gave us a phone number we could call, a number here in Venice. We called and explained what we wanted, and the person on the other end asked us what sort of apartment we had in mind and how much we wanted to pay.’ Ratti paused, or did he stop?

  ‘Yes?’ Brunetti urged, his voice just the same as that priest’s had been when the children had some question or uncertainty about the catechism.

  ‘I told him what I had in mind, and he said he’d call me back in a few days. He did, and said he had three apartments to show us, if we could come to Venice that weekend. When we came, he showed us this apartment and two others.’

  ‘Was he the same man who answered the phone when you called?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it was certainly the same man who called us back.’

  ‘Do you know who the man was? Or is?’

  ‘It’s the man we pay the rent to, but I don’t know his name.’

  ‘And how do you do that?’

  ‘He calls us in the last week of the month and tells us where to meet him. It’s usually a bar, though sometimes, during the summer, it’s outside.’

  ‘Where, here in Venice or in Milano?’

  His wife interrupted. ‘He seems to know where we are. He calls us here if we’re in Venice or Milano if we’re there.’

  ‘And then what do you do?’

  Ratti answered this time. ‘I meet him and I give him the money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two and a half million lire.’

  ‘A month?’

  ‘Yes, though sometimes I give him a few months in advance.’

  ‘Do you know who this man is?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘No, but I’ve seen him on the street here a few times.’

  Brunetti realized there would be time to get a description later and let that pass. ‘And what about the Lega? How are they involved?’

  ‘When we told this man that we were interested in the apartment, he suggested a price, but we bargained him down to two and a half million.’ Ratti said this with ill-disguised self-satisfaction.

  ‘And the Lega?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘He told us that we would receive application forms from the Lega and that we were to fill them out and return them, and that we would be able to move into the apartment within two weeks of that.’

  Signora Ratti broke in here. ‘He also told us not to tell anyone about how we had got the apartment.’

  ‘Has anyone asked you?’

  ‘Some friends of ours in Milano,’ she answered, ‘but we told them we found it through a rental agency.’

  ‘And the person who gave you the number - do you know how he got it?’

  ‘He told us someone had given it to him at a party.’

  ‘Do you remember the month and year when you made that original call?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Why?’ Ratti asked, immediately suspicious.

  ‘I’d like to have a clearer idea of when this began,’ Brunetti lied, thinking that he could have their phone records checked for calls to Venice at that time.

  Though he looked and sounded sceptical, Ratti answered. ‘It was in March, two years ago. Towards the end of the month. We moved in here at the beginning of May.’

  ‘I see,’ said Brunetti. ‘And since you’ve been living in the apartment, have you had anything to do with the Lega?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ Ratti said.

  ‘What about receipts?’ Brunetti asked.

  Ratti shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘We get one from the bank every month.’

  ‘For how much?’

  ‘Two hundred and twenty thousand.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you want to show it to Sergeant Vianello?’

  His wife broke in again and answered for him. ‘We didn’t want to get involved in anything.’

  ‘Mascari?’ Brunetti suddenly asked.

  Ratti’s nervousness seemed to increase. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When the director of the bank that sent you the receipts for the rent was killed, you didn’t find it strange?’

  ‘No, why should I?’ Ratti said, putting anger into his voice. ‘I read about how he died. I assumed he was killed by one of his “tricks”.’

  ‘Has anyone been in touch with you recently about the apartment?’

  ‘No, no one.’

  ‘If you should happen to receive a call or perhaps a visit from the man you pay the rent to, I expect you to call us immediately.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Commissario,’ Ratti said, restored to his role as irreproachable citizen.

  Suddenly sick of them, their posing, their designer clothes, Brunetti said, ‘You can go downstairs with Sergeant Vianello. Please give him as detailed a description as you can of the man you pay the rent to.’ Then, to Vianello, ‘If it sounds like anyone we might know, let them take a look at some pictures.’

  Vianello nodded and opened the door. The Rattis both stood, but neither made any effort to shake Brunetti’s hand. The professor took his wife’s arm for the short trip to the door, then stood back to allow her to pass through it in front of him. Vianello glanced across at Brunetti, allowed himself the smallest of smiles, and followed them out of the office, closing the door after them.

  * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  His conversation with Paola that night was short. She asked if there was any news, repeated her suggestion that she come down for a few days; she thought she could leave the children alone at the hotel, but Brunetti told her it was too hot even to think of coming to the city.

  He spent the rest of the evening in the company of the Emperor Nero, whom Tacitus described as being ‘corrupted by every lust, natural and unnatural’. He went to sleep only after reading the description of the burning of Rome, which Tacitus seemed to attribute to Nero’s having gone through a marriage ceremony with a man, during which the emperor shocked even the members of his dissolute court by ‘putting on the bridal veil’. Everywhere, transvestites.

  The next morning, Brunetti, ignorant of the fact that the story of Burrasca’s arrest had appeared in that morning’s Corriere, a story that made no mention of Signora Patta, attended the funeral of Maria Nardi. The Chiesa dei Gesuiti was crowded, filled with her friends and family and with most of the police of the city. Officer Scarpa from Mestre attended, explaining that Sergeant Gallo could not get away from the trial in Milan and would be there for at least another three days. Even Vice-Questore Patta attended, looking sombre in a dark blue suit. Though he knew it was a sentimental and no doubt politically incorrect view, Brunetti could not rid himself of the idea that it was worse for a woman to die in the course of police duty than a man. When the Mass was finished, he waited on the steps of the church while the coffin was carried out by six uniformed policemen. When her husband emerged, weeping brokenly and staggering with grief, Brunetti turned his eyes to the left and looked out across the waters of the laguna towards Murano. He was still standing there when Vianello came up to him and touched him on the arm.

  ‘Commissario?’

  He came back. ‘Yes, Vianello?’

  ‘I’ve got a probable identification from those people.’

  ‘When did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t know until this morning. Yesterday afternoon, they looked at a number of pictures, but they said they weren’t sure. I think they were but wanted to talk to their lawyer. In any case, they were back in this morning, at nine, and they identified Pietro Malfatti.’

  Brunetti gave a silent whistle. Malfatti had been in and out of their hands for years; he had a record for violent crimes, among them rape and attempted murder, but the accusations seemed always to dissipate before Malfatti came to trial, when witnesses changed their minds or said that they had been wrong in their original identification. He had been sent away tw
ice, once for living off the earnings of a prostitute, and once for attempting to extort protection money from the owner of a bar. The bar had burned down during the two years Malfatti was in jail.

  ‘Did they identify him positively?’

  ‘Both of them were pretty sure.’

  ‘Do we have an address for him?’

  ‘The last address we had was an apartment in Mestre, but he hasn’t lived there for more than a year.’