Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

by Donna Leon

  ‘Please be patient with me, Signora. I am merely trying to understand things, and so I need to ask you these questions about your husband. That does not mean that I believe them.’

  ‘Then why ask them?’ she asked, voice truculent.

  ‘So that we can find out the truth about your husband’s death, Signora.’

  ‘I won’t answer any questions about that. It’s not decent.’

  He wanted to tell her that murder wasn’t decent, either, but, instead, he asked, ‘During the last few weeks, had your husband seemed different in any way?’

  Predictably, she said, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘For example, did he say anything about his trip to Messina? Did he seem eager to go? Reluctant?’

  ‘No, he seemed like he always did.’

  ‘And how was that?’

  ‘He had to go. It was part of his job, so he had to do it.’

  ‘Did he say anything about it?’

  ‘No, just that he had to go.’

  ‘And he wouldn’t call you during these trips, Signora?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why was that, Signora?’

  She seemed to sense that he wasn’t going to let this one go, so she answered, ‘The bank wouldn’t allow Leonardo to put personal calls on his expense account. Sometimes he’d call a friend at the office and ask him to call me, but not always.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Brunetti said. Director of a bank, and he wouldn’t pay for a phone call to his wife.

  ‘Do you and your husband have any children, Signora?’

  ‘No,’ she answered quickly.

  Brunetti dropped that and asked, ‘Did your husband have any special friends at the bank? You mentioned a friend you called; could you give me his name?’

  ‘Why do you want to talk to him?’

  ‘Perhaps your husband said something at work, or perhaps he gave some indication of how he felt about the trip to Messina. I’d like to speak to your husband’s friend and see if he noticed anything unusual about your husband’s behaviour.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t.’

  ‘I’d nevertheless like to speak to him, Signora, if you could give me his name.’

  ‘Marco Ravanello. But he won’t be able to tell you anything. There was nothing wrong with my husband.’ She shot Brunetti a fierce glance and repeated, ‘There was nothing wrong with my husband.’

  ‘I don’t want to trouble you any more, Signora,’ Brunetti said, getting to his feet and taking a few steps towards the door. ‘Have the funeral arrangements been made?’

  ‘Yes, the Mass is tomorrow. At ten.’ She didn’t say where it was to be held, and Brunetti didn’t ask. That information was easily enough obtained, and he would attend.

  At the door, he paused. ‘Thank you very much for your help, Signora. I’d like to extend my personal condolences, and I assure you that we will do everything in our power to find the person responsible for your husband’s death.’ Why did ‘death’ always sound better than ‘murder’?

  ‘My husband wasn’t like that. You’ll find out. He was a man.’

  Brunetti did not extend his hand, merely bowed his head and let himself out of the door. As he went down the steps, he remembered the last scene of The House of Bernardo Alba, the mother standing on stage, screaming at the audience and at the world that her daughter had died a virgin, died a virgin. To Brunetti, only the fact of their deaths mattered; all else was vanity.

  * * * *

  At the Questura, he asked Vianello to come up to his office. Because Brunetti’s was two floors higher, it was more likely to catch whatever wisp of breeze was available. When they got inside and Brunetti had opened the windows and taken off his jacket, he asked Vianello, ‘Well, did you get anything on the Lega?’

  ‘Nadia expects to be put on the payroll for this, Dottore,’ Vianello said as he sat down. ‘She spent more than two hours on the phone this weekend, talking to friends all over the city. Interesting, this Lega della Moralità.’

  Vianello would tell the story in his own way, Brunetti knew, but he thought he’d sweeten the process and said, ‘I’ll stop at Rialto tomorrow morning and get her some flowers. Will that be enough, do you think?’

  ‘She’d rather have me home next Saturday,’ Vianello said.

  ‘What are you scheduled for?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘I’m supposed to be on the boat that brings the Minister of the Environment in from the airport. We all know he’s not going to come to Venice, that he’s going to cancel at the last minute. You think he’d dare come here in August, with the algae stinking up the city, and talk about their great, new environmental projects?’ Vianello laughed scornfully; interest in the new Green Party was another result of his recent medical experiences. ‘But I’d like not to have to waste the morning going out to the airport, only to get there and be told he isn’t coming.’

  His argument made complete sense to Brunetti. The Minister, to use Vianello’s words, wouldn’t dare present himself in Venice, not in the same month when half the beaches on the Adriatic coast were closed to swimming because of high levels of pollution, not in a city that had recently learned that the fish that made up a major part of its diet contained dangerously high levels of mercury and other heavy metals. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Brunetti said.

  Pleased with the prospect of something better than flowers, though he knew Brunetti would bring them as well, Vianello pulled out his notebook and began to read the report compiled by his wife.

  ‘The Lega was started about eight years ago, no one quite knows by whom or for what purpose. Because it’s supposed to do good works, things like taking toys to orphanages and meals to old people in their homes, it’s always had a good reputation. Over the years, the city and some of the churches have let it take over and administer vacant apartments: it uses them to give cheap, sometimes free, housing to the elderly and, in some cases, to the handicapped.’ Vianello paused for a moment, then added, ‘Because all of its employees are volunteers, it was allowed to organize itself as a charitable organization.’

  ‘Which,’ Brunetti interrupted him, ‘means that it is not obliged to pay taxes and that the government will extend the usual courtesy to it, and its finances will not be examined closely, if at all.’

  ‘We are two hearts that beat as one, Dottore.’ Brunetti knew Vianello’s politics had changed. But his rhetoric, as well?

  ‘What is very strange, Dottore, is that Nadia wasn’t able to find anyone who actually belonged to the Lega. Not even the woman at the bank, as it turns out. Lots of people said they knew someone who they thought was a member, but, after Nadia asked, it turned out that they weren’t sure. Twice, she spoke to the people who were said to be members, and it turned out that they weren’t.’

  ‘And the good works?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Also very elusive. She called the hospitals, but none of them had ever had any contact with the Lega. I tried the social service agency that takes care of old people, but they’ve never heard of anyone from the Lega doing anything for the old people.’

  ‘And the orphanages?’

  ‘She spoke to the mother superior of the order that runs the three largest ones. She said she had heard of the Lega but had never had any help from them.’

  ‘And the woman in the bank. Why did Nadia think she was a member?’

  ‘Because she lives in an apartment the Lega administers. But she’s never been a member, and she said she didn’t know anyone who was. Nadia’s still trying to find someone who is.’ If Nadia put this time down, as well, Vianello would probably end up asking for the rest of the month oft

  ‘And Santomauro?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Everyone seems to know he’s the boss, but no one seems to know how he became it. Nor, interestingly enough, does anyone have an idea of what it means to be boss.’

  ‘Don’t they have meetings?’

  ‘People say they do. In parish houses or private homes. But, again, Nadia couldn’t find anyone
who had ever actually been to one.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the boys in Finance?’

  ‘No, I thought Elettra would take care of that.’ Elettra? What was this, the informality of the converted?

  ‘I’ve asked Signorina Elettra to put Santomauro into her computer, but I haven’t seen her yet this morning.’

  ‘She’s down in the archives, I think,’ Vianello explained.

  ‘What about his professional life?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Success and success and nothing else. He represents two of the biggest building firms in the city, two city councillors, and at least three banks.’

  ‘Is one of them the Bank of Verona?’

  Vianello looked down at his notebook and flipped back a page. ‘Yes. How did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t know it. But that’s where Mascari worked.’

  ‘Two plus two makes four, doesn’t it?’ Vianello asked.

  ‘Political connections?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘With two city councillors as clients?’ Vianello asked by way of answering the question.

  ‘And his wife?’

  ‘No one seems to know much about her, but everyone seems to believe she’s the real power in the family.’

  ‘And is there a family?’

  ‘Two sons. One’s an architect, the other a doctor.’

  ‘The perfect Italian family,’ Brunetti observed, then asked, ‘And Crespo? What did you find out about him?’

  ‘Have you seen his record from Mestre?’

  ‘Yes. Usual stuff. Drugs. Trying to shake down a customer. Nothing violent. No surprises. Did you find out anything else?’

  ‘Not much more than that,’ Vianello answered. ‘He was beaten up twice, but both times he said he didn’t know who did it. The second time, in fact-’ he flipped a few pages ahead in his notebook’-here it is. He said he was “set upon by thieves”.’

  ‘“Set upon?”‘

  ‘That’s what it said in the report. I copied it down just like it was.’

  ‘He must read a lot of books, Signor Crespo.’

  ‘More than is good for him, I’d say.’

  ‘Did you find out anything else about him? Whose name is on the contract for the apartment where he lives?’

  ‘No. I’ll check and see.’

  ‘And see if you can get Signorina Elettra to find anything there might be about the finances of the Lega, or Santomauro, or Crespo, or Mascari. Tax returns, bank statements, loans. That sort of information should be available.’

  ‘She’ll know what to do,’ Vianello said, noting it all down. ‘Will there be anything else?’

  ‘No. Let me know as soon as you hear anything or if Nadia finds someone who’s a member.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Vianello said, getting to his feet. ‘This is the best thing that could have happened.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nadia’s getting interested in this. You know how she’s been for years, not liking it when I have to work late or on the weekends. But once she got a taste of it, she was off like a bloodhound. And you should have heard her on the phone. She could get people to tell her anything. It’s too bad we don’t hire free lance.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  If he hurried, Brunetti could get to the Bank of Verona before it closed, that is, if an office that functioned from the second floor and appeared to have no place in which to fulfil the public functions of a bank bothered to observe regular hours. He arrived at 12.20 and, finding the downstairs door closed, rang the bell next to the simple brass plate that bore the bank’s name. The door snapped open, and he found himself back in the same small lobby where he had stood with the old woman on Saturday afternoon.

  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 blond 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. 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, neither tall nor blond, though 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 round 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 centre 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.’

  Though 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 sc
andal. 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 cheque, 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 the use of 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?’