by Donna Leon
The charter of the Lega placed the power to select among applicants in the hands of the board of directors of the Lega, all of whom, to remove any possibility of favouritism on the part of Church authorities, were to be laymen. They were themselves, as well, to be of the highest moral character and were to have achieved some prominence in the community. Of the current board of six, two were listed as ‘honorary members’. Of the remaining four, one lived in Rome and another in Paris, while the third lived on the monastery island of San Francesco del Deserto. The only active member of the board living in Venice, therefore, was Avvocato Giancarlo Santomauro.
The original charter provided for the transfer of fifty-two apartments to the administration of the Lega. At the end of three years, the system had been judged to be so successful, this on the basis of letters and statements from tenants and from parish officials and priests who had interviewed them, that six other parishes were led to join, passing another forty-three apartments to the care of the Lega. Much the same thing happened three years after that, when another sixty-seven apartments, most of them in the historic centre of Venice and the commercial heart of Mestre, were passed to the Lega.
Since the charter under which the Lega operated and which gave it control of the apartments it administered was subject to renewal every three years, this process, Brunetti calculated, was due to be repeated this year. He flipped back and read the first two reports of the evaluation committees. He checked the signatures on both: Avvocato Giancarlo Santomauro had served on both boards and had signed both reports, the second as chairman. It was shortly after that report that Avvocato Santomauro had been appointed president – an unpaid and entirely honorary position – of the Lega della Moralità.
Attached to the back of the report was a list of the addresses of the one hundred and sixty-two apartments currently administered by the Lega, as well as their total area and the number of rooms in each. He pulled the paper Canale had given him closer and read through the addresses on it. All four appeared on the other list. Brunetti liked to think of himself as a man of broad views, relatively free of prejudice, yet he wasn’t sure whether he could credit five transvestite prostitutes as being people of the ‘highest moral standards’, even if they were living in apartments which were rented for the specific purpose of helping tenants ‘turn their thoughts and desires to the spiritual’.
He turned back from the list of addresses and continued reading through the body of the report. As he had expected, all of the tenants of Lega apartments were expected to pay their rents, which were no more than nominal, to an account at the Venice office of the Banca di Verona, which bank also handled the contributions the Lega made to the ‘relief of widows and orphans’, donations paid out of the funds raised from the minimal rents paid on the apartments. Even Brunetti found himself surprised that they would dare a rhetorical flourish like this – ‘the relief of widows and orphans’ – but then he saw that this particular form of charitable work was not undertaken until Avvocato Santomauro had assumed the leadership of the Lega. Flipping back, Brunetti saw that the five men on Canale’s list had all moved into their apartments after Santomauro became president. It was almost as it having achieved that position, Santomauro felt himself free to dare anything.
Brunetti stopped reading here and went and stood at the window of his office. The brick facade of San Lorenzo had been free of scaffolding for the last few months, but the church still remained closed. He looked at the church and told himself that he was committing an error against which he warned other police: he was assuming the guilt of a suspect, even before he had a shred of tangible evidence to connect the suspect with the crime. But just as he knew that the church would never be reopened, not in his lifetime, he knew that Santomauro was responsible for Mascari’s murder and for Crespo’s, and for that of Maria Nardi. He, and probably Ravanello. A hundred and sixty-two apartments. How many of them could be rented to people like Canale or to others who were willing to pay their rent in cash and ask no questions? Half? Even a third would give them more than seventy million lire a month, almost a billion lire a year. He thought of those widows and orphans, and he wondered if Santomauro could have been led so to overreach himself that they, too, were part of it, and even the minimal rents that reached the coffers of the Lega were then turned around and paid out to phantom widows and invented orphans.
He went back to his desk and paged through the report until he found the reference to the payments made to those found worthy of the charity of the Lega: yes, payments were made through the Banca di Verona. He stood with both hands braced on the desk, head bent down over the papers, and he told himself, again, that certainty was different from proof. But he was certain.
Ravanello had promised him copies of Mascari’s accounts at the bank, no doubt the records of the investments he oversaw or the loans he approved. Clearly, if Ravanello was willing to supply those documents, then whatever Brunetti was looking for would not be among them. To have access to the complete files of the bank and of the Lega, Brunetti would need an order from a judge, and that could come only from a power higher than Brunetti had at his disposal.
* * * *
Patta’s ‘Avanti’ came through the door, and Brunetti entered his superior’s office. Patta looked up, saw who it was, and bent down again over the papers in front of him. Much to Brunetti’s surprise, Patta seemed actually to be reading them, not using them as props to suggest his own industry.
‘Buon giorno, Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said as he approached the desk.
Patta looked up again and waved to the chair in front of him. When Brunetti was seated, Patta asked, pushing a finger at the papers in front of him, ‘Do I have you to thank for this?’
Since Brunetti had no idea of what the papers were and didn’t want to lose a tactical advantage by admitting that, he had only the Vice-Questore’s tone to guide his answer. Patta’s sarcasm was usually broad, but there had been no trace of it. Because Brunetti was entirely unfamiliar with Patta’s gratitude, indeed, could only speculate as to its existence, much in the way a theologian would think of guardian angels, he could not be certain that this was the sentiment which underlay Patta’s tone.
‘Are they the papers Signorina Elettra brought you?’ Brunetti ventured, playing for time.
‘Yes,’ Patta said, patting them, much as a man would pat the head of a favoured dog.
That was enough for Brunetti. ‘Signorina Elettra did all the work, but I did suggest a few places to look,’ he lied, casting his eyes down in false humility to suggest that he dare not seek praise for doing something so natural as being of use to Vice-Questore Patta.
‘They’re going to arrest him tonight,’ Patta said with savage delight.
‘Who are, sir?’
‘The finance people. He lied on his application for citizenship in Monaco, so that’s not valid. That means he’s still an Italian citizen and hasn’t paid taxes here for seven years. They’ll crucify him. They’ll hang him up by his heels.’
The thought of some of the tax dodges which former and current ministers of state had managed to get away with led Brunetti to doubt that Patta’s dreams would be realized, but he thought this not the moment to demur. He didn’t know how to ask the next question and sought to do so delicately. ‘Will he be alone when he’s arrested?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Patta said, meeting his glance. ‘The arrest is secret. They’re going in at eight tonight. I know about it only because a friend of mine in Finance called to tell me about it.’ As Brunetti watched, Patta’s face clouded with preoccupation. ‘If I call her and warn her, she’ll tell him, and then he’ll leave Milano and won’t be arrested. But if I don’t call her, she’ll be there when they arrest him.’ And then, he didn’t have to say, there was no way her name could be kept from the press. And then, inevitably, Patta’s. Brunetti watched Patta’s face, fascinated by the emotions that played upon it as he was torn between vengeance and vanity.
As Brunetti knew it would, vani
ty won. ‘I can’t think of a way to get her out of there without warning him.’
‘Perhaps, sir, but only if you think it’s a good idea, you could have your lawyer call her and ask her to meet him in Milano this evening. That would get her out of, er, where she is when the police arrive.’
‘Why would I want my lawyer to talk to her?’
‘Perhaps he could say you were willing to discuss terms, sir? It would serve to get her somewhere else for the evening.’
‘She hates my lawyer.’
‘Would she be willing to talk to you, sir? If you said you were going to Milano to meet her?’
‘She…’ Patta began but pushed himself back from his desk and stood without finishing the thought. He walked over to his window and began his own silent inspection of the facade of San Lorenzo.
He stood there for a full minute, saying nothing, and Brunetti realized the peril of the moment. Should Patta turn round and confess to some sort of emotional weakness, confess that he loved his wife and wanted her back, he would never forgive Brunetti for having been there to hear it. Worse, should he give some physical sign of weakness or need and Brunetti see it, Patta would be relentless in exacting vengeance upon the witness.
Voice level and serious, as though Patta and his personal problems were already dismissed from his mind, Brunetti said, ‘Sir, the real reason I came down was to discuss this Mascari business. I think there are some things you ought to know.’
Patta’s shoulders moved up and down once as he took a deep breath, and then he turned around and came back to his desk. ‘What’s been happening?’
Quickly, voice dispassionate and interested only in this matter, Brunetti told him about the file on the Lega and the apartments it had in its care, one of which was Crespo’s, then told him about the sums which were given out each month to the deserving poor.
‘A million and a half a month?’ Patta said when Brunetti finished telling him about Canale’s visit. ‘What rent is the Lega supposed to be collecting?’
‘In Canale’s case, a hundred and ten thousand a month. And no one on the list pays more than two hundred thousand, sir. That is, the Lega’s books say they collect no more than that for any one apartment.’
‘What are the apartments like?’
‘Crespo’s was four rooms, in a modern building. It’s the only one I’ve seen, but from the addresses I saw on the list, at least the addresses here in the city, and the number of rooms, I’d say they would have to be desirable apartments, many of them.’
‘Do you have any idea of how many of them are like Canale’s, and the owner pays the rent in cash?’
‘No, sir, I don’t. At this point, I need to speak to the people who live in the apartments and find out how many of them are involved in this. I must see the bank records for the Lega. And I need the list of the names of these widows and orphans who are supposed to be getting money every month.’
‘That means a court order, doesn’t it?’ Patta asked, his native caution seeping into his tone. To move against someone like Canale or Crespo was perfectly all right, and no one to care about how it was done. But a bank -a bank, that was a different matter entirely.
‘I’m assuming, sir, that there is some tie-in here with Santomauro and that any investigation of Mascari’s death will lead us to him.’ Perhaps if Patta was not to have vengeance against Santomauro’s wife, then he would settle for Santomauro himself.
‘I suppose that’s possible,’ Patta said, wavering.
At the first sign of the weakness of a truthful argument, Brunetti was, as ever, willing to turn to mendacity. ‘It’s probable that the bank records are in order and the bank has had nothing to do with this, that it has been manipulated by Santomauro alone. Once we eliminate the possibility of irregularity at the bank, then we’ll be free to move against Santomauro.’
Patta needed no more than this to tip himself over the edge. ‘All right, I’ll request that the instructing judge give us an order to sequester the bank records.’
‘And the documents of the Lega, as well,’ Brunetti risked, thought for a moment about naming Santomauro again, but resisted.
‘All right,’ Patta agreed, but in a voice that made it clear that Brunetti would get no more.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Brunetti said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll start now, getting some of the men to talk to the people on the list.’
‘Good, good,’ Patta said, no longer much interested. He bent down over the papers on his desk again, ran a hand affectionately across their surface, then looked up as if surprised to see Brunetti standing there. ‘Is there anything else, Commissario?’
‘No, sir, no. That’s all,’ Brunetti said and went across to the door. When he let himself out, Patta was reaching for the phone.
Back in his own office, he put a call through to Bolzano and asked to speak to Signora Brunetti.
After some clicks and pauses, Paola’s voice came across the line to him. ’Ciao, Guido, come stai? I tried to get you at home Monday night. Why haven’t you called?’
‘I’ve been busy, Paola. Have you been reading the papers?’
‘Guido, you know I’m on vacation. I’ve been reading The Master. The Sacred Fount is wonderful. Nothing happens, absolutely nothing.’
‘Paola, I don’t want to talk about Henry James.’
She had heard the words before, but never with that tone. ‘What’s wrong, Guido?’
Immediately, he regretted not having made more of an effort to call her sooner. ‘There’s been some trouble here,’ he said, trying to make little of it.
Instantly alert, she asked, ‘What sort of trouble?’
‘An accident.’
Voice softer, she said, ‘Tell me about it, Guido.’
‘I was coming back from Mestre, and someone tried to run us off the bridge.’
‘Us?’
‘I was with Vianello,’ he said, then added, ‘and Maria Nardi.’
‘The girl from Canareggio? The new one?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
How was it that no one had called her? Why hadn’t he? ‘Our car was hit and we crashed into the guard rail. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and she was tossed against the door. It broke her neck.’
‘Ah, the poor girl,’ Paola whispered. ‘Are you all right, Guido?’
‘I was shaken up, and so was Vianello, but we’re all right.’ He tried for a lighter tone, ‘No broken bones.’
‘I’m not talking about broken bones,’ she said, voice still very soft, but quick, either with impatience or concern. ‘I’m asking if you’re all right.’
‘Yes, I think I am. But Vianello blames himself. He was driving.’
‘Yes, Vianello would blame himself. Try to talk to him, Guido. Keep him busy.’ She paused and then asked, ‘Do you want me to come back?’
‘No, Paola, you barely got there. I just wanted you to know I was all right. In case you read it in the papers. Or in case anyone asked you about it’ He heard himself talking, heard himself trying to blame her for not having called, for not having read the papers.
‘Do you want me to tell the children?’
‘I guess you better, in case they hear about it or read something. But play it down, if you can.’
‘I will, I will, Guido. When’s the funeral?’
For a moment, he didn’t know which one she meant: Mascari’s, Crespo’s, or Maria Nardi’s? No, it could only be Maria’s. ‘I think it’s Friday morning.’
‘Will you all go?’
‘As many of us as can. She’d only been on the force a short time, but she had a lot of friends.’
‘Who was it?’ she asked, no need to explain the question.
‘I don’t know. The car was gone before we realized what happened. But I’d just been in Mestre to meet someone, one of the transvestites, so whoever it was knew where I was. It would have been easy to follow us. There’s only the one road back.’
‘And the transvestite?’ she ask
ed. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Too late. He’s been killed.’
‘Same person?’ she asked in that telegraphic style they’d had two decades to develop.
‘Yes. Has to be.’
‘And the first one? The one in the field?’
‘It’s all the same thing.’
He heard her say something to someone else, then her voice came back, and she said, ‘Guido, Chiara’s here and wants to say hello.’
‘Ciao, Papà, how have you been? Do you miss me?’
‘I’ve been fine, angel, and I miss you terribly. I miss you all.’
‘But do you miss me most?’
‘I miss you all the same.’
‘That’s impossible. You can’t miss Raffi because he’s never home anyway. And Mamma just sits and reads that book all day, so who’d miss her? That means you’ve got to miss me most, doesn’t it?’
‘I guess that’s right, angel.’
‘See, I knew it. You just had to think about it a little bit, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m glad you reminded me.’
He heard noises on Chiara’s end of the phone, then she said, ‘Papa, I’ve got to give you back to Mamma. You tell her, will you, to come for a walk with me? She just sits here on the terrace all day and reads. What sort of vacation is that?’ With that complaint, she was gone, replaced by Paola.
‘Guido, if you’d like me to come back, I can.’
He heard Chiara’s howl of protest at the suggestion and answered, ‘No, Paola, it’s not necessary. Really. I’ll try to get up there this weekend.’