Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

‘It’s going to take at least another two days, sir,’ Vianello said.

‘There’s no longer any need to hurry, I’m afraid.’ Brunetti thanked de Luca for his help and went back up to his office.

It was perfect, he reflected, about as perfect as anyone could hope. Ravanello had spent his weekend all to good purpose, and the records now showed that Mascari had been in charge of the accounts of the Lega. What better way to explain those countless millions that had been pilfered from the Lega than to lay them at the feet of Mascari and his transvestites? Who knew what he had got up to when he travelled for the bank, what orgies he had not engaged in, what fortunes he had not squandered, this man who was too frugal to make a longdistance call to his wife? Malfatti, Brunetti was sure, was far from Venice and would not soon reappear, and he had no doubt that Malfatti would be recognized as the man who collected the rents and who had arranged that a percentage of the charity cheques be given back to him as a condition of their being granted in the first place. And Ravanello? He would reveal himself as the intimate friend who, out of mistaken loyalty, had not betrayed Mascari’s sinful secret, never imagining what fiscal enormities his friend had engaged in to pay for his unnatural lusts. Santomauro? No doubt there would be a first wave of ridicule as he was revealed to have been such a gullible tool of his banker friend, Mascari, but, sooner or later, popular opinion was bound to see him as the selfless citizen whose instinct to trust had been betrayed by the duplicity to which Mascari was driven by his unnatural lust. Perfect, absolutely perfect and not the slightest fissure into which Brunetti could introduce the truth.

Chapter Twenty-Six

That night, the high moral purpose of Tacitus provided Brunetti no consolation, nor did the violent destinies of Messalina and Agrippina serve as vindication of justice. He read the grim account of their much-merited deaths but could not rid himself of the realization that the evil spawned by these malevolent women endured long beyond their passing. Finally, well after two, he forced himself to stop reading and spent what remained of the night in troubled sleep, assailed by the memory of Mascari, of that just man, dispatched before his time, his death even more sordid than those of Messalina and Agrippina. Here, as well, evil would long endure his passing.

The morning was suffocating, as though a curse had been laid upon the city, condemning it to stagnant air and numbing heat, while the breezes abandoned it to its fate and went elsewhere to play. As he passed through the Rialto market on his way to work, Brunetti noticed how many of the produce vendors were closed, their usual spots in the ordered ranks of stalls gaping open like missing teeth in a drunkard’s smile. No sense trying to sell vegetables during Ferragosto: residents fled the city, and tourists wanted only panini and acqua minerale.

He arrived early at the Questura, reluctant to walk through the city after nine, when the heat grew worse and the streets even more crowded with tourists. He turned his thoughts from them. Not today.

Nothing satisfied him, not the thought that the illegal dealings of the Lega would now be stopped, and not the hope that de Luca and his men might still find some thread of evidence that would lead them to Santomauro and Ravanello. Nor did he have any hope of tracing either the dress or the shoes that Mascari had been wearing: too much time had already passed.

In the midst of this grim reverie, Vianello burst into his office without knocking and shouted, ‘We’ve found Malfatti!’

‘Where?’ Brunetti asked, getting up and moving towards him, suddenly filled with energy.

‘At his girlfriend’s, Luciana Vespa, over at San Barnaba.’

‘How?’

‘Her cousin called us. He’s on the list, been getting a cheque from the Lega for the last year.’

‘Did you make a deal?’ Brunetti asked, not at all disturbed by the illegality of this.

‘No, he didn’t even dare ask. He told us he wanted to help.’ Vianello’s snort told how much faith he put in this.

‘What did he tell you?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Malfatti’s been there for three days.’

‘Is she in the file?’

Vianello shook his head. ‘Just the wife. We’ve had someone in the apartment next to hers for two days, but there’s been no sign of him there.’ While they spoke, they walked down the stairs to the office where the uniformed branch worked.

‘Did you call a launch?’ Brunetti asked.

‘It’s outside. How many men do you want to take?’

Brunetti had never been directly involved with any of Malfatti’s many arrests, but he had read the reports. ‘Three. Armed. And with vests.’

Ten minutes later, he and Vianello and the three officers, these last ballooned out and already sweating from the thick bullet-proof vests they wore over their uniforms, climbed aboard the blue and white police launch that stood, motor running, in front of the Questura. The three officers filed down into the cabin, leaving Brunetti and Vianello on deck to try to catch what little breeze was created by their motion. The pilot took them out into the bacino of San Marco, then turned right and headed up towards the entrance to the Grand Canal. Glory swept past on both sides as Brunetti and Vianello stood, heads together, talking against the force of the wind and the roar of the motor. They decided that Brunetti would go to the apartment and try to make contact with Malfatti. Since they knew nothing about the woman, they had no idea what her involvement with Malfatti might be, and so her safety had to be their chief concern.

At that thought, Brunetti began to regret having brought the officers along. If passers-by saw four policemen, three of them heavily armed, standing near an apartment, a crowd was sure to form, and that would draw the attention of anyone in the building.

The launch pulled up at the Ca’ Rezzonico vaporetto stop, and the five men filed off, much to the surprise and curiosity of the people waiting for the boat. Single file, they walked down the narrow calle that led to Campo San Barnaba and then out into the open square. Though the sun had not yet reached its zenith, heat radiated up from the paving stones and seared at them from below.

The building they sought was at the far right corner of the campo, its door just in front of one of the two enormous boats which sold fruit and vegetables from the embankment of the canal which ran alongside the campo. To the right of the door was a restaurant, not yet open for the day, and beyond it a bookstore. ‘All of you,’ Brunetti said, conscious of the stares and comments the police and their machine-guns were causing among the people around them, ‘get into the bookstore. Vianello, you wait outside.’

Awkwardly, seeming too big for it, the men trooped through the door of the store. The owner stuck her head out, saw Vianello and Brunetti, and ducked back into the shop without saying anything.

The name ‘Vespa’ was written on a piece of paper taped to the right of one of the bells. Brunetti ignored it and rang the one above. After a moment, a woman’s voice came across the intercom. ^‘Si?’

‘Posta, Signora. I have a registered letter for you. You have to sign for it.’

When the door clicked open, Brunetti turned back to Vianello, ‘I’ll see what I can find out about him. Stay down here, and keep them off the street.’ The sight of the three old women who now surrounded him and Vianello, shopping trolleys parked beside them, made him regret even more bringing the other officers with him.

He opened the door and went into the entrance, where he was greeted by the heavy, thudding sound of rock music spilling down towards him from one of the upper floors. If the bells on the outside corresponded to the location of the apartments, Signorina Vespa lived one floor above, and the woman who let him in on the floor above her. Brunetti walked quickly up the stairs, passed the door to the Vespa apartment, from which the music blasted.

At the top of the next flight of steps, a young woman with a baby balanced on her hip stood at the door of an apartment. When she saw him, she stepped back and reached for the door. ‘One moment, Signora,’ Brunetti said, stopping where he was on the steps so as not to frighten her. ‘I’m from the police.’

The woman’s glance, beyond him and down the steps, to the source of the music that thundered up the stairs