‘He’s the man who bought the shoes from me.’
Brunetti turned away from Gravi and looked across the office at Santomauro, who seemed now to have recognized the little man in the cheap suit. ‘And what shoes were they, Signor Gravi?’
‘A pair of red women’s shoes. Size forty-one.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Santomauro fell apart. Brunetti had observed the phenomenon often enough to recognize what was happening. The arrival of Gravi when Santomauro believed himself to have triumphed over all risk, when the police had not responded to the accusations in Malfatti’s confession, had fallen so suddenly, from the very heavens themselves, that Santomauro had neither the time nor the wit to create some sort of story to explain his purchase of the shoes.
At first, he shouted at Gravi, telling him to get out of his office, but when the little man insisted that he would know Santomauro anywhere, knew that he was the man who had bought those shoes, Santomauro collapsed sideways against his secretary’s desk, arms wrapped around his chest, as if he could that way protect himself from Brunetti’s silent gaze and from the puzzled faces of the other two.
‘That’s the man, Commissario. I’m sure of it.’
‘Well, Avvocato Santomauro?’ Brunetti asked and signalled with his hand for Gravi to remain silent.
‘It was Ravanello,’ Santomauro said, his voice high and tight and close to tears. ‘It was his idea, all of it. About the apartments and the rents. He came to me with the idea. I didn’t want to do it, but he threatened me. He knew about the boys. He said he’d tell my wife and children. And then Mascari found out about the rents.’,
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Records at the bank. Something in the computer. Ravanello told me. It was his idea to get rid of him.’ None of this made any sense to two of the people in the room, but neither of them said anything, riveted by Santomauro’s terror.
‘I didn’t want to do anything. But Ravanello said we had no choice. We had to do it.’ His voice had grown softer as he spoke, and then he stopped and looked up at Brunetti.
‘What did you have to do, Signor Santomauro?’
Santomauro stared at Brunetti and then shook his head, as if to clear it after a heavy blow. Then he shook it again but this time in clear negation. Brunetti knew these signs, as well. ‘I am placing you under arrest, Signor Santomauro, for the murder of Leonardo Mascari.’
At the mention of that name, both Gravi and the secretary stared at Santomauro, as though seeing him for the first time. Brunetti leaned over the secretary’s desk and, using her phone, called the Questura and asked that three men be sent to Campo San Luca to pick up a suspect and escort him back to the Questura for questioning.
Brunetti and Vianello questioned Santomauro for two hours, and gradually the story came out. It was likely that Santomauro was telling the truth about the details of the scheme to profit from the Lega apartments; it was unlikely that he was telling the truth about whose idea it was. He continued to maintain that it was all Ravanello’s doing, that the banker had approached him with all of the details worked out, that it was Ravanello who had introduced Malfatti to the scheme. All of the ideas, in fact, had been Ravanello’s: the original plan, the need to get rid of the honourable Mascari, to run Brunetti’s car into the
And Santomauro? He presented himself as a weak man, a man made prisoner to the evil designs of another because of the banker’s power to ruin his reputation, his family, his life. He insisted that he had not taken part in Mascari’s murder, had not known what was going to happen that fatal night in Crespo’s apartment. When he was reminded of the shoes, he said at first that he had bought them to wear during Carnevale, but when he was told that they had been identified as the shoes that were found with Mascari’s body, he said that he had bought them because Ravanello had told him to and that he had never known what the shoes were going to be used for.
Yes, he had taken his share of the rents from the Lega apartments, but he had not wanted the money; he had wanted only to protect his good name. Yes, he had been in Crespo’s apartment the night that Mascari was killed, but it had been Malfatti who did the killing; he and Ravanello had then had no choice but to help in disposing of the body. The plan? Ravanello’s. Malfatti’s. As to Crespo’s murder, he knew nothing about it and insisted that the murderer must have been some dangerous client that Crespo took back to his apartment with him.
He unfailingly presented the picture of a man much like many others, led astray by his lusts, then dominated by fear. Who could fail to feel some sympathy or compassion for a man such as this?
And so it went for two hours, Santomauro maintaining his innocent complicity in these crimes, insisting that his only motivation had been concern for his family and a desire to spare them from the shame and scandal of his secret life. As Brunetti listened, he heard Santomauro become more and more convinced of the truth of what he was saying. And at that, Brunetti called off the questioning, sickened by the man and his posturing.
By the evening, Santomauro’s lawyer was with him, and the next morning, bail was set and he was released, though Malfatti, a confessed killer, remained in jail. Santomauro resigned his presidency of the Lega della Moralita that same day, and the remaining members of the board of directors called for a thorough investigation of his mismanagement and misconduct. So it was at a certain level of society, Brunetti mused: sodomy became misconduct, and murder mismanagement.
That afternoon, Brunetti walked down to Via Garibaldi and rang the bell of the Mascari apartment. The widow asked who it was, and he gave his name and rank.
The apartment was unchanged. The shutters still kept out the sun, though they seemed to trap the heat inside. Signora Mascari was thinner, her attention more withdrawn.
‘It’s very kind of you to see me, Signora,’ Brunetti began when they were seated, facing one another. ‘I’ve come to tell you that all suspicion has been removed from your husband. He was not involved in any wrongdoing; he was a blameless victim of a vicious crime.’
‘I knew that, Commissario. I knew that from the beginning.’
‘I’m sorry there had to exist even a minute’s suspicion about your husband.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Commissario.’
‘I still regret it. But the men responsible for his death have been found.’
‘Yes, I know. I read it in the papers,’ she said, paused, and then added, ‘I don’t think it makes any difference.’
‘They will be punished, Signora. I can promise you that.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be of any help. Not to me and not to Leonardo.’ When Brunetti began to object, she cut him off and said, ‘Commissario, the papers can print as much as they want about what really happened, but all people are ever going to remember about Leonardo is the story that appeared when his body was first discovered, that he was found wearing a dress and was believed to be a transvestite. And a whore.’
‘But it will become clear that was not true, Signora.’
‘Once mud has been thrown, Commissario, it cannot ever be fully washed off. People like to think badly of other people; the worse it is, the happier it makes them. Years from now, when people hear Leonardo’s name, they will remember the dress, and they will think whatever dirty thoughts they want to think.’
Brunetti knew she was right. ‘I’m sorry, Signora.’ There was nothing else he could say.
She leaned forward and touched the back of his hand. ‘No one can apologize for human nature, Commissario. But I thank you for your sympathy.’ She took her hand away. ‘Is there anything else?’
Knowing dismissal when he heard it, Brunetti said there was not and took his leave of her there, leaving her in the darkened house.
That night, a tremendous thunderstorm swept across the city, tearing off roof tiles, hurling pots of geraniums to the ground, uprooting trees in the public gardens. It rained down wildly for three solid hours, filling storm gutters and sweeping bags of garbage into the canals. When the rain stopped, a sudden chill swept behind it, creeping into bedrooms and forcing sleepers to huddle together for warmth. Brunetti, alone, was forced to get up at about four
