Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

‘You’ll have to believe me here, Damiano. I know. I’ve seen it too many times not to know. He recognized his picture and then pretended he didn’t.’

‘What was the young man’s name?’ Padovani asked.

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ Silence fell.

‘Guido,’ Padovani finally said, leaning forward, ‘I know a number of those boys in Mestre. In the past, I knew a large number of them. If I’m to serve as your gay consultant in this’ – he said it entirely without irony or rancour – ‘then I’m going to have to know his name. I assure you that nothing you tell me will be repeated, but I can’t make any connection unless I know his name.’ Brunetti still said nothing. ‘Guido, you called me. I didn’t call you.’ Padovani got to his feet. ‘I’ll just put the pasta in. Fifteen minutes?’

While he waited for Padovani to come back from the kitchen, Brunetti looked at the books that filled one wall. He pulled down one on Chinese archaeology and took it back to the sofa, glanced through it until he heard the door open and looked up to see Padovani come back into the room.

^‘A tavola, tutti a tavola. Mangiamo,^, Padovani called. Brunetti closed the book, set it aside, and went over to take his place at the table. ‘You sit there, on the left,’ Padovani said. He set the bowl down and started immediately to heap pasta on to the plate in front of Brunetti.

Brunetti looked down, waited until Padovani had served himself, and began to eat. Tomato, onion, cubes of pancetta, and perhaps a touch of pepperoncino, all poured over penne rigate, his favourite dried pasta.

‘It’s good,’ he said, meaning it. ‘I like the pepperoncino.’

‘Oh, good. I never know if people are going to think it’s too hot.’

‘No, it’s perfect,’ Brunetti said and continued to eat. When he had finished his helping and Padovani was putting more on to his plate, Brunetti said, ‘His name’s Francesco Crespo.’

‘I should have known,’ said Padovani with a tired sigh. Then, sounding far more interested, he asked, ‘You sure there’s not too much pepperoncino?’

Brunetti shook his head and finished his second portion, then held out his hands to cover his plate when Padovani reached for the serving spoon.

‘You better. There’s hardly anything else,’ Padovani insisted.

‘No, really, Damiano.’

‘Suit yourself, but Paola’s not to blame me if you starve to death while she’s away.’ He picked up their two plates, set them inside the serving bowl, and went back into the kitchen.

He was to emerge twice before he sat down again. The first time, he carried a small roast of ground turkey breast wrapped in pancetta and surrounded by potatoes, and the second a plate of grilled peppers soaked in olive oil and a large bowl of mixed salad greens. ‘That’s all there is,’ he said when he sat down, and Brunetti suspected that he was meant to read it as an apology.

Brunetti helped himself to the roast meat and potatoes and began to eat.

Padovani filled their glasses and helped himself to both turkey and potatoes. ‘Crespo came originally from, I think, Mantova. He moved to Padova about four years ago, to study pharmacy. But he quickly learned that life was far more interesting if he followed his natural inclination and set himself up as a whore, and he soon discovered that, the best way to do that was to find himself an older man who would support him. The usual stuff: an apartment, a car, plenty of money for clothes, and in return all he had to do was be there when the man who paid the bills was able to get away from the bank, or the city council meeting, or his wife. I think he was only about eighteen at the time. And very, very pretty.’ Padovani paused with his fork in the air. ‘In fact, he reminded me then of the Bacchus of Caravaggio: beautiful, but too knowing and just on the edge of corruption.’

Padovani offered some peppers to Brunetti and took some himself. ‘The last thing I know about him at first hand was that he was mixed up with an accountant from Treviso. But Franco could never keep himself from straying, and the accountant threw him out. Beat him up, I think, and threw him out. I don’t know when he started with the transvestism; that sort of thing has never interested me in the least. In fact, I suppose I don’t understand it. If you want a woman, then have a woman.’

‘Maybe it’s a way to deceive yourself that it is a woman,’ Brunetti suggested, using Paola’s theory and thinking, now, that it made sense.

‘Perhaps. But how sad, eh?’ Padovani moved his plate to the side and sat back. ‘I mean, we deceive ourselves all the time, about whether we love someone, or why we do, or why we tell the lies we do. But you’d think we could at least be honest with ourselves about who we want to go to bed with. It seems little enough, that.’ He picked up the salad and sprinkled salt on it, poured olive oil liberally over the leaves, then added a large splash of vinegar.

Brunetti handed him his plate and accepted the clean salad plate he was given in its place. Padovani pushed the bowl towards him. ‘Help yourself. There’s no dessert. Only fruit.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t have to go to any trouble,’ Brunetti said, and Padovani laughed.

‘Well, I really did have all of this in the house. Except for the fruit.’

Brunetti took a very small portion of salad; Padovani took even less.

‘What else do you know about Crespo?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I heard that he was dressing up, calling himself Francesca. But I didn’t know he’d finished on Via Cappuccina. Or is it the public parks in Mestre?’ he asked.

‘Both,’ Brunetti answered. ‘And I don’t know that he has finished there. The address he gave is a very nice one, and his name is outside the door.’

‘Anyone’s name can be on the door. Depends on who pays the rent,’ Padovani said, apparently more practised in these things.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Brunetti said.

‘I don’t know much more about him. He’s not a bad person, at least he wasn’t when I knew him. But sneaky and easily led. Things like that don’t change, so he’s likely to lie to you if he sees any advantage in doing so.’

‘Like most of the people I deal with,’ Brunetti said.

Padovani smiled and added, ‘Like most of the people we all deal with all of the time.’

Brunetti had to laugh at the grim truth of this.

‘I’ll get the fruit,’ Padovani said, stacking their salad plates and taking them from the table. He was back quickly with a pale-blue ceramic bowl that held six perfect peaches. He passed Brunetti another of the small plates and set the bowl in front of him. Brunetti took one of the peaches and began to peel it with his knife and fork.

‘What can you tell me about Santomauro?’ he asked as he peeled the peach, keeping his eyes on that.

‘You mean the president, or whatever he calls himself, of the Lega della Moralita?’ Padovani asked, making his voice richly sombre as he pronounced the last words.

‘Yes.’

‘I know enough about him to assure you that, in certain circles, the announcement of the Lega and its purpose was met with the same sort of peals of delight with which we used to watch Rock Hudson make his assault upon the virtue of Doris Day or with which we now watch some of the more belligerent film appearances of certain living actors, both our own and American.’

‘You mean it’s common knowledge?’

‘Well, it is and it isn’t. To most of us, it is, but we still respect the rules of gentlemen, unlike the politicians, and we do not tell tales out of school about one another. If we did, there’d be no one left to run the government or, for that fact, the Vatican.’

Brunetti was glad to see the real Padovani resurfacing, well, the airy chatterer that he had been led to believe was the real Padovani.

‘But something like the Lega? Could he get away with something as blatant as that?’

‘That’s an excellent question. But, if you look back into the history of the Lega, I believe you will find that, in the days of its infancy, Santomauro was no more than the eminence grise of the movement. In fact, I don’t think his name was associated with it, not in any official capacity, until two years ago, and he didn’t become prominent until last year, when he was elected hostess or governess, or whatever their leader is called. Gran priore? Something pretentious like that.’

‘But why didn’t anyone say something then?’