Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

‘I think it’s because most prefer to treat the Lega as a joke. I think that’s a very serious mistake.’ There was a note of uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I think the political wave of the future is groups like the Lega, groups which aim at fragmenting larger groups, breaking larger units into smaller. Just look at Eastern Europe and Yugoslavia. Look at our own political leghe, wanting to chop Italy back up into a lot of smaller, independent units.’

‘Could you be making too much of this, Damiano?’

‘Of course, I could be. The Lega della Moralita could just as easily be a bunch of harmless old ladies who like to meet together and talk about how good the old times were. But who has an idea of how many members they have? What their real goal is?’

In Italy, conspiracy theories are sucked in with mother’s milk, and no Italian is ever free of the impulse to see conspiracy everywhere. Consequently, any group that is in any way hesitant to reveal itself is immediately suspected of all manner of things, as had been the Jesuits, as are the Jehovah’s Witnesses. As the Jesuits still are, Brunetti corrected himself. Conspiracy certainly bred secrecy, but Brunetti was not willing to buy the proposition that it worked the other way, and secrecy necessitated conspiracy.

‘Well?’ Padovani prodded him.

‘Well what?’

‘How much do you know about the Lega?’

‘Very little,’ Brunetti admitted. ‘But if I had to be suspicious of them, I wouldn’t look to their goals; I’d look to their finances.’ During twenty years of police work, Brunetti had come to form few rules, but one of them was surely that high principles or political ideals seldom motivated people as strongly as did the desire for money.

‘I doubt that Santomauro would be interested in anything as prosaic as money.’

‘Dami, everyone is interested in money, and most people are motivated by it.’

‘Regardless of motive or goal, you can be sure that if Giancarlo Santomauro is interested in running it, it stinks. That’s little enough, but it’s certain.’

‘What do you know about his private life?’ Brunetti asked, thinking of how much more subtle ‘private’ sounded than ‘sexual’, which is what it meant.

‘All I know is what has been suggested, what has been implied in remarks and comments. You know the way it is.’ Brunetti nodded. He certainly did. ‘Then what I know, which, I repeat, I don’t really know - though I know – is that he likes little boys, the younger the better. If you check his past, you’ll see that he used to go to Bangkok at least once a year. Without the ineffable Signora Santomauro, I hasten to add. But for the last few years, he has not done so. I have no explanation for this, but I do know that tastes such as his do not change, they do not disappear, and they cannot be satisfied in any way other than by what they desire.’

‘How much of that is, um, available here?’ Why was it so easy to talk to Paola about some things, so difficult with other people?

‘A fair bit, though the real centres are Rome and Milano.’

Brunetti had read about this in police reports. ‘Films?’

‘Films, certainly, but the real thing, as well, for those who are prepared to pay. I was about to add, and who are willing to take the risk, but there really cannot be said to be any risk, not today.’

Brunetti looked down at his plate and saw that his peach lay there, peeled but untouched. He didn’t want it. ‘Damiano, when you say, “little boys”, is there an age you have in mind?’

Padovani suddenly smiled. ‘You know, Guido, I have the strangest sensation that you are finding all of this terribly embarrassing.’ Brunetti said nothing.’ “Little” can be twelve, but it can also be ten.’

‘Oh.’ There was a long pause, and then Brunetti asked, ‘Are you sure about Santomauro?’

‘I’m sure that’s his reputation, and it’s not likely to be wrong. But I have no proof, no witnesses, no one who would ever swear to it.’

Padovani got up from the table and went across the room to a low sideboard with bottles crowded together on one side of its surface. ‘Grappa?’ he asked.

‘Please.’

‘I’ve got some lovely pear-flavoured. Want to try it?’

‘Yes.’

Brunetti joined him on that side of the room, took the glass Padovani offered him, and went to sit again on the sofa. Padovani went back to his chair, taking the bottle with him.

Brunetti tasted it. Not pears: nectar.

‘It’s too weak,’ Brunetti said.

‘The grappa?’ Padovani asked, confused.

‘No, no, the connection between Crespo and Santomauro. If Santomauro likes little boys, then Crespo could just be his client and nothing more.’

‘Entirely possible,’ Padovani said in a voice that said he thought it wasn’t.

‘Do you know anyone who could give you more information about either of them?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Santomauro and Crespo?’

‘Yes. And Leonardo Mascari, as well, if there’s some connection between them.’

Padovani looked down at his watch. ‘It’s too late to call the people I know.’ Brunetti looked at his watch and saw that it was only ten-fifteen. Nuns?

Padovani had noticed his glance and laughed. ‘No, Guido, they’ll all have gone out for the evening, the night. But I’ll call them from Rome tomorrow and see what they know or can find out.’

‘I’d prefer that neither of the men know that questions are being asked about them.’ It was polite, but it was stiff and awkward.

‘Guido, it will be as if gossamer had been floated in the air. Everyone who knows Santomauro will be delighted to spread whatever they know or have heard about him, and you can be equally certain that none of this will get back to him. The very thought that he might be mixed up in something nasty will be a source of tingly delight to the people I’m thinking of.’

‘That’s just it, Damiano. I don’t want there to be any talk, especially that he might be mixed up in anything, especially something nasty.’ He knew he sounded severe when he said it, so he smiled and held out his glass for another grappa.

The fop disappeared and the journalist took his place. ‘All right, Guido. I won’t play around with it, and perhaps I’ll call different people, but I ought to be able to have some information about him by Tuesday or Wednesday.’

Padovani poured himself another glass of grappa and sipped at it. ‘You should look into the Lega, Guido, at least into its membership.’

‘You’re really worried about it, aren’t you?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I’m worried about any group that assumes its own superiority, in any way, to other people.’

‘The police?’ Brunetti asked with a smile, trying to lighten the other man’s mood.

‘No, not the police, Guido. No one believes they’re superior, and I suspect that most of your boys don’t believe it, either.’ He finished his drink but poured himself no more. Instead, he put both glass and bottle on the floor beside his chair. ‘I always think of Savonarola,’ he said. ‘He started by wanting to make things better, but the only way he could think of to do that was to destroy anything he disapproved of In the end, I suspect zealots are all like him, even the ecologisti and the femministi. They start out wanting a better world, but they end up wanting to get it by removing anything in the world around them that doesn’t correspond to their idea of what the world should be. Like Savonarola, they’ll all end up on the pyre.’

‘And then what?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Oh, I guess the rest of us will somehow manage to muddle through.’

It wasn’t much in the way of philosophical affirmation, but Brunetti took it as a sufficiently optimistic note on which to end the evening. He got to his feet, said the necessary things to his host, and went home to his solitary bed.

Chapter Fifteen