' 'Like a lion' might be a more flattering way to put it, Signorina, but perhaps your image is closer to the truth.'
15
It wasn't until after six that Signorina Elettra brought him the fruits of her labours with Giorgio's pirated program. Placing a sheet of paper on his desk, she couldn't prevent a smile from crossing her face. 'Here it is, sir. Only the number was written in her book; no name. But it's a notary.'
Brunetti glanced at the paper. 'Really?' he asked when he saw the name, one he remembered even from his childhood.
'No, sir, that was his son who died. Cancer of the pancreas. It
must be about six or seven years ago. He'd taken over from his father, but he had time before he died to transfer the practice to his nephew, his sister's son.'
The one who was in that boat accident a few years ago?' Brunetti asked.
'Yes. Massimo.'
'Is the old man still in practice?'
'He couldn't still work if he transferred the practice to his son; besides, the address listed is different from Sanpaolo's office.'
He got to his feet, folded the paper in four, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket’
'Have you ever met him?' Signorina Elettra asked.
'Once, years ago, when he was still practising.' Then he asked her, 'Do you know him?'
'My father dealt with him, years ago. It went very badly.'
'For whom? Your father or Dottor Filipetto?'
‘I think it would be impossible to find anything that ever went badly for a Filipetto, either the son or the father’ she said, then added mordantly, 'aside from his pancreas, of course.'
'What was it about?'
She considered this for a while, then explained, 'My father had part ownership of a restaurant that had tables alongside a canal. Dottor Filipetto lived on the third floor, above the restaurant, and he claimed that the tables obstructed his view of the other side of the canal.'
'From the third floor?'
'Yes.'
'What happened?'
'Filipetto was an old friend of the judge who was assigned to the case. At first, my father and his partner didn't worry because the claim was so absurd. But then he learned that both the judge and Filipetto were Masons, members of the same lodge, and once he knew that, he knew he had no choice but to settle the case out of court.'
'What was the settlement?'
'My father had to pay him a million lire a month in return for his promise not to file another complaint.' 'When was this?' 'About twenty years ago.' That was a fortune then.'
'My father sold his share in the restaurant soon after that. He never mentions it now, but I remember, at the time, how he spoke Filipetto's name.'
For Brunetti this story recalled many he had heard, over the course of years, concerning Notaio Filipetto. 'I think I'll go along and see if he's at home.'
On the way out he stopped in the officers' room and found Vianello, who had been forced to remain at his desk there even after his promotion, Lieutenant Scarpa having refused to assign him a desk among the other
'I'm going over to Castello to talk to someone. Would you like to come along?'
'About the girl?' Vianello asked.
'Yes.'
'Gladly,' he said, getting to his feet and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. 'Who is it?' Vianello asked as they emerged from the Questura.
'Notaio Gianpaolo Filipetto.'
Vianello did not stop in his tracks, but he did falter for an instant. 'Filipetto?' he asked. ‘Is he still alive?'
'It would seem so’ Brunetti answered. 'Claudia Leonardo had his phone number in her address book.' They reached the
'It hardly sounds like the sort of thing a Filipetto would be involved in’ Vianello observed.
'What, giving this much money to charity?'
'Giving anything to charity, I'd say’ Vianello answered.
'We don't know there's any connection between him and her money’ Brunetti said, though he didn't for an instant believe this.
'If ever there is a Filipetto and money, there is a connection’ Vianello said, pronouncing it as a truth Venetians had come to learn through many generations.
‘You have any idea how old he could be?' Brunetti asked.
'No. Close to ninety, I'd say.'
'Seems a strange age to be interested in money, doesn't it?'
'He's a Filipetto’ Vianello answered, effectively silencing any speculation Brunetti might have felt tempted to make.
The address was in Campo Bandiera e Moro, in a building just to the right of the church where Vivaldi had been baptized and from which, according to common belief, many of the paintings and statues had disappeared into private hands during the tenure of a previous pastor. They rang, then rang again until a woman's voice answered the speaker phone, asking them who it was. When Brunetti said it was the police, coming to call on Notaio Filipetto, the door snapped open and the voice told them to come to the first floor.
She met them at the door, a woman composed of strange angularities: jaws, elbows, the tilt of her eyes all seemed made of straight lines that sometimes met at odd angles. No arcs, no curves: even her mouth was a straight line. 'Yes?' she asked, standing in the equally rectangular doorway.
'I'd like to speak to Notaio Filipetto,' Brunetti said, extending his warrant card.
She didn't bother to look at it. 'What about?' she asked.
'Something that might concern the Notaio,' Brunetti said.
'What?'
This is a police matter, Signora,' Brunetti said, 'and so I'm afraid I can discuss it only with the Notaio.'
Either her emotions were easy to read, which Brunetti thought might not be the case, or she wanted them to see how greatly she disapproved of his intransigence. 'He's an old man. He can't be disturbed by questions from the police.'
From behind her, a high voice called out, 'Who is it, Eleonora?' When she did not answer, the voice repeated the question, then, as she remained silent, asked it again. 'Who is it, Eleonora?'
'You'd better come in. You've upset him now,' she said, backing into the apartment and holding the door for them. The voice continued from some inner place, repeating the same question; Brunetti was certain that it would not stop until the question was answered.
Brunetti saw her lips tighten and felt a faint sympathy for her. The scene reminded him of something, but the memory wouldn't come: something in a book.
Silently, she led them towards the back of the apartment. From behind, she was equally angular: her thin shoulders were parallel with the floor, and her hair, streaked heavily with grey, was cut off in a straight line just above the collar of her dress.
‘I’m coming, I'm coming,' she called ahead of them. Either in response to the sound of her voice or perhaps, like a clock running down, the other voice stopped.
They arrived at an enormous archway; two inlaid wooden doors stood open on either side. 'He's in here,' she said, preceding them into the room.
An old man sat at a broad wooden desk, a semicircle of papers spread out around him. A small lamp to his
