Brunetti allowed silence to emanate out from this for a while, and then he asked, ‘Did he ever explain the remark or add to it?’
‘Yes. When we were finished work that afternoon, I asked him what he meant, and he told me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That he liked boys, not women.’
‘Boys or men?’
‘Ragazzi. Boys.’
‘Did he say anything about the dressing?’
‘Not then. But he did about a month later. We were on the train, going out to the main office in Verona, and we passed a few of them on the platform in Padova. He told me then.’
‘How did you respond to what he told you?’
‘I was shocked, of course. I never suspected Leonardo was that way.’
‘Did you warn him?’
‘About what?’
‘His position at the bank?’
‘Of course. I told him that if anyone learned about it, his career would be ruined.’
‘Why? I’m sure many homosexuals work in banks.’
‘No, it’s not that. It was the dressing-up. And the whores.’
‘He told you that?’
‘Yes. He told me that he used them and that he would do the same, sometimes.’
‘Do what?’
‘Whatever you call it – solicit? He would take money from men. I told him that this could destroy him.’ Ravanello paused for a moment and then added, ‘And it did destroy him.’
‘Signor Ravanello, why haven’t you told the police any of this?’
‘I’ve just told you, Commissario. I’ve told you everything.’
‘Yes, but I came here to question you. You didn’t contact us.’
Ravanello paused and finally said, ‘I saw no reason to destroy his reputation.’
‘It would seem, from what you’ve told me about your clients, that there isn’t much left to destroy.’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’ Seeing Brunetti’s look, he said, ‘That is, everyone seemed to believe it already. So I saw no reason in betraying his confidence.’
‘I suspect there’s something you aren’t telling me, Signor Ravanello.’
The banker met Brunetti’s gaze and looked quickly away. ‘I also wanted to protect the bank. I wanted to see if Leonardo had been… if he had been indiscreet.’
‘Is that banker’s language for “embezzle”?’
Again, Ravanello’s lips expressed his opinion of Brunetti’s choice of words. ‘I wanted to be sure that the bank had been in no way affected by his indiscretions.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘All right, Commissario,’ Ravanello said, leaning forward and speaking angrily. ‘I wanted to see that his accounts were in order, that nothing was missing from any of the clients or institutions whose funds he handled.’
‘You’ve had a busy morning, then.’
‘No, I came in this weekend to do it. I spent most of Saturday and Sunday at the computer, checking through his files, going back three years. That’s all I had time to check.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘Absolutely nothing. Everything is perfectly as it should be. However disorderly Leonardo’s private life might have been, his professional life is perfectly in order.’
‘And if it had not been?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Then I would have called you.’
‘I see. Can copies of these records be made available to us?’
‘Of course,’ Ravanello agreed, surprising Brunetti by the speed with which he did so. In his experience, banks were even more reluctant to disclose information than to give money. Usually, it was available only with a court order. What a pleasant, accommodating gesture for Signor Ravanello to make.
‘Thank you, Signor Ravanello. One of our finance people will be down to get them from you, perhaps tomorrow.’
‘I’ll have them ready.’
‘I’d also like you to think of anything else Signor Mascari might have confided in you about his other, his secret, life.’
‘Of course. But I think I’ve told you everything.’
‘Well, perhaps the emotion of the moment might be preventing you from remembering other things, minor things. I’d be very grateful if you’d make a note of anything that comes to mind. I’ll be in touch with you in a day or two.’
‘Of course,’ Ravanello repeated, perhaps made amiable by the clear sense that the interview was soon to end.
‘I think that will be all for today,’ Brunetti said, getting to his feet. ‘I appreciate both your time and your candour, Signor Ravanello. I’m sure this time is very difficult for you. You’ve lost not only a colleague, but a friend.’
‘Yes, I have,’ Ravanello said, nodding.
‘Again,’ Brunetti said, extending his hand, ‘let me thank you for your time and your help.’ He paused a moment and then added, ‘And your honesty.’
Ravanello looked up sharply at this but said, ‘You’re welcome, Commissario,’ and came round the desk to accompany Brunetti to the door of the main office. They shook hands again, and Brunetti let himself out on to those same steps down which he had followed Ravanello on Saturday afternoon.
Chapter Eighteen
Because he was near Rialto, it would have been easy for Brunetti to go home for lunch, but he neither wanted to cook for himself nor risk the rest of the insalata di calamari, now in its third day and hence suspect. Instead, he walked down to Corte dei Milion and had an adequate lunch in the small trattoria that crouched in one corner of the tiny campo.
He got back to his office at three and thought it might be wise to go down and talk to Patta without having to be summoned. Outside the Vice-Questore’s office, he found Signorina Elettra standing by the table that stood against the wall of her tiny office, pouring water from a plastic bottle into a large crystal vase that held six tall calla lilies. The lilies were white, but not so white as the cotton of the blouse she wore with the skirt of her purple suit. When she saw Brunetti, she smiled and said, ‘It’s remarkable how much water they drink.’
He could think of no adequate rejoinder, so he contented himself with returning her smile and asking, ‘Is he in?’
‘Yes. He just got back from lunch. He’s got an appointment at four-thirty, so if you want to talk to him, you better do it now.’
‘Do you know what kind of appointment it is?’
‘Commissario, are you asking me to reveal a confidence about the Vice-Questore’s private life?’ she asked, managing to sound properly shocked, then continued, ‘The fact that his appointment is with his lawyer is one I do not feel myself at liberty to reveal.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Brunetti said and looked down at her shoes, the same purple as her skirt. ‘Then perhaps I better see him now.’ He stepped a bit to the side and knocked on Patta’s door, waited for the ‘Avanti’ that answered his knock, and went in.
Because he sat behind the desk in Patta’s office, the man had to be Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta. But the man Brunetti saw sitting there resembled the Vice-Questore in much the same way a police photo resembled the person it depicted. Usually bronzed to a light mahogany by this time of the summer, Patta was still pale, but it was a strange kind of paleness that had been laid down under a superficial coating of tanned skin. The massive chin, which Brunetti could not glimpse without calling to mind photos of Mussolini seen in history books, had lost its jutting firmness and had grown soft, as if it needed only another week to begin to sag. Patta’s tie was neatly knotted, but the collar of the suit under which it sat looked as though it needed to be brushed. The tie was just as bare of tie-pin as the lapel was of flower, creating the strange impression that the Vice-Questore had come to his office in a state of undress.