Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [42]
‘Alba Libera,’ he read, wondering what Free Dawn she was involved with.
‘Yes,’ she said, raising a hand as if to wave away the banality of the title. ‘They probably wanted to have a title that would not call attention to itself.’
‘And who are they?’ Brunetti enquired: it was not the organization Signorina Elettra had found.
‘It’s a society for women. You can see it’s a non-profit,’ she said, pointing to the letters that followed its name.
Brunetti restrained his impulse to say that those letters were no guarantee of fiscal probity and, instead, asked, ‘What do they do?’
‘What Costanza did. Help women who run away, or who try to run away. They have a helpline, and they take it in turn to answer. And if they think there’s real danger, then they find a place for them to stay.’
‘And then what?’ asked the ever-practical Vianello.
Signora Giusti failed to control the coolness of the glance with which she greeted his question. ‘Taking them in’s a start, wouldn’t you say?’ she asked. Then she added, ‘They try to find them a place to live in a different city. And a job.’ She started to say something, stopped, then continued, ‘And sometimes they help them change their names. Legally.’
Brunetti nodded. ‘How do people give them money?’ he asked. ‘That is, how did you learn about them?’
She lowered her head and looked attentively at her hands. ‘I opened a piece of Costanza’s mail,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It was a mistake. Over the years, we’ve fallen into the habit of collecting the post from the box downstairs. There’s only one for all four apartments. She and I take one another’s so it doesn’t get confused with the mail for the people on the other floors. Or picked up by their kids. That’s happened a few times. So whichever of us comes in first,’ she explained, and Brunetti noted how easily she had fallen back into the present tense, ‘collects the mail. I put hers on the mat in front of her door, and she puts mine on the table beside her door. But one time – it must have been a year or two ago – I brought one of her envelopes up here by mistake and opened it while I was opening my own. There was a leaflet inside, and I read it through. Pretty terrible stuff. At the end there was one of these payment slips,’ she said, leaning over and touching the receipt. ‘And when I looked at it, I saw that her name was on it.’ She stopped and looked down at her hands, the very picture of a guilty schoolgirl. ‘And then I saw that her name was on the envelope.’
‘What did you do?’ Vianello asked.
‘I waited for her to come in, and when I heard her, I went downstairs and gave her the envelope and explained what had happened. She gave me a strange look: I’m not sure she believed me, not really. But she pulled the leaflet out of the envelope – I’d put it back in so it looked as if I hadn’t read it – and said I might like to have a look at it.’
She looked back and forth at their faces. ‘So I took it, and then I sent them some money, and now I do it every six months or so. They need it, God knows.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said. Suddenly his stomach growled. As happens in that situation, everyone pretended they had not heard it. He leaned forward and took out his wallet. He removed one of his visiting cards and wrote his telefonino number on the back. ‘Signora,’ he said, ‘this is my own number. If you remember anything or anything happens that you think I should know, please call me.’
Without glancing at the card, she set it on the arm of the sofa and got to her feet. She led them to the door and shook hands with them, wished them good day and closed the door as soon as they were outside the apartment.
‘Well?’ Vianello asked, as they started down the steps.
‘More proof that people don’t trust us,’ Brunetti said.
‘You and me or the police in general?’ Vianello asked as they reached the last flight.