Authors: Donna Leon
‘Why doesn’t he get someone else to come in on those days?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir, but the Filipettos have never been known for spending money easily. And this way, he can keep an eye on her and see she doesn’t slip entirely out from his control.’
‘What does she do the rest of the time?’
‘She works in the Biblioteca.’
It suddenly occurred to Brunetti and he asked, ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I asked around,’ she said evasively.
‘Who?’
‘My Aunt Ippolita, for one. The woman who works for Filipetto goes in to iron for her two afternoons every week.’
‘And who else?’ Brunetti asked, familiar with her delaying tactics.
‘Your father-in-law,’ she said neutrally.
Brunetti stared at her. ‘You asked him?’
‘Well, I know he’s a patient of my sister’s, and I know he knows I work here, and my father once told me that they had been together in the Resistance. So I took the liberty of calling him and explaining what you’d asked me to do.’ She
paused
to allow him time, perhaps to snap at her again, but when he made no comment she went on, ‘He seemed very happy to tell me what he knew. I don’t think he has any great affection for the Filipettos.’
‘What sort of things did he tell you?’
‘She was engaged about twenty years ago, the daughter, but the man changed his mind or left Venice. The Count wasn’t sure, but he thought the father had something to do with it, perhaps paid him to leave or to leave her alone.’
‘I thought you said they don’t like to spend money.’
‘This was probably a special case because it interfered with his power and his convenience. If she’d married he would have had to hire a servant, and some of them have been known to talk back to their employers, you know, and insist on being paid.’
‘But why would she finally disobey him?’ he asked, thinking of Sanpaolo’s abject submissiveness.
‘Love, Commissario. Love.’ She said this in a tone that suggested she might be speaking not only about Eleonora Filipetto.
Brunetti chose not to inquire further about this and said, ‘He told me his wife is the other director of the Library.’
‘Which is where Claudia worked,’ she said, leaving both the sentence and the thought open to speculation.
‘Those phone calls,’ he said. ‘Let me look at them again.’
She busied herself over her computer and less than a minute later the list of all of Claudia’s calls was there. Responding to Brunetti’s unspoken request, she pressed a few keys and the information about all of the calls other than those between Claudia Leonardo and La Biblioteca della Patria disappeared. Together they read it, the early short calls, then the longer and longer ones, and then the thunderbolt of that final call, twenty-two seconds long.
‘You think she’s capable of it?’ Signorina Elettra asked.
‘I think I’ll go and ask her husband if she is,’ Brunetti said.
25
SIGNORINA ELETTRA PRINTED
out a copy of the phone details, and when he had them he went downstairs and asked Vianello to come with him. On the way to the Biblioteca, Brunetti explained about Eleonora Filipetto’s marriage and about the timing and duration of the phone calls, and then the conclusions he had drawn from them.
‘There could be some other explanation, I suppose,’ Vianello asked.
‘Of course,’ Brunetti conceded, not believing it, either.
‘And you say Filipetto’s daughter is one of the directors of this Biblioteca?’ Vianello asked.
‘That’s what her husband said, yes. Why?’
Vianello slowed his pace and glanced aside at Brunetti, waiting to see if he’d drawn the same
conclusions
. When Brunetti failed to speak, Vianello asked, ‘Don’t you see?’
‘No. What?’
‘A name like that – “Biblioteca della Patria” – means they’ll get money from both sides. No matter who these old men fought for in the war, they’ll give their contributions to the Biblioteca, sure that it represents their ideals.’ The inspector went silent and Brunetti could sense him following his idea to its various conclusions. Finally Vianello said, ‘And they’re probably listed as a charity, so no one will ask questions about where the money goes.’ He made a spitting sound.
‘You can’t be sure of that,’ Brunetti said.
‘Of course I can. She’s a Filipetto.’
Lapsing into silence after that, Vianello matched his steps to Brunetti’s as they walked along the narrow canals of Castello, back toward San Pietro di Castello and the Biblioteca. When they got there, Brunetti saw what he had not noticed the last time, a plaque to the side of the door that gave the opening hours. He rang the bell and a few seconds later the
portone
snapped open and they went in.
The door at the top of the stairs was not locked and they let themselves into the library. There was no sign of Ford, and the door to his office was closed. An old man, bent and looking faintly musty, sat at one of the long tables, a book open in the pool of light from the lamp. Another old man stood by the display cabinet, looking at the notebooks it held. Even at a distance of some metres Brunetti caught the characteristic odour of old men: dry, sour clothing and skin that had gone
too
long without washing. It was impossible to tell from which one of them the smell came, perhaps from both.
Neither man looked at them when they came in. Brunetti walked over to the man standing in front of the display case. The man looked up then. Careful to speak in Veneziano, Brunetti said, with no introduction, ‘It’s good to see that someone has respect for the old things,’ and waved a hand above them at what looked like a regimental flag.
The old man smiled and nodded but said nothing.
‘My father went to Africa and Russia,’ Brunetti offered.
‘Did he come back?’ the old man asked. His dialect was purest Castello, and what he said would probably have been incomprehensible to a non-Venetian.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. My brother didn’t. Betrayed by the Allies. All of us. They tricked the King into surrendering. If he hadn’t, if we’d fought on, we would have won.’ Then looking round, he added, ‘At least they know that here.’
‘Absolutely,’ Brunetti agreed, thinking of Vianello’s convictions about how the Biblioteca was being used. ‘And we’d be living in a better place if we had.’ He put all the force of conviction into his voice.
‘We’d have discipline,’ the old man said.
‘And order,’ came the antiphon from the man at the table, he too speaking in dialect.
‘That stupid girl didn’t understand these
things
,’ Brunetti said, voice rich with contempt. ‘Always saying bad things about the past and the Duce and how we should take in these immigrants who come flooding in from everywhere to steal our jobs. First thing you know, there won’t be anywhere for us any more.’ He didn’t bother to strive for coherence: cliché and prejudice would suffice.
The man standing next to him snorted in approval.
‘I don’t know why he let her work here,’ Brunetti said, nodding in the direction of Ford’s office door. ‘She was the wrong…’ he started to say, but the one at the table cut him off.
‘You know what he’s like,’ the old man said, leering across at the two of them. ‘All he had to do was see her tits and he lost his head. Couldn’t keep his eyes off her, just like the last one. He certainly spent enough time looking at
her
tits until his wife chased her out.’
‘God knows what they got up to in his office,’ the one at the display case said, voice tight with secret hopes.
‘It’s a good thing his wife found out about this one, too,’ Brunetti said, relief palpable in his voice, the sanctity of the family saved from the temptation offered by immoral young women.
‘Did she?’ the one at the table asked, curious.
‘Of course. You should have seen the way she looked at her, with her tight jeans and her ass all over the place,’ the other one explained.
‘I know what I would have done with that ass,’ the one at the table said, putting his hands under
the
table and moving them up and down in what Brunetti thought was meant to be a comic gesture but which seemed to him obscene. He thought of Claudia’s ghost and hoped she’d forgive him, and these sad old fools, for spitting on her grave.
‘Is he here, the Director?’ Brunetti asked, as if he’d been called from this fascinating conversation to the reason he had come.
Both nodded. The one at the table pulled his hands back into sight and used them to prop up his head. Seeing that he’d somehow lost the attention of his audience, he bent his attention back to the pages of his book.
Brunetti made a quick gesture, signalling Vianello to remain in the reading room, and went over to the door to Ford’s office. He knocked, and a voice from inside called out, ‘
Avanti
.’
He opened the door and went in.
‘Ah, Commissario,’ Ford said, getting to his feet. ‘How pleasant to see you again.’ He came closer and held out his hand. Brunetti took it and smiled. ‘Are you any closer to finding the person responsible for Claudia’s death?’ Ford asked as he shook Brunetti’s hand.
‘I think I have a good idea of who’s responsible for her death, but that’s not the same as knowing who it was that killed her,’ Brunetti said with an Olympian calm that startled even himself.
Ford took his hand from Brunetti’s and said, ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Exactly what I said, Signore: the reason for her death is not far to seek, nor, I suspect, is the person who killed her. It’s just that I haven’t managed to
satisfy
myself how one led to the other; not just yet, that is.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Ford said, backing away from Brunetti and standing at the side of his desk, as though its wooden solidity would bolster his words.
‘Perhaps your wife will. Is she here, Signore?’
‘What do you want to speak to my wife about?’
‘The same thing, Signor Ford: Claudia Leonardo’s death.’
‘That’s ridiculous. How can my wife know anything about that?’
‘How, indeed?’ Brunetti asked, then added, ‘Your wife is the other director of the Biblioteca, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You didn’t mention that the last time I was here,’ Brunetti said.
‘Of course I did. I told you she was co-director.’
‘But you didn’t tell me who your wife is, Signor Ford.’
‘She’s my wife. What more do you need to know about her than that?’ Ford insisted. For a moment, Brunetti entertained the thought of what Paola’s response would be if she were to hear him say the same thing about her. He did not give voice to this speculation and instead asked again, ‘Is she here?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Anything that has to do with Claudia Leonardo’s death is my business.’
‘You can’t talk to her,’ Ford said, almost shouting.
Brunetti stepped back from him, saying nothing, turned and started for the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to the Questura to get an order from a magistrate that your wife be brought there for questioning.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Ford said, voice even louder.
Brunetti wheeled around and took one step towards him, his anger so palpable that the other man moved back. ‘What I can and cannot do is determined by the law, Signor Ford, not by what you might or might not want. And I will talk to your wife.’ He turned away from the Englishman, making it clear that he had nothing else to say. He thought Ford would call him back and give in, but he did not, and so Brunetti went out into the reading room, where Vianello had propped himself against one of the tables, a book open in his hands. Neither acknowledged the other, and Vianello looked immediately back at the book.
Brunetti was halfway through the door to the stairway when Ford came out of his office. ‘Wait,’ he called after Brunetti’s retreating back. Brunetti stopped, half turned, but made no move to come back to the reading room.
‘Commissario,’ Ford said, his voice calm but his face still suffused with the memory of anger. ‘Perhaps we can talk about this.’ Ford glanced at the two old men, but they looked quickly back at whatever it was they’d been reading when Ford came in. Vianello ignored them all.
The Englishman extended a conciliatory hand.
‘Commissario
. Come into my office and we can talk.’
Brunetti was very careful to demonstrate his reluctance and moved with willed slowness. As he passed Vianello, he shot his finger out and pointed at the two men, and Vianello nodded. Brunetti followed the Englishman back into his office, waited while he closed the door, then went back to the chair he had sat in last time. This time Ford retreated behind his desk.
It was not difficult for Brunetti to remain silent: long experience had shown him how effective a technique it was in forcing others to talk.
Finally Ford said, ‘I think I can explain.’ In the face of Brunetti’s continuing silence, Ford went on. ‘The girl was a terrible flirt.’ He watched to see how Brunetti responded to this and when he seemed interested, Ford went on, ‘Of course, I had no idea of this when she first came here and asked to use the library. She seemed like a serious enough girl. And she stayed that way until she had the job, and then she started.’
‘Started what?’ Brunetti asked in a tone that suggested he was both intrigued and willing to believe.
‘Oh, finding excuses to come in here to ask me about certain documents or to help her find a book she said someone had asked about.’ He gave Brunetti a small smile that was probably meant to be boyish and embarrassed but which Brunetti thought merely looked sly. ‘I suppose, at first I found it flattering. You know, that she’d want my help or my advice. It wasn’t long before I realized
how
simple many of the questions were and how, well, how disproportionate her thanks were.’ He stopped there, as if puzzled how to progress, a gentleman trapped in the dilemma of telling the truth at the cost of a young woman’s reputation.
As Brunetti watched, he seemed to overcome the obstacle of false chivalry and opt to tell the truth. ‘She really became quite shameless. Finally, I had no choice but to let her go.’