By Its Cover

by Donna Leon

  ‘You’d spoken to him before, then?’ Brunetti asked.

  She greeted this question with a look of studied confusion but said nothing.

  ‘The man on the bench,’ Brunetti clarified. ‘The one your ex-companion hit.’ He waited a few beats before adding, ‘He ended up in the hospital. Did you know that?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’ Nothing more.

  ‘Had you spoken to him before?’

  She made a face to suggest irritation: lips pulled together in a straight line, eyes narrowed. Brunetti looked across at her calmly, like a man waiting for a cloud to pass so he could return to enjoying the sunshine.

  ‘Maybe,’ she conceded. Brunetti directed his gaze towards the window and the passing people in order to hide any involuntary sign of triumph. The waiter came in then and took the order of the three women, who were now speaking to one another in the sort of voices generally used in church. The waiter glanced at Brunetti, who shook his head. The waiter left.

  ‘As a priest?’ Brunetti inquired mildly, thinking how similar most interviews – although he always thought of them as interrogations – were. Once they started to talk and found that their interrogator believed them, people with things to hide felt safe enough to begin the minor lies that would end up trapping them. The only way to avoid this was to refuse to speak to the police about anything, without a lawyer, but few people had the sense to do this, believing themselves clever enough to talk their way out of most things.

  Her voice grew more serious. ‘When I met him, I didn’t know he had been a priest.’

  ‘Where did you meet him? How long ago?’

  She should have been prepared for the question; perhaps she was. ‘There. In the park. Some time last year. I used to go every now and then in the morning to sit in the sun. It’s on the way to the boat, so if I leave early enough, I can stop there for half an hour on my way to work.’ Brunetti said nothing, asked nothing.

  ‘He used to sit there and read, and one day the only free seat was next to him, so I asked if I could sit there, and we started talking.’

  ‘About his book?’

  ‘No,’ she said adamantly. ‘I don’t read.’

  Brunetti nodded in understanding, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘We talked about things. Real things.’ Take that, books, Brunetti thought. He was curious about how a woman of her age, apparently single, could have enough free time to spend her days sitting on a bench in Viale Garibaldi or, in fact, how she could be free at such short notice to come and talk to him.

  She used the silence to drink her glass of water. All along, Brunetti had been attentive for any sign of her emotional response to the man on the bench – whose name they had not used – but there had been none. She had apparently been displeased when Brunetti asked about him, even more so when he persisted, but, for all the feeling she displayed at mention of the man, Brunetti might as well have been talking about the weather. In fact, the only emotion he could read, which filled the air around her as if with a low hum, was nervousness that her meeting with the man on the bench might be of interest to the police.

  ‘You said you stopped there on your way to work, Signora. Could you tell me where you work?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked, eyes sharp.

  ‘Curiosity,’ he said and smiled.

  ‘I’m a secretary,’ she said, then, seeing his response, added, ‘though I’m really more what the English call an administrative assistant.’ She gave it the pronunciation of someone who spoke the language with difficulty.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, sounding impressed by this career distinction: ‘to a private person?’

  ‘Yes, Marchese Piero Dolfin.’

  The name conjured in Brunetti’s memory the inside cover of the books in Franchini’s apartment: ‘P D’ and the leaping dolphin on the two insignia.

  As casually as he could make it sound, Brunetti said, ‘He’s a friend of my father-in-law.’

  As if he had made a boast she had to better, Marzi said, ‘Yes, it’s a very old family, one of the oldest in the city.’

  Indeed it was, Brunetti knew, although the branch of the family she was talking about had arrived from Genova at the time of Unification with an entirely different surname and had bought their title from the new King of Italy, deliberately choosing one of the oldest names in the city to attach it to.

  As if unable to restrain his interest in so fascinating a job, Brunetti asked, ‘What sorts of things do you do?’

  While she answered, Brunetti considered the possibilities that might explain the presence of books from the Dolfin library in Franchini’s bookshelf, though there could be only one. He turned back to what Signora Marzi was saying. ‘… founding members of the Rotary Club,’ she concluded.

  ‘That’s certainly impressive,’ Brunetti said, knowing that whatever she had said would surely have been intended to sound so. He smiled across at her, all the time asking himself, did she know or was she used?

  Brunetti was suddenly aware that two other tables were now filled: at one sat a Japanese couple in late middle age, both of whom reminded him of the Contessa Morosini-Albani by sitting with at least ten centimetres between their backs and those of the chairs, and at another a pair of blonde teenaged girls, staring about with wide-eyed delight.

  He retrieved the folded newspaper from the table beside him and passed it to Signora Marzi without comment. She was surprised but took it automatically, giving him a confused look.

  Brunetti said nothing.

  She lowered her head and glanced at the headlines. He waited. At a certain point, he saw her left hand contract, crumpling the paper and making a noise that could be heard at the tables near to them. When she finished, she set it on the table between them. She kept her eyes on the newspaper, refusing to look at him.

  ‘What did you do for him?’ Brunetti asked in a conversational voice.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, a statement which had, by overuse, come to mean the opposite.

  ‘Franchini,’ Brunetti said, pointing at the newspaper. ‘The man in the park, the man your companion sent to the hospital but who didn’t press charges against him. What did you do for him?’

  Brunetti was fishing. He’d linked different strands; although he didn’t know how they were woven together, he knew they were joined. ‘As you like,’ he said and shrugged. But then he gave his best boyish smile and said, ‘Il Marchese Dolfin will be delighted to have his Sophocles back, I’m sure.’

  ‘His what?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘His copy of Sophocles. It’s a Manutius. 1502. I’m sure he’ll be relieved.’ He gave that a moment to sink in, then asked, ‘Has he noticed it’s missing, do you know? Or the other one?’

  Her voice was dull when she said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ This time, he believed her.

  ‘Books from his library. Rare books. That’s why I think he’ll be pleased to have them back.’ Then, as if the thought had just come to him, he smiled again and said, ‘And it’s because of you he’ll get them back, isn’t it?’ He stopped himself from leaning forward and patting her arm in congratulation, but he did nod his head in approval. ‘Just think, if you hadn’t told me you worked for Marchese Dolfin, I would never have realized that the books were his.’

  He suspected he might be overplaying his hand, but she had irritated him with her dogged refusal to answer his questions, so he wanted at least to enjoy her discomfiture, base as he knew his desire to be. He met her glance, all smiles gone now.

  ‘Are they valuable?’

  ‘Very,’ he answered.

  ‘How much are they worth?’

  ‘I have no idea. Ten thousand Euros, perhaps. Fifteen?’ Her mouth fell open, and Brunetti added, ‘Perhaps more.’

  She astonished him by putting her elbows on the table and burying her face in her hands. He heard her moan. It struck him that he had, in the past, only read about this and had never actua
lly heard anyone do it. It was ugly, a noise that would bring people to her aid, should they hear her and not know what was wrong. Even he, who had not warmed to her, felt an atavistic desire to help or comfort her.

  Instead, he said, ‘Of course, the Marchese will want to know how the books ended up in Franchini’s possession, but that’s perhaps explained by the fact that you know him, and have known him for some time. I hope he’s not so narrow-minded, the Marchese, that he would hold it against you that your ex-companion knew the man in whose house the missing books were found. But you thought he was a priest, didn’t you, not a thief?’ He stopped himself then, not liking his tone, nor the fact that the noise she was making, though diminished, could still be heard. Nor did he like the fact that people at the two tables nearest them had turned to stare, as though they held him responsible for her moaning. Which, he admitted, he was.

  She pulled her hands from her face, said, ‘Outside,’ got to her feet and pushed past him towards the front door of the café.

  18

  He left twenty Euros on the table to be sure. After all, Florian’s was Florian’s, and the last thing he wanted now was to be called back for not paying his bill. Outside, he stood on the steps and looked over the Piazza, hoping she had not been absorbed into the crowds.

  And there she was, standing beside one of the tables at the edge of the serving space in front of the café, holding her handbag, which gaped open. Two men of about his age walked by, giving her appreciative glances. One of them stopped to speak to her, but she shook her head and moved away from them. The men continued on their way, though the one who had spoken to her turned to watch her as she walked away.

  Brunetti followed her for a moment and then quickened his pace to reach her side. ‘Signora Marzi,’ he said, ‘are you all right?’

  She turned to face him, her glance level. She grasped her handbag and zipped it closed. ‘He’ll fire me if he finds out. You know that, don’t you?’ she demanded.

  ‘It depends on what he finds out,’ Brunetti answered.

  ‘If you found the books, it means Franchini was in his apartment.’ When Brunetti failed to confirm this, she demanded, ‘How else could he take them?’

  ‘With your help?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ she asked, missing a step; she came down heavily on her left foot and lurched into his side. She pulled away from him as though he’d put his hands upon her. ‘Help him? Him? Quello sporco ladro?’ she demanded, her face suffused with blood, saliva spitting as she said ‘sporco’. She had just read of the man’s death, yet she called him a dirty thief.

  ‘When did he steal them?’ he asked.

  She turned and started to walk away from him, heading for the far end of the Piazza. He followed her for some time, then stepped past a man and woman walking arm in arm to move up beside her. Matching his steps to hers, Brunetti said, ‘Signora, I’m interested in his murder, not in stolen books.’ This was not strictly true, but murder had trumped theft; he was interested in the more serious crime and would bargain away any interest in theft if it got him closer to understanding or solving the murder.

  ‘I don’t care about the books, Signora. If it will help you, I’ll give you back the books Franchini took from the Marchese.’

  That stopped her. She turned to him and demanded, ‘In return for what?’

  ‘Tell me what you know about Franchini and how he got the books, and you can have them.’

  ‘But I must give them back to him?’ she asked, voice high and tight, trying to provoke him into making that condition.

  ‘The books are of no value to me, Signora. You’re free to do whatever you want with them.’

  Both her face and her voice softened. ‘He’s been good to me. He gave me this job and he trusts me. Of course I’ll give them back.’

  Suddenly Brunetti was conscious of how crowded the place was. There were people everywhere, hundreds of them – more than that: walking, standing, taking photos, making videos, posing with pigeons on their shoulders, tossing corn to the birds, looking into windows, pausing to talk to the person next to them. He looked around the Piazza and saw a multi-coloured sea of them, their noise like the disjointed slaps of choppy surf. He tried to think of somewhere to go to escape them, but he failed absolutely. Nowhere within a radius of two bridges, five minutes’ walk, could he recall a quiet place. They would have to go into a bar or a shop or a church to wipe out the sight and sound of them.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  There was nothing he could tell her. She was Venetian: he knew that from having listened to her. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘To work,’ she said.

  He had no idea where that might be, but still he asked, ‘May I come along with you? We can talk.’

  As if waking from a deep sleep, she looked around and saw the people, heard the low murmur. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘This way.’ She turned towards XXII Marzo and walked quickly away from the Piazza. As they approached the bridge, the street widened and the crowds had room to spread out.

  Just before the bridge, she said, ‘I was involved with Aldo for a few months before that time in the park. He had been a friend of Roberto’s for a long time.’ Then, to be sure Brunetti understood, she said, ‘My ex-companion.’

  Brunetti nodded, and she started up the bridge. She stopped at the top and turned to look towards the Grand Canal. She folded her arms, one hand holding the bag. ‘I think Roberto sold him things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Things he bought from people.’

  ‘Stolen things?’ Brunetti asked to save time.

  ‘I think so.’

  She knew so, or she wouldn’t have mentioned it, but Brunetti said nothing. She went on. ‘Some of them were books. I saw them a few times, when we were still living together and Aldo’d come to get the things Roberto sold to him.’ And she didn’t call the police, Brunetti said to himself, but then he told that same self to shut up because most people wouldn’t call them, either.

  ‘Old books?’ he asked, but only to make sure.

  ‘Yes. He used to come to our apartment. He was always polite with me, even if he came when Roberto wasn’t there. So it … so it just started. Roberto had to go to Cremona for a few days once, and … well, Aldo was always so nice to me.’ Her eyes turned away from his and back to the canal and she said, ‘In the beginning.’

  ‘What happened?’

  As if addressing her words to the water, she said, ‘After Roberto came back and after it … happened, I suppose I was different with Aldo or when he was around, and Roberto saw it. That’s when the trouble started.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Threats,’ she said and looked at Brunetti again. ‘But only to me. It was like Aldo had nothing to do with it. Once Roberto showed me a gun and said he’d use it if I ever talked to another man. That’s when I went to the police. My sister was there when he said it, so there was a witness, thank God. I moved out. I left everything and moved out. The Marchese – I had just started to work for him – he had his lawyer help me, and that’s how I got the order against Roberto.’

  ‘And the books?’ Brunetti asked. ‘How did Franchini manage to steal them?’

  She glanced down at the gondolieri sitting on benches along the embankment, occasionally jumping up to welcome the tourists who came to talk to them or bargain for prices. As if anyone could out-bargain a gondoliere, Brunetti thought.

  She cleared her throat a few times but then, he thought, forced herself to look at him as she said, ‘The Marchese let me stay in a small guest apartment in the palazzo while I looked for something bigger.’ He watched her fight against the temptation of silence, and then she said, ‘Aldo sometimes came there with me.’ Her voice was barely audible above the slap of footsteps on the bridge and the loud voices of the gondolieri. ‘And once when we were there, he went into the other part of the palazzo when I was … asleep.‘ She backed away from the railing and stood up straight. ‘That’s when I k
new what he wanted.’

  ‘Had he done this before?’ Brunetti asked.

  Again, he watched her struggle. ‘He must have,’ she said at last.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘The next time he called me, I told him it was over.’

  ‘And?’

  She looked away before she answered this question. ‘He laughed and said he was relieved.’ Brunetti had always admired courage: hearing her say this in a steady voice, his estimation of her rose.

  ‘Why did you talk to him in the park?’

  ‘It was the first time I’d seen him since the phone call. I was surprised to see him there, so I stopped and asked him what he wanted, and he said he didn’t want anything, that he was just sitting there, reading. That’s what Roberto saw, the two of us talking, and when I left, he went and threatened him. And that’s when it happened.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘Did you ever go to his home?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know he lived in Castello until I read it. Just now.’ She waved back towards the Piazza, and Florian’s, and the newspaper.

  She began to walk down the bridge, Brunetti beside her, slipping eel-like through the streams. She turned right at the carpet shop, heading towards La Fenice, passed in front of the theatre, and continued on past the Ateneo Veneto. On the far side of the next bridge she stopped and opened her handbag. She pulled out a set of keys. ‘It’s down here,’ she said, making it clear that he was to come no farther.

  As if they had been talking all along and this was just another question in their conversation, he said, ‘Did you ever get the sense that he was buying things from other people, not only from Roberto?’

  Franchini had sat in the same room as Nickerson for weeks, had certainly had the opportunity to observe his behaviour. ‘My brother was a thief and a blackmailer, a liar and a fraud.’ Like a favourite bar of music, the words sounded in his mind.

  She ran the keys through her fingers as if they were a metal rosary. Finally she said, ‘His only interest in other people was finding their weak spot and using it to get what he wanted from them.’ She let the keys jangle in her hand, then added, ‘But I think he’d buy from other people; yes.’