Wilful Behaviour - [Commissario Brunetti 11]

by Donna Leon

  ‘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 as 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 sh
ameless. Finally, I had no choice but to let her go.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I had to ask her to leave the Biblioteca.’

  ‘You mean fire her?’

  Ford smiled. ‘Not exactly. She didn’t work here officially. I mean, not as a regular employee. She was a volunteer, and because she was working that way, it was easier to ask her to leave.’ He bowed his head but continued to speak. ‘It was still very difficult to ask her to leave, very embarrassing.’ When Brunetti seemed puzzled by this, Ford went on, ‘I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.’

  Brunetti had no doubt that Claudia’s departure from the Biblioteca had been embarrassing, but he wasn’t certain that the explanation he had just given accurately described its cause. He took his bottom lip between his thumb and first two fingers and fell into what he did his best to make look like a contemplative pose. ‘Did your wife know about this?’

  Ford hesitated a moment before he answered; to Brunetti the fact of the hesitation, not its length, mattered.

  ‘I never said anything to her, if that’s what you mean,’ Ford said, not without suggesting that it was indiscreet of Brunetti to ask. Rather than point out that he had not answered the question, Brunetti simply waited and at last the Englishman said, ‘I’m afraid she may have noticed. Eleonora is very observant.’ With a man like this, Brunetti reflected, she’d have every reason to be.

  ‘Did you ever discuss the girl with your wife?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he protested, the injured gentleman. ‘Early on, I may have said something about her, that she was a good worker, but as I took no real interest in the girl I probably did nothing more than that.’

  ‘Did Claudia work for your wife or when your wife was here in the Biblioteca?’

  ‘Ah,’ Ford said with an easy smile, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t explained. My wife’s directorship is purely administrative. That is, she deals with the bureaucracy and the red tape from the city and regional offices who take an interest in our work.’ He tried a small smile. ‘Because she’s Italian, and more specifically because she’s Venetian, she knows how to manoeuvre her way around. I’m afraid I, as a foreigner, would be quite helpless.’

  Brunetti smiled in return, thinking that, if there were any adjective that might be attributed to Mr Ford, ‘helpless’ most decidedly was not it.

  ‘Then what do you do, Signore?’

  ‘I attend to the daily running of the Biblioteca,’ Ford said.

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti answered, finally accepting Vianello’s conclusions about the real purpose of the Library.

  Ford remained silent, a ghost of a smile on his lips. When it was evident that he had nothing further to say, Brunetti got to his feet, saying, ‘I’m afraid I still have to speak to your wife.’

  ‘She’ll be very upset by that.’

  ‘Why?’

  The answer was some time in coming. ‘She was very fond of Claudia and I think it would upset her to talk about her death.’

  Brunetti didn’t ask how she could have been so fond of a girl with whom her husband had suggested she had had almost no contact. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about that, Signore. I have to speak to her.’

  He watched Ford weigh the possible cost of opposing this demand. The man said he was not familiar with Italian bureaucracy, but anyone who had lived here for even a few years would know that, sooner or later, she would have to speak to the police. Brunetti waited patiently and allowed Ford more than enough time to decide. Finally he looked up at Brunetti and said, ‘All right. But I’d like to speak to her first.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ Brunetti said quite equitably.

  ‘Only to assure her there’s nothing to be afraid of,’ Ford added.

  ‘I’ll be very careful to do that,’ Brunetti said, the firmness of his tone at odds with the pleasantness of what he said.

  ‘All right,’ Ford said, getting up and going towards the door to his office.

  Again, Brunetti passed through the reading room. Both of the old men were gone and Vianello was now seated at one of the tables, the book open in front of him, seemingly so absorbed in it that he didn’t look up when the two men came out of Ford’s office. He did, however, tap the point of his pen on a sheet of paper which lay next to the book, a sheet that appeared to contain two names and addresses.

  On the landing Ford waited for Brunetti, then led the way up the stairs. At the top he opened the single door without needing to unlock it. They could be in the middle of the countryside, with attentive neighbours careful to protect one another, not in the middle of a city besieged by thieves and burglars.

  Inside, the simplicity of the rooms below was banished. On the floor of the entrance hall lay a Sarouk so thick and yet so richly coloured that Brunetti felt uncomfortably daring to walk on it while wearing shoes. Ford led him into a large sitting room that looked out to the campo on the other side of the canal. A celadon bowl in that extraterrestrial green that Brunetti had never liked sat on a low table in front of a beige satin-covered sofa.

  Paintings, many of them portraits, hung from three walls; the fourth was lined with bookshelves. The centre of the room was covered with an enormous Nain, its pale arabesques in perfect harmony with the sofa.

  ‘I’ll just go and get her,’ Ford said, starting for the back of the apartment.

  Brunetti held up a monitory hand. ‘I think it would be better if you called her, Signor Ford.’

  Managing to look both confused and offended, Ford asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’d like to talk to her and without your saying anything to her first.’

  ‘I don’t see how that could possibly make a difference,’ Ford said, this time not confused but certainly offended.

  ‘I do,’ Brunetti said shortly, standing in place just to the left of the door of the room and only a short step from being able to block it with his body. ‘Please call her.’

  Ford made a business of standing just inside the door and calling towards the back of the apartment, ‘Eleonora.’ There was no response, and he called again, ‘Eleonora.’

  Brunetti heard a voice say something from the back, but it was impossible to distinguish what it said.

  ‘Could you come here a moment, Eleonora,’ Ford called.

  Brunetti thought the man might add something, but he did not. A minute passed, another, and then both of them could hear a door closing at the back of the apartment. While he waited, Brunetti studied one of the portraits, an unhappy-looking woman in a wide starched ruff, her hair pulled severely back in a tight bun, looking out at the world in sharp disapproval of all she saw. He wondered who could have been so blind, or so cruel, to have such a portrait hanging in the house where Eleonora Filipetto lived.

  Though he tried to stop himself, he found himself thinking the same thing when Eleonora Filipetto came into the room. Like the woman in the portrait, her hair was streaked with grey, but unlike hers, it hung limp and close to her head. Both women had the same tight, colourless lips that could so easily be pulled together in dissatisfaction, as the living woman’s were as she entered.

  She recognized Brunetti, saw her husband, and chose to speak to Brunetti, ‘Yes? What is it?’ Her voice aimed at briskness but succeeded in seeming only nervous.

  ‘I’ve come to ask you some questions about Claudia Leonardo, Signora,’ he said.

  She waited, looking at him, not asking why.

  ‘The last time we met, Signora, when I was asking about Claudia, you didn’t tell me you knew her.’

  ‘You didn’t ask me,’ she said, voice as flat as her bosom.

  ‘In such circumstances, you might have said more than that you recognized the name,’ he suggested.

  ‘You didn’t ask me,’ she repeated as though he had not just commented on that same answer.

  ‘What did you think of Claudia?’ Brunetti asked. He noticed that Ford made no attempt to catch her attention. In fact, he gradually moved over to the front of the roo
m and stood by the window. When Brunetti glanced in his direction he saw that Ford was standing with his back to them, looking across at the façade of the church.

  She looked across the room at her husband, as if she hoped to find the answer written on his back. ‘I didn’t think of her,’ she finally said.

  ‘And why is that, Signora?’ Brunetti inquired politely.

  ‘She was a young girl who worked in the Biblioteca. I saw her once or twice. Why should I think of her?’ Though the words were defiant, her tone had become more hesitant and uncertain, and she asked it as a real question, not a sarcastic one.