Wilful behaviour

asked with her most dangerous smile.

'Of course not. But you have to follow procedures.'

Which procedures would those be, Lieutenant?' she asked, picking up a pen and moving a notepad closer to her.

'You have to ask for authorization.'

‘Yes, and from whom?'

'From the person who is authorized to give it,' he said, his voice no longer pleasant.

'Yes, but can you tell me who that person is?'

'It's whoever is listed on the personnel directive that details the chain of command and responsibility.'

'And where might I find a copy of the directive?' she asked, tapping the point of her pen on the pad, but lightly and only once.

'In the file of directives,' the lieutenant said, voice even closer to the edge of his control.

'Ah,' Signorina Elettra said with a happy smile. 'And who can authorize me to consult that file?'

Scarpa turned and walked from her office, pausing at the door as if eager to slam it but then, aware of Brunetti's bland presence, resisting the temptation.

Brunetti moved over to her desk. 'I've warned you about him, Signorina’ he said, managing to keep any hint of disapproval out of his voice.

‘I know, I know,' she said, pursing her lips and letting out an exasperated sigh. 'But the temptation is too strong. Every time he comes in here telling me what I have to do, I can't resist the impulse to go right for his jugular.'

It will only cause you trouble’ he admonished.

She shrugged this away. 'It's like having a second dessert, I suppose. You know you shouldn't, but it just tastes so good you can't resist.'

Brunetti, who had had his own fair share of trouble with the lieutenant, would hardly have chosen that simile, but his nature was not as combative as Signorina Elettra's and so he let it pass. Besides, any sign of aggressiveness on Signorina Elettra's part was to be welcomed as evidence of her general return to good spirits, however paradoxical that might seem to anyone who didn't know her, so Brunetti asked, 'What have you learned about Guzzardi?'

'I told you I was looking into his ownership of houses when he died, didn't I?'

He nodded.

'Only he didn't own them at the time of his death. Ownership was transferred to Hedi Jacobs when he was in jail, awaiting trial.'

'Interestinger and interestinger’ Brunetti said in English. Transferred how?'

'Sold to her. It was all perfectly legal; the papers are all in order.'

‘What about his will?'

'I found a copy at the College of Notaries.'

'How did you know where to look?'

She gave her most seraphic smile. There's only one notary who's been named in all of this’ she said, but she said it modestly.

'Filipetto?' Brunetti asked.

The smile returned.

'He was Guzzardi's notary?'

'The will was recorded in his register soon after Guzzardi's death’ she said, no longer able to keep the glow of pride from her voice. 'And when Filipetto retired, all of his records were sent to the college, where I found it.' She opened her top drawer and drew out a photocopy of a document typed in the now archaic letters of a manual typewriter.

Brunetti took it from her and went over to the light of the window to read. Guzzardi declared that all of his possessions were to pass directly to his son, Benito and, in the event that his son should predecease him, to his son's heirs. It could not have been more simple. No mention was made of Hedi Jacobs, and no indication was given as to what his estate might consist of. 'His wife? Is there any sign she contested this?' he asked, holding up the document.

There's no record in Filipetto's files that she did.' Before Brunetti could ask, she added, 'And that probably means that she divorced him before he died or didn't know or didn't care that he did die.'

Brunetti went back to her desk. The son?'

The only mention of him is what you were told, sir, that his mother took him to England after the war.'

'Nothing more?' Brunetti couldn't disguise his irritation that a person could so easily disappear.

'I've sent a request to Rome, but all I have to give them is his name, not even an exact date of birth.' They shared a moment's despair at the likelihood of getting any sort of a response from Rome. 'I've also contacted a friend in London,' she went on, 'and asked him to check the records there. It seems the British have a system that works.'

'When can you expect an answer?' Brunetti asked.

'Long before I can expect anything from Rome, certainly.'

'I'd like you to contact the university and the Ufficio Anagrafe and see what information they have about Claudia Leonardo. Her parents' names should be listed, perhaps their dates of birth, which you might send to London to see if that will help.' He thought of the German grandmother, but before he asked Signorina Elettra to begin to investigate the possibilities that created, he would see what there was to find here in the city and in London.

As he went back upstairs he remembered a passage from an ancient poem Paola had insisted on reading to him years ago. The lines described, if he recalled correctly, a dragon that sat on top of what the poet described as treasure trove, breathing fire and destruction at all who came near. He wasn't sure why it came to him, but he had a strange vision of Signora Jacobs nesting upon her treasures, willing destruction upon anyone who tried to extract anything from her hoard.

Even before he got to his office, he changed his mind and went back downstairs and out of the Questura. It was rash, he knew, and he shouldn't go back to Signora Jacobs's so soon after being dismissed, but she was the only person who could answer his questions about the treasures that surrounded her. He should have left word where he was going; he should have sat at his desk and answered the phone and initialled papers; no doubt he should also have reprimanded Signorina Elettra for her lack of deference to Lieutenant Scarpa.

Given the hour and the crowds of tourists who flooded the boats, he decided to walk, sure that he could avoid the worst gaggles of them until he neared Rialto and equally certain that their numbers would decrease again once he got past the pescheria. So it proved, but the brief period he spent pushing and evading his way through the streets between San Lio and the fish market soured his humour and brought his ever-simmering dislike of tourists to the boil. Why were they so slow and fat and lethargic? Why did they all have to get in his way? Why couldn't they, for God's sake, learn to walk properly in a city and not moon about like people at a country fair asked to judge the fattest pig?

His mood lifted as soon as he was free of them and moving through empty streets toward Campo San Boldo. He rang the bell, but there was no answer. Remembering a technique Vianello had employed to awaken people who fell asleep with the television on too loud, he pressed his thumb against the bell and left it there while he counted to a hundred. He counted slowly. There was still no answer.

The man in the tobacco shop had said he took the cigarettes up to her, so Brunetti went back, showed his warrant card and asked if the man had a key to the apartment.

The man behind the counter seemed not at all interested that the police wanted to speak to Signora Jacobs. He reached into his cash drawer and pulled out a single key. 'All I have is the key to the portone downstairs. She always let me into the apartment.'

Brunetti thanked him and said he'd bring the key back. He used it to open the heavy ground floor door and went up the steps that led to her apartment. He rang the bell, but there was no answer. He knocked on the door, but still there was no sound from inside. He employed Vianello's technique again.

Later, he realized that he knew, in the silence that expanded across the landing when he took his thumb off the bell: knew that the door would be unlocked and would open when he turned the handle. And he supposed he also knew that he would find her dead, fallen or thrown from her chair, a thin thread of blood trailing from her nose.