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.'
'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 adrninistrative. 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
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,
