Donna Leon - The Golden Egg

‘When I’m not speaking about male jealousy,’ she reminded him. She went and sat on the edge of the sofa, waiting.

‘It’s about an office,’ he began. ‘But that’s just a pretext. Elettra has never taken to her. It’s evident every time I mention her.’

‘And Griffoni’s feelings?’

Brunetti had never considered this. ‘I’m not sure that she’s noticed.’

She waved a hand in the air. ‘Earth to Guido, Planet Earth to Guido. Are you there?’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘It means that if Elettra doesn’t like someone, there is no way that the person would not notice it.’

He thought of Signorina Elettra’s perpetual, and public, goading of Lieutenant Scarpa, so different from the gentle, almost affectionate, pokes she took at Vice-Questore Patta. One man disgusted her, the other caused only irritation. With Griffoni, however, she had been assiduously polite, as she was with no one else at the Questura.

When he explained this to Paola, she said, ‘How does Griffoni behave?’

‘The same way. It’s as if she’s addressing a head of state.’

‘Well, she is, isn’t she?’

‘What?’

‘Signorina Elettra, at least from what you’ve told me, runs the place. Or she certainly runs Patta, which comes to the same thing.’

‘And so?’

‘So Griffoni’s formality could be nothing more than deference to her position.’ Before Brunetti could object, she said, ‘Remember, she’s a Sicilian, and they’re far more hierarchical in their thinking than we are. If they come of good families, the impulse towards politeness is even stronger.’

‘It’s been three years.’

‘They’ll work things out. It sounds to me as if each is simply waiting for the other one to show some sign of informality.’

Brunetti, refusing to believe this, asked, ‘What do I do? Stay out of it and break it up when they’re rolling around on the floor with their hands on each other’s throat?’

‘You said something about an office,’ Paola reminded him. ‘Is it about who gets one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who makes that decision?’

‘Patta.’

‘Is there some way you can blackmail him into averting hostilities?’

Of course, after decades at the university, she would think of the most underhand way to deal with a problem. He had so far forgotten to tell Patta that there was no risk to the mayor’s son because of the bribes being paid to the Polizia Municipale. Patta, however, need not be told how easy it had been to discover that. Let him think that Brunetti had had to call in favours from the forces of order, ask old friends to turn a blind eye, risk his own reputation in defence of the mayor’s son and his re-election campaign, his political future.

If he made his efforts sound sufficiently Herculean, he might also add a request that Foa be temporarily assigned to the Guardia Costiera.

He bent down and kissed her. ‘I tremble to think of what you’ve been learning all these years from those novels you read,’ he said and went back to the Questura.

The rain grew heavier while he was still on the way as a serious shower turned into the first full pounding-down of the autumn. Glad that he had worn his light raincoat, Brunetti did not try to stop and wait it out; although he quickened his pace for the last ten minutes, he still arrived at the Questura with his head and shoulders soaked.

He rubbed his hair with both hands, wiped them on his handkerchief, then used it to swipe at his hair. Upstairs, he hung his coat on the door of the cupboard and decided to go down to speak to Signorina Elettra.

Once again, when he entered she was not at her desk. The door to Patta’s office was again ajar, and he could hear his superior’s voice from behind it, though he

could not make out what he was saying. He went and stood by the window, removing himself from temptation, but when he looked down at the riva he saw Signorina Elettra stepping into a police launch, Foa holding her hand to steady her on the slippery deck.

Brunetti moved closer to the door.

‘I realize the seriousness of the situation, Signore,’ Patta said in a placatory voice. ‘I’ve got one of my best men looking into it, you can be sure.’ There followed a long pause. ‘Yes, he’s Venetian, sir.’

Brunetti, one of Patta’s best men, moved silently across the office and went back upstairs to his own.

His phone started to ring when he was still a few metres from the room. Quickening his steps, he picked it up on the seventh ring. ‘Brunetti,’ he said.

‘Guido, it’s Ettore,’ he heard Rizzardi say.

‘What is it?’

‘A strange thing’s happened, and I thought I should

tell you.’

‘What?’

‘You sent one of your men over here with the mother of that man who died, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. What happened?’

‘Oh, she identified him. The young man couldn’t have been kinder to her.’

‘Is that why you’re calling?’

‘No, she’s back: that’s why.’

‘Back where?’

‘Back in the hospital.’

‘With you?’

‘No. In the Emergency Room.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Favaro,’ he said, naming one of his assistants. ‘He

saw her when she came to identify her son, and

he recognized her when she was brought in by the ambulance, so he came to tell me.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her.’

‘Did he say anything about her?’

‘Yes. He said it looked like someone beat her up.’

16

He called the officers’ squad room, only to be told that Pucetti was out on patrol. He asked for the young man’s telefonino number, entered it into his own, and called. Pucetti answered, said he was in San Marco, watching the pigeons and the tourists avoid the rain.

Brunetti told him about Rizzardi’s call and was surprised by the force of the young man’s response. ‘What happened? Is she badly hurt?’

Brunetti repeated that all he knew was what Rizzardi had told him: she was in the Emergency Room, and it looked as if she’d been attacked.

‘Can I meet you there, Commissario?’ Pucetti asked.

‘That’s why I’m calling,’ Brunetti said, surprised that Pucetti hadn’t assumed that. ‘I’m leaving now. Rizzardi will meet us there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes.’ The young man broke the connection before he did.

He looked out the window: no sign of Foa or his boat. He put on his raincoat, took his umbrella from the bottom of the cupboard, and left the Questura, telling the man

at the door that he was going to the hospital to talk to a witness.

The rain had intensified while he was inside, and his shoes were soon soaked at the toe and then along the sides. The rain had cleaned the pavement and had cleared the streets: although he saw few people on the way to the hospital, inside there was the usual back and forth of visitors, doctors and nurses, and bathrobed and slippered patients.

The automatic doors slid open as he approached them, and he walked into the waiting area of the Pronto Soccorso. He walked past the reception window and into the first corridor, intent on finding either Rizzardi or Pucetti.

‘Signore,’ a voice behind him called out. ‘You have to register.’ He took out his warrant card and went back to the door of the small cubicle where the receptionist sat behind his computer. He was an owl-like man with sparse hair who looked perfectly at home inside his glass-fronted box.

Brunetti held up his warrant card and said, ‘I’m looking for Dottor Rizzardi.’

Disgruntled, needing to score even this small point, the man behind the desk said, ‘You have to show me before you go in.’