Brunetti to give his name. When Brunetti offered to give his phone number, he was told that was not necessary, and they would call him back. Twenty minutes later, he received a call on his telefonino from the secretary of an undersecretary at the Italian Foreign Office, asking ifhe was the man who had called the Americans. When he said he was, the man thanked him and was gone. Soon thereafter he received a call from a woman speaking excellent Italian with the slightest of accents, who asked his name. When he identified himself, she said that the United States government had issued no such passport, and did he have any further questions? He said he did not, they exchanged polite monosyllables, and he ended the call.
They still had his photo. Nickerson – for want of a better name – might well look different by now and could very likely be out of the city, even out of the country entirely. But what had prompted his sudden departure?
Piero Sartor had said the man spoke excellent Italian: perhaps he would not waste that talent by going to some other country. Besides, Italy was rich in museums and libraries, public, private, and ecclesiastical, all providing an endless field in which he could work. Brunetti was not unaware of how grotesque his use of that word was to describe what the man was doing.
He took the photocopy of Nickerson’s passport and went down to Signorina Elettra’s office. It was only a little after ten, far too early for Patta to have arrived. She was behind her computer today, wearing a pink angora sweater, the sight of which caused him immediately to revise his low opinion of both the colour and the wool.
‘The Vice-Questore expressed his concern about the theft at the library, Commissario.’ He wondered if the Vice-Questore had also expressed his concern about summoning the Eumenides of the press down upon their heads.
‘I’ve checked with the Americans, and the passport is fake,’ he said, putting the photocopied page on her desk.
She studied the photo. ‘That was to be expected, I suppose.’ Then she asked, ‘Shall I send this to Interpol and the art theft people in Rome and see if they recognize him?’
‘Yes,’ he said, having come down specifically to ask her to do this.
‘Do you know if the Vice-Questore has talked about this to anyone else?’ Brunetti asked.
‘The only person he talks to is Lieutenant Scarpa,’ she said, pronouncing ‘person’ as if she weren’t quite sure it applied. ‘I believe neither of them would consider the theft of books a serious crime.’
‘I was concerned about the press,’ he said, turning his attention to the tulips on her desk and telling himself it would be nice to take some home that evening. He reached across to move one slightly to the left and said, ‘I doubt that the Contessa would enjoy the publicity.’
‘Which contessa?’ Signorina Elettra inquired mildly.
‘Morosini-Albani,’ Brunetti answered, his attention still on the flowers.
She made a noise. It was not a gasp and it was not a word, merely a noise. By the time he glanced at her, she was looking at the screen of her computer, her chin propped on and covered by her left hand. Her face was impassive, her eyes on the screen, but the colour of her face more nearly approached that of her sweater than it had a moment ago.
‘I’ve met her a few times at my parents-in-law’s,’ Brunetti said casually, moving another tulip into place in front of the broad leaf that had been hiding it. ‘She’s a very interesting woman, I’d say.’ Then, oh so casually, ‘Have you ever met her?’
She hit a few keys with her right hand, chin still propped on the left. Finally she said, ‘Once. Years ago.’ She turned her attention from the computer and looked at Brunetti with an expression devoid of emotion. ‘I once knew her stepson.’
Brunetti, curious, was silent, then finally thought to say, ‘She’s the major donor to the library. I don’t knowhow many of the books
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