By Its Cover by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online

superior’s office, he thought of a story, surely apocryphal, he had once heard about some American movie star – was it Jean Harlow? It was said that when she was given a book for her birthday, she unwrapped it and looked at it, then said, ‘A book? I have a book.’
    Thus Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta, he was sure.
    When he entered the small office where Signorina Elettra usually sat, he saw that her chair was empty and her computer wasting its sweetness on the desert air. In recent weeks, she had often been absent from her desk. Vice-Questore Patta, who was her direct superior, had either not noticed or – far more likely – was afraid to ask. Because she was not his secretary, Brunetti thought it was not hisplace to inquire and so said nothing. This time her absence meant he would be exposed to the Vice-Questore’s mood with no preparation. Was he a man or a mouse? Brunetti went to the door and knocked.
    ‘ Avanti ,’ he heard and entered.
    Dottor Giuseppe Patta, the finest flower of Palermitano manhood, sat behind his desk, caught in the act of folding his handkerchief into the breast pocket of his jacket. Brunetti was glad to see that the handkerchief was white – linen, perhaps – and bleached to the colour of dinosaur bones in the Gobi, the uniform of the umpires at Lord’s, a child’s first tooth. Patta would never concede to modern liberties of dress, would see himself dragged through the streets before he would put a coloured handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit. In some things, usually those related to fashion, Patta was a man of stalwart principle; it was an honour to be in the same room with him.
    ‘ Buon giorno , Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said, resisting the impulse to tug at his forelock.
    Patta gave the handkerchief a final prod and turned his attention to Brunetti. ‘Is this important?’ he asked.
    ‘It might be, Dottore,’ Brunetti said easily. ‘I thought you should know about it before it’s reported to the press, as I’m sure it will be.’
    Had the handkerchief caught fire, Patta could have been no more energized. ‘What is it?’ His look of mild displeasure had been upgraded to that of defender of the nation.
    Brunetti approached the desk and stood behind one of the chairs. He placed his hands on the back and said, ‘We had a call from the Biblioteca Merula, reporting a combination of vandalism and theft.’
    ‘Which is it, vandalism or theft?’ Patta demanded.
    ‘Someone sliced pages from more than twenty books, Dottore. And books are missing, probably stolen.’

    ‘Why would anyone do that?’ Patta asked.
    Brunetti breathed a silent prayer to Saint Monica, that emblem of patience. She was the patron saint of the abused, so Brunetti could invoke her for either function, depending upon the ferocity of Patta’s behaviour. ‘Books, as well as pages from rare books, are very popular with collectors, sir, and have a certain value.’
    ‘Who did it?’
    ‘The books were all used by a Doctor Joseph Nickerson, who was there with a letter of reference from the University of Kansas and gave them an American passport as identification.’
    ‘Is it valid?’
    ‘I haven’t contacted the Americans yet, Vice-Questore.’ He looked at his watch and realized it was hopeless to try to do anything else that day.
    Patta gave him a long look and said, ‘It doesn’t sound like you’ve done very much at all, Brunetti.’
    Brunetti again consulted Saint Monica. ‘I’ve just got back, and I wanted you to know about it in case it’s necessary to deal with the press.’
    ‘Why should that be necessary?’ Patta asked, as though he’d been channelled the information that Brunetti was deliberately hiding something he should be told about.
    ‘One of the patrons of the library is the Contessa Morosini-Albani. In fact, it was she who donated at least one of the books that are missing. They’re concerned about what her reaction will be.’
    ‘She’ll probably take back anything