Through a Glass Darkly by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page A

the
Carabinieri
and the
Polizia Municipale
handed endless copies of the proper forms to the people who had had their pockets or purses picked. Springtime in Venice.
    Late one afternoon, Brunetti stopped by Signorina Elettra’s office, but she was not at herdesk. He had hoped to have a word with the Vice-Questore, but when he saw that the door to Patta’s office was open, Brunetti came to the conclusion that they had both decided to leave for the day. In Patta’s case, this was only to be expected, but Signorina Elettra, since this was the day when she did not arrive until after lunch, usually stayed until at least seven.
    He was about to retreat from her room and take the papers he had brought with him back up to his own office, when the impulse to be certain forced him nearer to the door to Patta’s office. He was surprised to hear Signorina Elettra speaking English very slowly and enunciating every word as if for the benefit of the hearing impaired, saying, ‘May I have some strawberry jam with my scones, please?’
    After a longish pause, this was followed by Patta’s voice, saying, ‘May E ev som strubbry cham per mio sgonzes, pliz?’
    â€˜Does this bus go to Hammersmith?’
    And on it went, through four phrases of dubious utility until Brunetti heard, once again, the pained request for strawberry jam. Fearing he might be there some time, he went back to the door to her office and knocked loudly, calling out, ‘Signorina Elettra, are you there?’
    Within seconds she appeared at Patta’s doorway, a look of stunned relief illuminating her face, as though Brunetti’s voice had just pulled her from quicksand. ‘Ah, Commissario,’ she said, ‘I was just about to call you.’ Her voice caressedevery syllable of the Italian, as though she were Francesca, the language her Paolo, and this her last chance to speak their love.
    â€˜I’d like to have a word with the Vice-Questore, if that’s possible,’ he said.
    â€˜Ah, yes,’ she said, stepping clear of Patta’s door. ‘He’s free at the moment.’
    Brunetti excused himself and walked past her. Patta sat at his desk, elbows propped on the surface, chin cupped in his palms, as he studied the book in front of him. Brunetti approached and, glancing down, recognized the photo of Tower Bridge on the left-hand page, the black-hatted Beefeater on the right. ‘
Mi scusi, Dottore
,’ he said, careful to speak softly and enunciate clearly.
    Patta’s eyes drifted towards Brunetti and he said, ‘
Sì?
’
    â€˜I wondered if I might have a word with you, sir?’ Brunetti said.
    With a slow motion full of resignation, Patta shut the book and moved it to one side. ‘Yes? Have a seat, Brunetti. What is it?’
    Brunetti did as he was told, careful to keep his eyes away from the book, though it was impossible not to notice the Union Jack waving across the cover. ‘It’s about the juveniles, sir,’ Brunetti said.
    It took Patta some time to cross the Channel and return to his desk, but he eventually responded. ‘What juveniles?’
    â€˜The ones we keep arresting, sir.’
    â€˜Ah,’ Patta said, ‘those juveniles.’ Brunettiwatched his superior trying to recall the documents or arrest reports that had passed his desk in recent weeks, and saw him fail.
    Patta straightened himself in his chair and asked, ‘There’s a directive from the Ministry, isn’t there?’
    Brunetti refused the temptation to answer that there was a directive from the Ministry prescribing the number of buttons on the officers’ uniform jackets and, instead, said, ‘Yes, sir, there is.’
    â€˜Then those are the orders we have to follow, Brunetti.’ He thought Patta would be content to leave it at that, given that it was so close to the time he usually went home, but something drove Patta to add, ‘I think we’ve had this