by Donna Leon
'So you exclude him?' Brunetti asked.
'Some people might, but I certainly don't,' Vianello said with sudden heat. 'He's one of those classic misers. Took over the pharmacy from his father about forty years ago. Hasn't done a thing to it since then: I'm told that if you look in the back rooms, you'd think you were in Albania or some place like that. And I'm told you don't want to see the toilet he has there. Never married, never lived with anyone: all he does is make money and invest it and watch it grow. It's his only joy in life: money’
'And you think he'd do something like this?' Brunetti asked, not attempting to disguise his scepticism.
'Most of the appointments made for the three doctors by a pharmacy come from Gabetti's’
'I see,' Brunetti said, letting the information filter into his mind. 'What about the other one?'
Vianello's face changed and he gave an involuntary nod, as if expressing agreement with Brunetti's theory. 'This one's very religious; still lives with his mother, to whom he seems to be devoted. There's not much gossip about him, certainly nothing that says he's particularly interested in money. I can't find anything in his bank records’
'There's usually something, especially if they're religious,' said Brunetti: if Vianello could be suspicious of a greedy man, then he could reserve for himself the right to have doubts about a religious one. 'If he's not interested in sex and drugs, what is he interested in?'
'The Church: I told you,' Vianello said, amused by Brunetti's surprise. 'He's a member of one of those Catechumeni groups: prayer meetings twice a week, no alcohol, not even wine with meals, no ... no anything, it would seem’
'How'd you learn all this?' Brunetti asked.
'I've asked a number of people about him,' Vianello said obliquely. 'But believe me, there's nothing to find out about this guy. He lives for his mother and for the Church’ Vianello paused for some time, 'And for priding himself, from what I've heard, on leading a virtuous life and lamenting the fact that other people do not. Though he'd probably be the one who gets to define virtue.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because he refuses to sell condoms in his pharmacy’
'What?'
'He can't refuse to sell prescription drugs, like contraceptive pills or the morning-after pill, but he has the right to refuse to sell rubbers, and that's his choice’
'In the third millennium?' Brunetti asked and buried his face in his hands for a moment.
'As I said, he's the one who gets to define virtue.'
Brunetti removed his hands from his face. 'And the others, the ones you haven't looked into yet?'
'i know one of them, Andrea at San Bortolo, and he'd never do something like this’
'Are you still going to check them all?' asked Brunetti.
'Of course,' Vianello said, sounding wounded at the question.
To change the subject, Brunetti asked, 'But how did you manage to find out the appointments came from these pharmacies?'
Vianello made no attempt to disguise the pride he took in being able to explain. The hospital files can be arranged to list appointments by date or patient or doctor or by who made them. We simply arranged all of the specialist appointments for the last year’ he said - not bothering to explain who 'we' were nor how they came by those records - 'by who made them and then drew up a list of the ones that were made by those pharmacies. Then we made a list of appointments made in the last two weeks and called all of those patients and said we were running a survey of client satisfaction with ULSS’ He waited to see what degree of astonishment Brunetti would demonstrate at the unlikelihood of this, and when his superior said nothing, he went on. 'Most of them had in fact been seen by the doctor they had an appointment with, but nine of them said they didn't know anything about an appointment We said immediately that it must have been a computer error - we even pretended to check and then sounded embarrassed when we had to admit it was an error - and apologized for having disturbed them.' He smiled, and said, 'All of the appointments were made by Gabetti.'
'Weren't you afraid one of them wouTd mention your call at the pharmacy?' Brunetti asked.
Vianello waved away the suggestion. 'That's the genius of it’ he said, not without admiration. 'None of these people would have any idea what sort of mix-up could have taken place, and I think they all believed us when we said it was an error in the computer system.'
Brunetti let the possibilities run through his imagination for a moment and then asked, 'But what if one of them really got sick and they had to schedule the same examination, and the computer showed they'd already had it performed?' he asked.
'Then I imagine they'd do what any one of us would do: insist they'd never had the exam and blame it on the computer. And since the person they'd be dealing with would be some paper-pusher at ULSS, they'd probably believe it-'
'And then the appointment would be scheduled?'
'Probably,' Vianello said easily. 'Besides, the possibility that anyone would get suspicious about this is virtually non-existent.'
'And if they did, it's state money that's being wasted, anyway, isn't it?'
'I'm afraid so,' Vianello said. 'It would just be another case of civil servants who make a mistake.'
Neither man spoke for some time, and then Brunetti asked, 'But you still haven't found a pharmacist with the money.'
'It's got to be somewhere,' Vianello insisted. 'We can start taking a closer look tomorrow.'
Tt sounds as if nothing will persuade you away from believing this’ Brunetti said with a certain measure of asperity.
'Perhaps,' Vianello answered quickly, almost defensively. 'But the idea is too good for someone not to make use of it. ULSS is a sitting duck.'
'And if you're wrong?' Brunetti asked with some force.
Then I'm wrong. But ‘I’ll still have learned a lot about new ways to find things with the computer’ Vianello said, and good will slipped back into the room.
14
Brunetti went back downstairs with Vianello, then continued to Signorina Elettra's office, where he found her busy on the phone. She beckoned him into the room, signalled that he was not to leave, and continued what appeared to be a series of monosyllabic responses to a flood of verbosity from the other end of the line. 'Yes. No. Of course. Yes. Yes’ she said, each response interrupted by a long pause, during some of which she busied herself with jotting things down. 'I understand’ she said, 'Signor Brunini is very eager to see the doctor and, yes, he and his companion would come as private patients.' Again, there ensued a silence that seemed even longer now that Brunetti had heard the name and wondered what she was up to.
‘Yes, I realize, of course. Yes, I'll wait’ She held the phone away and rubbed at her ear, then drew the receiver back at the sound of a female voice. 'Oh, really? So soon? Ah, Signora, you're wonderful. Signor Bixmirti will be very pleased. Yes, I have it. Three-thirty on Friday. I’l1 call him right now. And thank you.'
Signorina Elettra put the phone down and glanced at Brunetti, then wrote a few words on fiie paper in front of her.
'Dare I ask?' Brunetti said.
"The Villa Colonna Clinic. In Verona,' she said. 'Where they went’
Though the transmission was somewhat sjemaphoric, Brunetti had no difficulty understanding it.
'And that led you to.. ‘ Brunetti began, then realized that he was lacking an adequate verb. 'To speculate?' he concluded.
'Yes, you could say that,' she answered, obviously pleased by his choice of word. 'About all manner of things. But chiefly about the coincidence that a number of people who were examined at this clinic were put in contact with the person or persons who had a baby to sell' - one could only admire her directness.
'You putting your money on the clinic?'
The arc of her eyebrow rose no more than a millimetre, but the motion spoke of endless possibility.
Brunetti returned to even more uncertain territory. 'Signor Brunini?' he enquired.
'Ah, yes,' she said. 'Signor Brunini.'
Brunetti waited until finally she continued. 'I thought it might be interesting to present the clinic with another couple desperate to have a child and rich enough to pay anything to have one’
'Signor Brunini?' he asked, recalling that crime films always advised impostors to select a name close enough to their own to allow them to respond to it automatically.
'Even so’
'And Signora Brunini?' he asked. 'Did you have someone in mind for the role?'
'I thought someone familiar with the investigation should accompany you so that there would be two people able to form an opinion of the place.'
'Go along with me?' Brunetti asked, though the emphasis was hardly necessary.
'Friday at truree-thirty,' she said. 'There's a Eurocity to Munich that leaves at 1:29. That means it will get to Verona at three’
'And would this person who goes along with me be Signora Brunini?'
She hesitated a moment, considering this question, though Brunetti knew her well enough to believe she had already answered it. ‘I thought perhaps the desire for a child would appear more urgent for Signor Brunini if she were his, er, his companion. Younger, and very much in want of a child.'
Brunetti grasped at the first straw that floated past him. 'What about medical records? Wouldn't a doctor at this clinic want to examine them before he saw ... them?'
'Oh, those,' she said, as if already bored with there details. 'Dottor Rizzardi has asked a friend at the Ospedale to prepare them.'
'For Signor Brunini and his, er, his companion?'
'Exactly. They should be ready, and Dottor Rizzardi's friend has only to fax them to Verona.'
Did he have a choice? The question was absurd.
Little happened over the day and a half before Brunetti had to take up the role of Signor Brunini. The couples who had been arrested in Verona and Brescia were sent home, and the police request that they be kept under house arrest was rejected by magistrates in both cities. The children, two articles stated, had been given into the care of the social services. Dottor Pedrolli, too, was told by the Venetian magistrate assigned the case that he could return to his home and to his work, but following the advice of Dottor Damasco, he chose to remain in the hospital. The Carabinieri had decided to bring against him only charges having to do with the false adoption of the baby: mention was no longer made of resisting arrest or injuring a police officer in performance of his duties. Neither he nor his wife made any attempt to contact Brunetti, who was careful to request a written report from the Carabinieri, though there was precious little to report.
Thus, urged by the restless desire to force something, anything, to happen, Brunetti arrived at the station on Friday afternoon on time to catch the 1:29 Eurocity to Munich, scheduled to stop at Verona at 2:54.
'You know, we can stop this if you'd like’ Brunetti said as the train pulled into the Verona station.
Signorina Elettra looked up from her copy of II Manifesto, smiled, and responded, 'But men I'd have to go back to the office, wouldn't I, Commissario?' Her smile was warm, but it did not linger as she shut the paper and got to her feet. She set the newspaper on the seat, took her coat and put it over her arm.
She went into the corridor, and Brunetti picked up the paper, calling after her. 'You've forgotten this.'
‘No, better leave it there. I doubt that patients at this clinic read anything other than Il Giornale. I'd hardly want to trigger alarms by walking in with a Communist newspaper.'
'One does tend to forget that they eat babies’ Brunetti said conversationally as they made their way to the end of the carriage.
'Communists?' she asked, turning to him at the top of the steps.
'So my Aunt Anna believed’ Brunetti said, then added, 'Probably still does.' He followed her down the steps, and together they walked to the stairway that led to the lower level and the station exit.
A few taxis stood in line; Brunetti opened the back door of the first and waited as Signorina Elettra got in. He closed it and walked around to the other side. He gave the driver, who appeared to be either Indian or Pakistani, the name and address of the Villa Colonna, and the man nodded as though they were familiar.
Neither Brunetti nor Signorina Elettra spoke as the taxi pulled into traffic, turning left in front of the station and moving off towards what Brunetti calculated must be the west. He was amazed, as he so often was, at how many cars crowded the roads, at how loud it all was, even through the closed windows of the taxi. Cars appeared to come at them from all directions, some sounding their horns, a noise Brunetti had always found particularly aggressive. The driver muttered under his breath in a language that was not Italian, braking and surging ahead in response to spaces that closed or opened ahead of them. Try as he might, Brunetti never quite managed to understand the cause and effect relationship between what a driver saw and what he did: perhaps there was none.
He sat back and studied the endless rows of new buildings to his left, all low, all ugly, and all apparently selling something.
Voice low, Signorina Elettra said, 'Shall we go ahead with what we planned?'
'I think so,' he replied, though it was she who had planned their roies, not they together, and surely not he. Tt will make me look more than a little desperate, and it suggests that I'm willing to do anything at all to keep you happy.'
'And it gives me an interesting role to play.'
Before he could respond, the taxi came to a sharp halt, pitching them forward, forcing them to brace their hands against the seats in front to avoid crashing into them. The driver swore and banged his fist repeatedly against the dashboard as he continued to mutter to himself. In front of them stood a square-backed truck, its red brake lights glaring. As they sat and watched, black fumes poured from beneath the truck. Within seconds, the taxi was trapped in a black cloud, and the inside began to fill with the acrid smell of burning oil.
‘Is that truck going to explode?' Brunetti asked the driver, not bothering to ask himself how the man would know.
'No, sir.'
Strangely comforted, Brunetti sat back and glanced at Signorina Elettra, who had her hand over her mouth and nose.
Brunetti was pulling out his handkerchief to hand to her when the taxi suddenly jerked forward and slid around the truck. Then they moved off at a speed that pressed them against the backs of their seats. When Brunetti looked, there was no sign of the truck.
'My God,' Signorina Elettra said, 'how can people live like this?'
I've no idea,' Brunetti answered.
They lapsed into silence and before long the taxi slowed and turned into an oval driveway in front of a three-storey building, all gleaming metal and glass.
Twelve Euro, fifty,' the driver said as they drew to a halt.
Brunetti gave him a ten and a five and told him to keep the change. 'Would you like a receipt, sir?' the driver asked. ‘I can make it for any amount you like.'
Brunetti thanked him and said it wasn't necessary, got out and went around to open the door for Signorina Elettra. She swung both feet out and stood, then took his arm and leaned towards him. It's show time, Commissario,' she said and gave him a broad smile that ended in a wink.
The automatic doors opened into a reception area that might have served for an advertising agency, perhaps even a television studio. Money was in evidence. It did not shout and it did not whistle, nor did it try in any vulgar way to call attention to itself. But it was there, evident in the parquet, the Persian rriiniatures on the walls, and in the pale leather chairs and sofa that sat around three sides of a square marble table on which rested a bouquet of flowers more splendid than anything Signorina Elettfa had to date thought of ordering for the Questura.
A young woman quite as beautiful as the flowers, if somewhat more restrained in colour choice, sat at a glass-topped table. No papers and nothing to write with could be seen, only a flat-screen computer and a keyboard. Through the surface of the desk, Brunetti saw that she sat with her feet neatly together, a pair of brown shoes
peeping out from the bottom of what looked like black silk slacks.
She smiled as they approached, revealing dimples on either side of a perfect mouth. Her hair appeared to be naturally blonde, though Brunetti had abandoned the idea that he could any longer tell, and her eyes were green, though one seemed to be just minimally larger than the other. 'May I help you?' she asked, making it sound as if this were her single goal in life.
'My name is Brunini’ he said. I have a three-thirty appointment with Dottor Calamandri.'
Again that smile. 'One moment and I'll check.' She turned aside and typed a few letters into the computer, tapping mem out carefully with the tips of her blunt-cut fingernails. She waited a second, glanced back at them and said, 'If you'll take seats over there, the dottore will see you in five minutes.'
Brunetti nodded and started to turn away. The young woman came around her desk to lead them to the seats, almost as if she doubted they could make the two-metre trip unaided.
'Would either of you like something to drink?' she asked, her smile refusing to fade.
Signorina Elettra shook her head, not bothering to say thank you. She was, after all, the spoiled companion of a wealthy man, and such women did not smile at their inferiors. Nor did they smile at women who were younger than they, especially when they were in the company of a man.
They sat down and the young woman returned to her desk, where she busied herself at her computer, the screen of which Brunetti could not see. He looked at the magazines lying beneath the flowers: AD, Vogue, Focus. –Nothing so vulgar as Gente or Oggi, or CM, the sort of magazine one looked forward to being able to read in the doctor's waiting room.
He picked up Architectural Digest but tossed it down before opening it, remembering that the reason he was there was to be attentive to the wishes of his companion. He leaned towards her and asked, 'Are you all right?'
'As soon as this is over, I will be,' she said, looking up at him and trying to smile.
Neither spoke for some time, and. Brunetti's attention wandered back to the covers of the magazines. He heard a door open and looked up to see another woman, older than the one at the desk and less attractive, approaching them. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and cut to just below her ears, falling forward on both sides of her face. She wore a white lab jacket over a grey wool skirt. Her legs were fine and well-muscled, the legs of a woman who played tennis or ran, but no less beautiful for that.