some statistical curiosity to be commented on and then forgotten. The number in Padua had significance, though Brunetti had no idea what it was, and he was suddenly sure that the number of the bar in Mestre was going to appear on the list of Trevisan's local calls.
Promising to let della Corte know as soon as he learned anything about the pho ne in Mestre, he depressed the b ar on the receiver and dialled Vianello's extension. When the sergeant answered, Brunetti asked him to come up to his office.
A few minutes later, Vianello came in. Trevisan?' he asked, meeting Brunetti's gaze with one of frank curiosity.
'Yes. I've just had a call from the police in Padua, about Rino Favero.'
'The accountant, the one who worked for the Minister of Health?' Vianello asked. When Brunetti nodded, Vianello burst out, speaking with real passion, 'They should all do it.'
Brunetti looked up, momentarily startled.
'Do what?' he asked.
'Kill themselves, the whole filthy lot of them.' As suddenly as he had erupted, Vianello subsided and sat in the chair in front of Brunetti's desk.
'What brought that on?' Brunetti asked.
Instead of answering, Vianello shrugged, waving one hand in the air in front of him.
Brunetti waited.
'It was the editorial in the Corriere this morning,' Vianello finally answered. 'Saying what?'
'That we should have pity on these poor men, driven to take their own lives by the shame and suffering imposed on them, that the judges should let them out of prison, return them to their wives and families. I forget the rest of it; just reading that much made me sick.' Brunetti remained silent, so Vianello continued. 'If someone who snatches a purse gets put in gaol, we don't read editorials, at least not in the Corriere , begging that they be released or that we all feel sorry for them. And God knows how much these pigs have stolen. Your taxes. Mine. Billions, thousands of billions.' Suddenly conscious of how high his voice was rising, Vianello repeated the wave of his hand, brushing away his anger, and asked, in a far more moderate voice, 'What about Favero? ’
'It wasn't suicide,' Brunetti said.
Vianello "s look was frankly surprised. 'What happened?' he asked, his explosion apparentl y forgotten.
'He had so much barbiturate in him there was no way he could have driven.'
'How much?' Vianello asked.
'Four milligrams' but before Vianello could tell him this was hardly a hea vy dosage, he added, 'of Roipnol ' Vianello knew as well as did Brunetti that four milligrams would put either one of them to sleep for the next day and a half.
'What's the connection with Trevisan?' Vianello asked.
Like Brunetti, Vianello had long since lost his faith in coincidence, so he listened with fixed attention to the story of the phone number known to both of the dead men.
"The Padua railway station?' Vianello asked. 'Via Fagare?'
'Yes, it's a bar called Pinetta's. You know it?'
Vianello looked off to the side for a moment and then nodded. 'I think so, if it's the place I'm thinking of. Off to the left of the railway station?'
'I don't know,' Brunetti answered. 'I know it's near the railway station, but I've never heard of it.'
'Yes, I think it's this place. Pinetta's?'
Brunetti nodded, waiting for Vianello to say more.
'If it's the one I'm thinking of, it's pretty bad. Lots of North Africans, those 'vous compras' you see all over the place.' Vianello paused for a moment, and Brunetti prepared himself to hear some sort of slighting remark about these unlicensed vendors who crowded the streets of Venice, selling their imitation Gucci bags and African carvings. But Vianello surprised him by saying, instead, 'Poor devils.'
Brunetti had long since abandoned the hope of ever hearing anything like political consistency from his fellow citizens, but still he wasn't prepared for Vianello's sympathy for these immigrant street vendors, usually the most despised of the hundreds of thousands of people flooding into Italy in hopes of dining
Promising to let della Corte know as soon as he learned anything about the pho ne in Mestre, he depressed the b ar on the receiver and dialled Vianello's extension. When the sergeant answered, Brunetti asked him to come up to his office.
A few minutes later, Vianello came in. Trevisan?' he asked, meeting Brunetti's gaze with one of frank curiosity.
'Yes. I've just had a call from the police in Padua, about Rino Favero.'
'The accountant, the one who worked for the Minister of Health?' Vianello asked. When Brunetti nodded, Vianello burst out, speaking with real passion, 'They should all do it.'
Brunetti looked up, momentarily startled.
'Do what?' he asked.
'Kill themselves, the whole filthy lot of them.' As suddenly as he had erupted, Vianello subsided and sat in the chair in front of Brunetti's desk.
'What brought that on?' Brunetti asked.
Instead of answering, Vianello shrugged, waving one hand in the air in front of him.
Brunetti waited.
'It was the editorial in the Corriere this morning,' Vianello finally answered. 'Saying what?'
'That we should have pity on these poor men, driven to take their own lives by the shame and suffering imposed on them, that the judges should let them out of prison, return them to their wives and families. I forget the rest of it; just reading that much made me sick.' Brunetti remained silent, so Vianello continued. 'If someone who snatches a purse gets put in gaol, we don't read editorials, at least not in the Corriere , begging that they be released or that we all feel sorry for them. And God knows how much these pigs have stolen. Your taxes. Mine. Billions, thousands of billions.' Suddenly conscious of how high his voice was rising, Vianello repeated the wave of his hand, brushing away his anger, and asked, in a far more moderate voice, 'What about Favero? ’
'It wasn't suicide,' Brunetti said.
Vianello "s look was frankly surprised. 'What happened?' he asked, his explosion apparentl y forgotten.
'He had so much barbiturate in him there was no way he could have driven.'
'How much?' Vianello asked.
'Four milligrams' but before Vianello could tell him this was hardly a hea vy dosage, he added, 'of Roipnol ' Vianello knew as well as did Brunetti that four milligrams would put either one of them to sleep for the next day and a half.
'What's the connection with Trevisan?' Vianello asked.
Like Brunetti, Vianello had long since lost his faith in coincidence, so he listened with fixed attention to the story of the phone number known to both of the dead men.
"The Padua railway station?' Vianello asked. 'Via Fagare?'
'Yes, it's a bar called Pinetta's. You know it?'
Vianello looked off to the side for a moment and then nodded. 'I think so, if it's the place I'm thinking of. Off to the left of the railway station?'
'I don't know,' Brunetti answered. 'I know it's near the railway station, but I've never heard of it.'
'Yes, I think it's this place. Pinetta's?'
Brunetti nodded, waiting for Vianello to say more.
'If it's the one I'm thinking of, it's pretty bad. Lots of North Africans, those 'vous compras' you see all over the place.' Vianello paused for a moment, and Brunetti prepared himself to hear some sort of slighting remark about these unlicensed vendors who crowded the streets of Venice, selling their imitation Gucci bags and African carvings. But Vianello surprised him by saying, instead, 'Poor devils.'
Brunetti had long since abandoned the hope of ever hearing anything like political consistency from his fellow citizens, but still he wasn't prepared for Vianello's sympathy for these immigrant street vendors, usually the most despised of the hundreds of thousands of people flooding into Italy in hopes of dining
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