The Waters of Eternal Youth by Donna Leon

closed. Things got a bit confused with her trousers, which were charcoal grey and very narrow – hardly the sort of thing to wear into battle. Her boots, however, slipped back into role: ­heavy-­soled, thick black leather brushed to a ­mirror-­like shine, tied halfway up her shins with elaborately choreographed white laces. In her hand she held a folder, not a weapon.
    â€˜Are you planning to repel an invasion?’ he asked.
    â€˜I’ve got some information about Contessa Lando-­Continui’s granddaughter,’ she said by way of response. Perhaps he had only imagined speaking?
    â€˜Please tell me,’ he said, waving a hand towards the chairs on the other side.
    She sat and crossed her legs. She opened the folder.
    â€˜Manuela,’ she began, ‘has been declared 80 per cent mentally handicapped, and her mother receives a monthly payment of six hundred and twelve euros to help care for her.’
    Signorina Elettra glanced at Brunetti, who nodded, urging her to continue. ‘Her oxygen supply was cut off for a certain time. The official report gives this as the reason for her handicap and the resulting payment and further states that the damage manifests itself in permanent ­child-­like behaviour. They estimate her mental age at seven, though for some things it is estimated that she has greater cap­acity.’ She looked at Brunetti, but he shook his head: that was more than enough to know.
    â€˜I found the school she was attending and spoke to the
preside
, who’s been there only four years. Manuela’s file is online and states that she was absent from classes for a good portion of her last three months there. Only one of her teachers is still there: he taught Italian but doesn’t remember much about her save that she was beautiful.’
    Brunetti realized that, although the facts kept rising around him like a tide, he had discovered little to suggest a crime of any sort. If he wanted to make any real progress, he could no longer continue without an official request.
    Signorina Elettra saw his attention move away from her and asked, ‘What is it?’
    â€˜The ­Vice-­Questore doesn’t know anything about this. I’ve not had time to mention it to him.’ Hearing himself, Brunetti recognized how lame the excuse was.
    â€˜Ah,’ she said, eyes moving away from his face, as though a solution were written on the far wall and she had only to study it to discover what it was. ‘It would be best,’ she began and paused to consult the wall again to read the rest of the message. ‘ . . . if he believed that this was an investigation that would somehow help his career.’
    Brunetti turned his attention to the wall she had studied with such success. Their ­eye-­beams threaded on one double string, the same their postures were, staring at the wall in hope of some revelation.
    â€˜Have you met Dottor Patta’s wife?’ he broke the silence by asking.
    â€˜Once. At a reception for the Praetore. She wanted his attention, not mine.’
    Brunetti was struck by her last sentence and by the idea of a person who wanted attention. Finally he said, ‘That’s how to do it.’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜By using the Contessa’s attention as bait to offer his wife.’
    He watched as Signorina Elettra worked this out. Her eventual smile was sufficient reward.
    In his desk drawer, Brunetti kept a ­ten-­year-­old Nokia that he had bought for Raffi on sale for nineteen euros. The
telefonino
had served his son for four years, then passed to Chiara until her embarrassment at owning a phone so out of fashion – but that refused to die – grew so great that she used her allowance to buy herself a newer one. The phone, now battered and cracked, had ended up in Brunetti’s briefcase and then in his desk. In it was a chip that had been bought for him, with cash, by