‘Yes?’ Elizabeth Wellauer said as she opened the door for him.
‘Again I apologize for disturbing you, Signora, but there is new information, and I’d like to ask you some more questions.’
‘About what?’ she asked, making no move to open the door any further.
‘The results of the autopsy on your husband,’ he explained, certain that this would be enough to give him entry. With a sharp, graceless motion, she pulled the door back and stood aside. Silently, she led him to the room where they had had their two previous interviews and pointed to what he was beginning to think of as his chair. He waited while she lit a cigarette, a gesture so habitual with her that he now paid almost no attention to it.
‘At the time of the autopsy’—he began with no preliminaries—’the pathologist said that he found signs of bruising on your husband’s body that might have been caused by injections of some sort. The same thing is mentioned in his report.’ He paused, giving her the opportunity to volunteer an explanation. When none came, he continued. ‘Dr. Rizzardi said that they might have come from anything: drugs, vitamins, antibiotics. He said that the pattern of the bruises was inconsistent with your husband’s having given them to himself—he was right-handed, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘The bruises on the arm were on the right side as well, so he couldn’t have given himself those injections.’ He allowed himself a minimal pause. ‘If they were injections, that is.’ He paused again. ‘Signora, did you give your husband these injections?’
She ignored him, so he repeated the question. ‘Signora, did you give your husband these injections?’ No response. ‘Signora, do you understand my question? Did you give your husband these injections?’
‘They were vitamins,’ she finally answered.
‘What kind?’
‘B -twelve.’
‘Where did you get them? From your former husband?’
The question clearly surprised her. She shook her head in strong denial. ‘No; he had nothing to do with it. I wrote a prescription for them while we were still in Berlin. Helmut had complained of feeling tired, so I suggested that he try a series of B-twelve injections. He had done so in the past, and they had helped him then.’
‘How long ago did you begin with the injections, Signora?’
‘I don’t remember exactly. About six weeks ago.’
‘Did he seem to improve?’
‘What?’
‘Your husband. Did he improve as a result of these injections. Did they have the effect you intended?’
She glanced up at him sharply when he asked this second question, but answered calmly. ‘No, they didn’t seem to help. So after six or seven, I decided to discontinue them.’
‘Did you decide that, or did your husband, Signora?’
‘What difference does it make? They didn’t work, so he stopped taking them.’
‘I think it makes a great deal of difference, Signora, who decided to stop them. And I think you know that.’
‘Then I suppose he decided.’
‘Where did you get the prescription filled? Here in Italy?’
‘No; I’m not licensed to practice here. It was in Berlin, before we came down here.’
‘I see. Then the pharmacist would surely have a record of it.’
‘Yes, I suppose he would. But I don’t remember where I had it filled.’
‘You mean you just wrote a prescription and chose a pharmacy at random?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you lived in Berlin, Signora?’
‘Ten years. I don’t see why that’s important.’
‘Because it seems strange to me that a doctor would live in a city for ten years and not have a permanent pharmacy. Or that the Maestro wouldn’t have a pharmacy where he usually went.’
Her response was just a second too long in coming. ‘He did. We both do. But that day, I wasn’t at home when I wrote the prescription, so I just took it to the first pharmacy I saw and asked them to fill it.’
‘But surely you remember where it was. It wasn’t so long ago.’
She looked out the window, concentrating, trying to remember. She turned to him and said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t remember where it was.’
‘That’s no matter, Signora,’ he said dismissively. ‘It for us.’ She glanced up at this, surprised, or something more. ‘And I’m sure they’ll be able to find out what the prescription was, what sort of—he paused for just a second before saying the last word—’vitamin.’
Though her cigarette was still burning in the ashtray, she reached for the package, then changed the motion and simply pushed the pack around with one finger, giving it a precise quarter turn each time. ‘Shall we stop this now?’ she asked, voice neutral. ‘I’ve never liked games, and you aren’t very good at them, either.’
Through the years, he had seen this happen more times than he could count, seen people reach the point
