Cravelli was an employee whom she had hired to find out - or rather to establish as fact -certain information about her husband.
He could not imagine why Lurton Sands had married her. Surely it had been conflict -
psychological, social, sexual, professional - from the start.
However, there was no explaining the chemistry which joined men and women, locked them in embraces of hate and mutual suffering sometimes for ninety years on end. In his line, Tito had seen plenty of it, enough to last him even a jerry lifetime.
'Call Lattimore Hospital in San Francisco,' Myra instructed in her crisp, vigilantly authoritative voice. 'In August, Lurton transplanted a spleen for an army major, there; I think his name was
Walleck or some such quiddity as that. I recall, at the time ... Lurton had had, what shall I say ?
A little too much to drink. It was evening and we were having dinner. Lurton blurted out some darn thing or other. About "paying heavily" for the spleen. You know, Tito, that VOFR prices are rigidly set by the UN and they're not high; in fact they're too low ... that's the cardinal reason the fund runs out of certain vital organs so often. Not from a lack of supply so much as the existence of too darn many takers.'
'Hmm,' Tito said, jotting notes.
'Lurton always said that if the VOFR only were to raise its rates...'
'You're positive it was a spleen ?' Tito broke in.
'Yes.' Myra nodded curtly, exhaling streamers of gray smoke that swirled toward the lamp behind her, a cloud that drifted in the artificial light of the office. It was dark outside, now; the time was seven-thirty.
'A spleen,' Tito recapitulated. 'In August of this year. At Lattimore General Hospital in San
Francisco. An army major named - '
'Now I'm beginning to think it was Wozzeck,' Myra put in. 'Or is that an opera composer ?'
'It's an opera,' Tito said. 'By Berg. Seldom performed, now.' He lifted the receiver of the vidphone. 'I'll get hold of the business office at Lattimore; it's only four-thirty out there on the
Coast.'
Myra rose to her feet and roamed restlessly about the office, rubbing her gloved hands together in a motion that irritated Tito and made it difficult for him to concentrate on his call.
'Have you had dinner ?' he asked her, as he waited on the line.
'No. But I never eat until eight-thirty or nine; it's barbaric to eat any earlier.'
Tito said, 'Can I take you to dinner, Mrs. Sands ? I know an awfully good little Armenian place in the Village. The food's actually prepared by humans.'
'Humans ? As compared to what ?'
'Automatic food-processing systems,' Tito murmured. 'Or don't you ever eat in autoprep restaurants ?' After all, the Sands were wealthy; possibly they normally enjoyed human-prepared food. 'Personally, I can't stand autopreps. The food's always so predictable. Never burned, never ...' He broke off; on the vidscreen the miniature features of an employee at Lattimore had formed. 'Miss, this is Life-factors Research Consultants of N'York calling. I'd like to inquire about an operation performed on a Major Wozzeck or Walleck last August, a spleen transplant.'
'Wait,' Myra said suddenly. 'Now I remember; it wasn't a spleen - it was an islands of
Langerhans; you know, that part of the pancreas which controls sugar production in the body. I
remember because Lurton got to talking about it because he saw me putting two teaspoonfuls of sugar in my coffee.'
'I'll look that up,' the girl at Lattimore said, overhearing Myra. She turned to her files.
'What I want to find out,' Tito said to her, 'is the exact date at which the organ was obtained from the UN's VOFR.
If you can give me that datum, please.' He waited, accustomed to having to be patient. His line of work absolutely required that virtue, above all others, including intelligence.
The girl presently said, 'A Colonel Weiswasser received an organ transplant on August twelve of this year. Islands of Langerhans, obtained from the VOFR the day before, August eleven. Dr
Lurton Sands performed the operation and of course certified the organ.'
'Thanks, miss,' Tito said, and broke the connection. "The VOFR office is closed,' Myra said, as he began once more to dial. 'You'll have to wait until tomorrow.'
'I know somebody there,' Tito said and continued dialing.
At last he had Gus Anderton, his contact at the UN's vital organ bank. 'Gus, this is Tito. Check
August eleven this year for me. Islands of Langerhans; okay ? See if the org-trans surgeon we previously had reference to picked up one there on that date.'
His contact was back almost at once with the information. 'Correct, Tito; it all checks out. Aug eleven, Islands of Langerhans. Transferred by jet-hopper to Lattimore in San Francisco. Routine in every way.'
Tito Cravelli cut the circuit, exasperated.
After a pause Myra Sands, still pacing restlessly about his office, exclaimed, 'But I know he's been obtaining organs illegally. He never turned anybody down, and you know there never have been that many organs in the bank reserve - he had to get them somewhere else. He still is; I
know it.'
'Knowing this and proving this are two ...'
Turning to him, Myra snapped, 'And outside of the UN bank there's only one other place he would or could go.'
'Agreed,' Tito said, nodding. 'But as your attorney said, you better have proof before you make the charge; otherwise he'll sue you for slander, libel, defamation of character, the entire biz. He'd have to. You'd give him no choice.'
'You don't like this,' Myra said.
Tito shrugged. 'I don't have to like it. That doesn't matter.'
'But you think I'm treading on dangerous ground.'
'I know you are. Even if it's true that Lurton Sands ...'
'Don't say "even if". He's a fanatic and you know it; he identifies so fully with his public image as a savior of lives that he's simply had to make a psychological break with reality. Probably he started in a small way, with what he told himself was a unique situation, an exception; he had to have a particular organ and he took it. And the next time...' She shrugged. 'It was easier. And so on.'
'I see, 'Tito said.
'I think I see what we're going to have to do,' Myra said. 'What you're going to have to do. Get started on-this. Find out from your contact at the UN exactly what organ the bank lacks at this time. Then deliberately set up another emergency situation; have someone in a hospital somewhere apply to Lurton for that particular transplant. I realize that it'll cost one hell of a lot of money, but I'm willing to underwrite the expense. Do you see ?'
'I see,' Tito said. In other words, trap Lurton Sands. Play on the man's determination to save the life of a dying person ... make his humanitarianism the instrument of his destruction. What a way to earn a living, Tito thought to himself. Another day, another dollar ... it's hardly that. Not when you get involved in something like this.
'I know you can arrange it,' Myra said to him fervently. 'You're good; you're experienced. Aren't you ?'
'Yes, Mrs. Sands,' Tito said. I'm experienced. Yes, possibly I can trap the guy. Lead him by the nose. It shouldn't be too hard.'
'Make sure your "patient" offers him plenty,' Myra said in a bitter, taut voice. 'Lurton will bite if he senses a good financial return; that's what interests him - in spite of what you and the darn public may or may not imagine. I ought to know; I've lived with him a good many years, shared his most intimate thoughts.' She smiled, briefly. 'It seems a shame I have to tell you how to go about your business, but obviously I have to.' Her smile returned, cold and exceedingly hard.