"So...this Polanski. He has had a horrid life. He is born at just wrong time. He is a Jew, his parents taken to death camps, he grows up wild. He makes success through hard work and talents and marries beautiful wife, and she is killed by some madman. Why should he believe anything but that devil rules this world? But I was born somewhat earlier in same time, not a Jew but still, life was not so happy for Poles either, the n.a.z.is thought we were almost so bad as the Jews, and so I say I was, if not same as Polanski, at least, you agree, in the same cla.s.s. Father murdered by n.a.z.is, mother killed in uprising, 1944, I am on streets, a baby cared for by my sister, she is twelve years old, my first memory is burning corpses, a pile of bodies in flames and the smell. How we survived I don't know, a whole generation of us. Later, I should add, like Polanski I lost my wife, not to a madman but also tortured to death, months of it. I was by that time not very well in with the authorities and it was difficult to obtain morphia for her. Well, not to talk about these personal troubles. I meant to say, after the war, somehow, despite the Germans and the Russians, we look around and discover there is still life in us. We learn, we make love, we have children. Poland survives, our language lives, people write poetry. Warsaw is rebuilt, every brick, same like before the war. Miloscz wins n.o.bel, Szymborska wins n.o.bel, and one of us is pope. Who could imagine this? And so when we make art, this art most often says something more than, oh, poor little me, how I have suffered, the devil is in charge, life is trash, we can do nothing. This is what I mean."

Crosetti considered this statement as much as he could, which was not very much, because he was an American and he wanted to make movies and sell them and he thought he had to at least be a tourist in the dark country. Suffering, nihilism, the devil laughing, all that Polanski stuff was a necessary spice, like oregano, not something you were expected to make a meal from. What he admired in the Poles was the competent surface, the camera movements, the way a face was lit, the way the camera dwelled upon a face.

After a pause, he said, "So, anyway, do you want to watch some films?"

"Not Chinatown Chinatown please!" said Mary Peg. please!" said Mary Peg.

"No. We'll watch moral art," said her son. "We'll have a John Wayne festival."

So they did. Crosetti owned nearly five hundred DVDs and several hundred videotapes and they started with Stagecoach Stagecoach and proceeded to hit the highlights of the Duke's career. Mary Peg crashed halfway through and proceeded to hit the highlights of the Duke's career. Mary Peg crashed halfway through She Wore a Yellow Ribbon She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, her head drooping against Klim's shoulder. When the film was over, they settled Mary Peg on the couch with a blanket over her, turned off the set, and went back to the kitchen. Crosetti reflected that this was the first time in his memory that his mother had missed seeing the Tonight Show Tonight Show, and this produced in him a good feeling, as if she had won some kind of prize.

"I too will go to bed, I think," said Klim. "Thank you for a most interesting evening. I confess I have always liked the cowboy films. They are very soothing to me, like a lullaby when one is a child. Tell me, what do you intend to do about this cipher?"

Crosetti was startled by the change of subject and then recalled that his father had said it was an old cop trick to get the suspect off balance.

"I don't see what I can can do. You said the thing was uncrackable." do. You said the thing was uncrackable."

"Yes, but...your mother has told me this entire story, as much as she has of it, and so I know that a man has already died. Now you must think: the men who killed this professor do not know that the cipher is unreadable. Let us presume they have the Bracegirdle letter or a copy of it. This letter mentions other letters, ciphered letters. These they do not have and they must begin to want them and I am sure they must have obtained your name from the dead man. This young lady who was with you when you found them, she at least knows the ciphers exist. She has already disappeared, and sends a letter you suspect, which you are correct to do: anyone can write a letter, or force a letter to be written, and mail it from anywhere. She might be on the next street. Or dead as well."

Crosetti had considered that possibility any number of times and always dismissed it. Carolyn may have run away-from what he didn't know yet-but he refused to admit that she might be dead. At some level he knew he was being infantile: people died, but not Carolyn Rolly. She was a survivor and good at hiding, and the script required that she reappear and conclude her business with Albert Crosetti. A little Polish-movie business was okay, but not that.

"She's not dead," he said, as much to hear the magic of the phrase as to communicate the thought to Klim. "Anyway, what's your point?"

"My point is that we are dealing here with violent people and there is no reason why they should not come after you next. You or your mother."

"My mother?"

"Well, yes. I presume that if they have your mother you will give them anything they want."

An unwanted laugh sprang from Crosetti's mouth. "Jesus, Klim! I think it was a mistake to let you watch John Wayne. They can have the d.a.m.n things right now. I'll put an ad out-'thugs who whacked Bulstrode, pick up the cipher letters anytime.'"

"Yes, but of course they would see that as a ploy. The problem with evil people is that they can see only evil in others. It is one of the worst curses of being evil, that you can no longer experience good. Believe me in this; for perhaps I have seen more evil people than you. Tell me, your father was a policeman-have you any guns in the house?"

At this, Crosetti's mouth fell open and he felt hysteria well up again but suppressed the feeling. "Yeah, we have his guns. Why?"

"Because when you are gone it will be necessary for me to stay here armed."

"What do you mean, gone? When I'm at work?"

"No. I mean when you are in England. You should immediately leave for England."

Crosetti stared at the man. He seemed perfectly calm, but you could never tell with a certain type of crazy person. Or maybe this was how he became when drunk. Crosetti was fairly drunk himself and decided to treat the current run of conversation like drunk-talk, or the type he and his friends got into when they were thinking about how to raise enough money to make a movie. He pasted a humoring smile on his face. "Why should I go to England, Klim?"

"Two reasons. One is to disappear from here. Second is to find out what Bulstrode learned while he was there, if you can. Third is to find the grille."

"Uh-huh. Well, that shouldn't take any time at all. They probably have just the grille we want at Grilles R Us. Or Grille World. But first, I think I'll go to bed. Good night, Klim."

"Yes, but first the guns. Perhaps they come tonight."

"G.o.d, you're serious serious about this, aren't you?" about this, aren't you?"

"Extremely serious. Guns is not a joking matter."

Crosetti was just in that stage of drunkenness in which one is physically capable of acts that the sober self would never have considered for an instant (Hey, let's drive the pickup out on the lake ice and do skids!), and so he went into his mother's bedroom and took down the carton that contained all his father's policeman stuff-the gold s.h.i.+eld, the handcuffs, the notebooks, and the two pistols in their leather zip cases. One was a big Smith & Wesson Model 10, the cla.s.sic .38 that all New York patrolmen used to carry before the semiautomatics came in, and the other was the .38 Chief's Special with the two-inch barrel that his father had carried as a detective. There was a half-empty box of Federal jacketed hollow-point .38 Specials in there too and he took it out and loaded both weapons on his mother's blond oak bureau. He put the Chief's Special, still in its clip-on holster, into his pocket and left the room, holding the Model 10.

"I a.s.sume you know how to use this," he said, handing it b.u.t.t-first to Klim. "You won't shoot your foot. Or my mom."

"Yes," said Klim, hefting it in the palm of his hand like a pound of sausage. Crosetti was happy to see that he didn't sight it and put his finger on the trigger. "It is a John Wayne pistol. All the world knows how to shoot this type."

"There's a little more to it than that."

"I was making a joke. In fact, the weapons training I received was quite thorough."

"Great. Well, knock yourself out."

"Excuse, please?"

"Another figure of speech. I'm going to bed."

He did and awakened at 4:10 in the morning, thinking that he had dreamed it all, dreamed that he had given a loaded weapon to a man he hardly knew. He jumped out of bed and went over to his trousers hanging from the closet doork.n.o.b and felt the weight of the other pistol there. With a whispered curse he removed it and started toward his mother's bedroom and then thought better of it. Mary Peg invariably woke during the night after falling asleep in front of the TV, and he could barely imagine what she would think if she awakened again and saw her son in her bedroom brandis.h.i.+ng a revolver. He placed it in the canvas briefcase he carried on his way to and from work and returned to his bed. Thereafter he slept fitfully, bemoaning during the waking intervals this last evidence of his terminal stupidity.

The next morning he came down to breakfast late, hoping to keep his contact with the house's other two inhabitants to the socially acceptable minimum. When he arrived in the kitchen, his mother was there, fully dressed and made up, and Klim was sitting at the table attired in his bad suit. The pistol was not evident. Mary Peg was making bacon and eggs and chatting brightly with her houseguest. They were going to go out for a drive, maybe out to the Island, have lunch someplace, it looked like a sunny day, not too cold, etc. This amiable chatter only increased Crosetti's depression and guilt. Klim was the reason for the cooked breakfast, obviously, for on weekdays the Crosettis made do with cold cereal and coffee. Crosetti had to eat some out of simple loyalty, and after a decent interval he grabbed his coat and his briefcase and left.

He had thought of asking when Klim would be leaving, now that the deciphering had reached a dead end, but had decided not to, had decided that it would be ill-mannered. It was his mother's house, she could shack up with anyone she wanted. Why was he living with his mother anyway? It was ridiculous and unsuitable and the h.e.l.l with saving for film school. Carolyn Rolly had figured a way out of an impossible situation, and she had far fewer resources than he did (as she had pointed out to him), and now he resolved to make a change. There were people he knew in Williamsburg and Long Island City who lived in group dwellings, film and music freaks his own age. The rent would be a pinch, but maybe he could forget about film school for a bit, maybe he could get a small script shot and use that to get an interns.h.i.+p or a scholars.h.i.+p, or maybe he should start sending scripts to the contests. He was filling his mind with thoughts that were not about pistols and the menace of violence from unknown parties and this worked well enough until he lifted his briefcase to pa.s.s through the subway turnstile and he heard a clank when it brushed against the metal of the turnstile housing and he realized that he still had the pistol with him.

THE T THIRD C CIPHERED L LETTER.

My lord there is naught of moment afoot, the same as in my laste, for the company are all engaged at the Globe theatre & I praye me it maye not vex you if I write less often, as it is tedious to encypher as it must be for you to interpret. Yet oure plan proceedeth well I thinke. Having done with his playe of the Tempest & the somer arrivynge W.S. travells to Stratford-upon-Avon which is his habbot to goe these manie yeares & hee bids me goe with hym & stop at hys howse. Soe wee leave London 5th June oure partie being besydes W.S. & mee some marchants in woole & the fellowe Spade as guard. Wee arrive upon the 8 June oure partie being besydes W.S. & mee some marchants in woole & the fellowe Spade as guard. Wee arrive upon the 8th inst. & are reseaved with signes of delight by Mr. S. his familie: wyfe & two daughters the eldest Susannah & the youngere Judith; also otheres of the town, W.S. being now a considerable man of propertie in those partes, hys howse at New Place most comodiouse. But the wages of sin are death. inst. & are reseaved with signes of delight by Mr. S. his familie: wyfe & two daughters the eldest Susannah & the youngere Judith; also otheres of the town, W.S. being now a considerable man of propertie in those partes, hys howse at New Place most comodiouse. But the wages of sin are death.

W.S. agen shewes hym a false villein for hee plaies a verie other man in Stratford than in London as hee is plaien-spoke in the ffas.h.i.+on of this countrey lyke a playn burgesse of the towne, saies Zir, saies Chil, not I will, saies mortal not verie &c.: speakes not of the theatre nor hys lyfe in towne, no bawdry though hym bawdie enow in London tap-roomes. Wife some thyng of a shrewe, rates hym for keepyng trulls & not sending money sufficient for her keepe & he answereth her not but forebeares. Verilie he doth keep a trull, a singer of Italy methinkes or a Jewess, verie black to look at I have seen hym abed with her thrice or four tymes; but he doth not boast upon her to otheres: hee is a private man in such thynges, nor doth he goe for debauch in the stewes. His talke heerabouts is all of land & buying of landes & rentes & loanes, mortgages &c. Yet with hys daughter Susannah is he seeminge more merrie; to whose company he doth much repaire. She hath more witt than women comonlie have or so 'tis said in the playce. She is marryed to Jn. Hall physician a Puritan man of goode repute. They speake not of religion; so I suspect them: as who doth not who be an honest man & of the trew faithe? They attend church & are not fyned although the talke hereabouts is the father was oft fyned & a d.a.m.ned recusant papist unto death; the mother too. Searched privilie about the howse for priests holes but could fynde none.

W.S. is verie easie with mee & with mee alone speakes of the theatre & plaies & the plaie of Mary he is comanded (soe he thinks) to write; yet for manie daies he doth no writing whilst here, or but a little in hys smale booke. We are abroad muche & I with my newdevized angle-rod holped hym survey som land neare Rowington which hys neighbour disputeth the boundes & pleazed hym muche therbye. His wyfe though pa.s.sing olde is yet lively and manages alle; her accomptes all a-hoo (I have stolen a looke) yet she knowes her every ell of lande theyre rentes & where lieth the last pepper-corne. The youngere daughter somewhat ill-favoured; not married nor none in prospect; lykes me not & I doe not know why for I traite her with best courtesie. But I listen behinde door to servantes prattel & heare she is jealous of this elder sister that her father loveeth beste or soe she thinkes; soe too there wase a sonne her twin who hath died some yeares past & W.S. wisheth it ben her who died & not her brother; seeminglie am I of an age with this dead boye or a little younger & am somwhat lyke in hys eies, therefore hee doth favour mee & this daughter hateth mee for it. Thus they speake & whether it be trewe or no shal we see hereafter; but if trewe it doth advaunce oure enterpryse I thinke.

I have scaped a dangeur that I shal relate you. He hath upon an evening come into my chamber in hys howse & I was cyphering with mye grille & he askes what it is I doe & I wase much discountenanced yet spake brave saying I reade holie scripture. He asketh what is that sheete of metall & answered tis a copie I hath made of a lanthorne that adorneth the crypt where lieth my mother, a remembrance of her. Then asketh: art a poet too d.i.c.k I see you have quick hid what you write upon when I cam in as som poets doe & I with 'em. Nay cosen saith I tis som mathematick idlinge I doe. He saith: ho, holie writ & nomberes all at onece thou art a wonder, no wonder thy skull lacks room for witte. Soe he left me safe.

Now heere is a secret I have uncouvered of hym: a-Sundaies 'tis hys habbot after divine servise he taketh horse & quits the towne with the fellowe Spade soe hee saies to ryde in the forest of Arden nearebye. Upon such a day I take horse and follow them on a road through the forest north-west up the vale, five miles or more it must have ben & come to a rise in ground and can see at some littel distanse the castle of Warwick, its tours. I come to theyre horses and I dismount too and walk upon a track through the woode. After a tyme I come to a ruine of som olde priorie or such romish howse shut sence King Henries daie where are manie folke about kneylyng & telling bedes & a man there no dowt a popish priest with hys cuppe & mumbles; & W.S. there too among them all. I watch & listen & then the folk leave the place & W.S. speaketh with the priest for a tyme & I venture closer to heere them theyre develish plots mayhap when I am seized from behynde & a grete hande clappit ovr mye mouth & then pressed to earth with a heavie weight & feele a point gainst my cheke & a voise saith quiet or you are dead man. Soe for a while; then am lifted up & I see there is W.S. & it is Spade who hath me & his daggere still drawen.

Quoth W.S. d.i.c.k why skulk in shadoues why not com to ma.s.s you are a goode Catholicke are you not? I answer sir I was afeared an it might be a snare set by pursuivantes to take names of thos sekeing holy ma.s.se as if oft done these tymes. Nay he saies they are but good folk of the countrey who cleve stil to the olde religioun. And you amongst them, say I. In parte, he saies, for I am a goode Kinges man & temper me to the requisites of pouwer & shew my face a Sundaies where pouwer demandes it. Quoth I: And believeth not? That, saies he, is for G.o.d alone & not such as you, nor yet the Kinges majestie to know; but though Jack Calvin & all the bischops saie I can not praye for the sowles of my parentes & of my littel sonne, yet I will: if it d.a.m.n mee to h.e.l.l I will do it. And hym sayeing this looketh most fierce. Then smiles, saying come look I will shew thee a thinge to marvell at, goode Spade putt up thy blade here is a friende.

Soe goe we throew the oulde stones of the priorie all o'ergrowne with brakken & smale trees; it was the priorie of St. Bosa as he telleth whilst we goe, onece the abode of holie sisters. Hee pointes variously: here the chapel there the cloister & at last come we to a ring of stones & in the centre a black cercle. This is St. Bosa's holy-welle he saies & list thee well to it & droppeth in a pibble & it pa.s.seth a long tyme before wee heare but verie fainte the plash. Tis deep saies I. Marry, pa.s.singe deep, saies hee they saie no man hath plombed it ever. In past tymes the maydes would gather heere on St. Agnes daie & draw up a payle & peer in the water to scrye the face of theyre husband that shalbe. But no more, no more: for G.o.d as we nowe are taught loveth not confort, nor plaifulnesse, nor musick, nor glorious shewes, nor anie lovelie thynge, nor yet workes of charitie, but desireth us to tremble in plain dull chamberes, wee cloathed all in mourninge, whilste som whey-face canting parson drones wee are d.a.m.ned, d.a.m.ned d.a.m.ned to h.e.l.l. Then laughes clops me on showleder & saies hang such sectish talk for now wee are for home & shall feaste us & drinke & play nine mens morris lyke simple folk.

Soe we did & after meate wee oute to the sward all the familie & Spade with his knife cutteth out some turves to make a board & they commense plaie. I saie I know not this game & W.S. saies what, canst not play morris? Nay you plaie deeper games mye tricksey cosen deep as Bosa Holiewell; soe I aske his meaninge & he saies why I meant onlie London games with cartes as pinero & gleake. But I thinke he meant else.

This night he hath a candle late & I heere hym pace his chamber & I listen close & heer the scrach of a pen & s.h.i.+ft of paper & I think hee must write oure plaie of Mary now. My lord you ask can I overlook his papers to see what he doth write & I shall try it; but hee is verie close with hys papers & no onne is let see them til he be finished. I praye you my lord doeth well & all your howse prosper, from Stratford-upon-Avon the 19th June 1611 bye your lords.h.i.+pes most humble serv June 1611 bye your lords.h.i.+pes most humble servt Richard Bracegirdle Richard Bracegirdle

13.

Iam reading a little Shakespeare now, in the intervals between sleeping, eating, and writing this thing. Mickey's got a Riverside Riverside here, of course, not to mention any number of supplementary texts, lexicons, critical works, and so forth. Shall I add my own little bit of bird s.h.i.+t to Everest? I think not, although I have to say that Bracegirdle has given me a somewhat different take on the guy. As I've already said, I have had some commerce with creative types and I have indeed seen in them the same peculiar blankness that our d.i.c.k picked up in W.S. Like they're talking to you and doing business and all but you get the feeling you're talking not to a regular person but to a fictional character they made up? I just mean writers here; musicians are quite different, like large hairy children. here, of course, not to mention any number of supplementary texts, lexicons, critical works, and so forth. Shall I add my own little bit of bird s.h.i.+t to Everest? I think not, although I have to say that Bracegirdle has given me a somewhat different take on the guy. As I've already said, I have had some commerce with creative types and I have indeed seen in them the same peculiar blankness that our d.i.c.k picked up in W.S. Like they're talking to you and doing business and all but you get the feeling you're talking not to a regular person but to a fictional character they made up? I just mean writers here; musicians are quite different, like large hairy children.

It so happened, my little diary tells me, that I spent the next morning with a musician whose name you would undoubtedly know if you were rockin' in the '80s at all and this fellow had written at least fifteen Top Twenty songs, music and lyrics and (not having taken the precaution of consulting a good IP lawyer) had signed the copyright to these songs over to his label, in return for which the sc.u.mbag who owned the label gave him an advance of something like twenty-five grand. And gosh, the sc.u.mbag kept feeding him driblets of money, and of course the musician became famous and went on tours and made even more money, and flash forward twenty or so years, with his original group long dispersed and the crowds of fans with them, but the songs are now cla.s.sics getting tons of airplay on every oldie station in the country and the label sc.u.mbag sells his copyrighted list to a media megacorp for close to a billion dollars and what is my guy's share? Zip is what, the same as what he earns for all those zillions of oldie station plays, because, as practically no one understands, when you hear a song on the radio or TV the artist who's singing the song gets nothing: only the copyright holder collects the ASCAP royalty.

So I sat down with the megacorp people and they said that while they agreed my client had been screwed to the floorboards, they had just dropped a bundle on what was basically an industrial commodity and the fact that it had arisen from my client's guts and heart was neither here nor there. The musician took it, I have to say, pretty well. He just grinned and expressed amazement that he'd thought up stuff out of his head that had transformed itself into this huge piece of property, upon which a vast commercial empire now rested, and that he'd have to content himself with all the pleasure he'd given to so many people. As I said, big hairy kids.

In contrast to Shakespeare, who always had a good eye for the bottom line. Sure he sold Hamlet Hamlet for ten pounds, maybe forty large in today's money, but he sold it to himself, since he was a stockholder in the theatrical company that owned it, and he probably made a good deal more after old d.i.c.k Bracegirdle became his bookkeeper. for ten pounds, maybe forty large in today's money, but he sold it to himself, since he was a stockholder in the theatrical company that owned it, and he probably made a good deal more after old d.i.c.k Bracegirdle became his bookkeeper.

I'm digressing again because this next part is really painful.

After I had the bad-news meeting with the hairy former kid I went across town with Ed Geller and Sh.e.l.ly Grossbart to a monster cl.u.s.ter-f.u.c.k involving squadrons of lawyers, something that happens a lot nowadays when one media company proposes to buy another and I was there because I know a lot about foreign copyright law and it's all too tedious to get into. The point is, however, that I was not at my best, because I was thinking about my lost Miranda and also about the poor schmuck of a musician. No one at the long polished table at which we sat was hairy, nor had any of them ever created anything that any normal person would wish to see or hear. Someone raised the issue of ring tones, and how the EU was going to handle them, and Ed looked at me, because I had done the most extensive work on this and I fumphered and gave what turned out to be the wrong answer and Sh.e.l.ly had to cover for me with an artful equivocation.

In any event, I was out of the office when the fateful call came through and Ms. Maldonado had not left a regular pink printed message slip in my in-basket but rather a yellow Post-it note on my desk lamp, which is what she does when someone calls and we don't wish to log it in. In most cases this means a mistress (although I am infrequently called by mistresses at the office) but not today. I went out to her desk, flapping the little yellow slip inquiringly, and she said that Miranda Kellogg had called from Toronto. I immediately called the number she gave me and got a voice mailbox at an education ministry office that said Miranda Kellogg was not at her desk and would I like to leave a message? They used the familiar system that generates a machine voice for the body of this polite request, while the name itself is recorded by, presumably, the mailbox's proprietor. It was a pleasant enough Canadian voice, but one I did not recognize. My belly now commenced churning; I declined to leave a message.

After that, I called the cops and arranged with Detective Murray to have Bulstrode's files picked up. I sent Omar to do it and waited, during which time I called the Toronto number three times and the third time lucky, the phone picked up and there was the unfamiliar voice, heavier and slower than the voice of the person I had already started to call "my" Miranda. I told her who I was and asked her if she were the niece of the late Andrew B. and she said she was and she had just heard about his demise, having only lately come back to Toronto. She'd been in the Himalayas and quite out of touch. The Himalayas? Yes, she'd won a prize; someone had called her up one night and said she'd won a trip trekking through Nepal. It was either Nepal, Tahiti, or Kenya, your choice, and she'd always wanted to see India and Nepal, so she chose that. At first she'd thought it a scam, but no: a package had come in the mail the next day, Airborne Express, containing all the tickets and arrangements, but she had to leave that week or no deal. I asked her when that was, and she told me six weeks ago more or less; that is, early October, just before Bulstrode had returned to the United States. In any case, she'd read about her uncle's death upon her return and thought she should call, even though she imagined the body would be going back to Oxford and Oliver. She said she didn't think that there was any money involved, since she knew her silly old uncle was broke, but would I give her a buzz when I'd read the will? She thought that most of what he had would go to Oliver, but there was a lavaliere that had belonged to her grandmother that she'd been promised. I said I would and hung up, the phone slipping into its cradle on a film of my sweat.

I immediately called our estate law section and left an urgent message for Jasmine Ping. I sweated some more and tried to get interested in IP law but could not, even though I had to get a response ready for that G.o.dzilla-eating-Rodan media merger business from the morning, no, the words would not cling to the appropriate brain tissue, and then in comes Omar with large brown cartons under each arm and I thrash through them and find a copy of the real real last will and testament of Andrew Bulstrode rather than the phony one that my Miranda had presented. This, as the real Miranda had indicated, left all worldly goods to Oliver March, the longtime companion, aside from some small bequests to individuals, and I was happy to learn that the real Miranda would get her lavaliere. The box also held a small leather-framed desk photograph of Professor Bulstrode with a younger woman who possessed the squat, pleasantly froggy look that was perhaps a mark of the Bulstrodes and who I presumed was the last will and testament of Andrew Bulstrode rather than the phony one that my Miranda had presented. This, as the real Miranda had indicated, left all worldly goods to Oliver March, the longtime companion, aside from some small bequests to individuals, and I was happy to learn that the real Miranda would get her lavaliere. The box also held a small leather-framed desk photograph of Professor Bulstrode with a younger woman who possessed the squat, pleasantly froggy look that was perhaps a mark of the Bulstrodes and who I presumed was the echt echt Miranda Kellogg. Miranda Kellogg.

Ms. Ping came in while I was on the floor amid the scattered papers. Mutely I handed her the will and told her my suspicions. She sat down and read it, and it was interesting to observe her perfect porcelain face transform itself into the kind of demon mask you see at Chinese folk-dance festivals. It's not a good thing for a trust lawyer to present a fake will to surrogate's court. Jasmine had some harsh words about my private affairs, somewhat unjust I thought, but I did not defend myself. She wanted to know how I had let this happen and implied strongly that (although she was too polite to use such language) I had been led around by my c.o.c.k. She said that my partners would have to be told; I agreed that this was only right. She wanted my a.s.surance that I had not allowed the imposter to lay hands on any part of the estate prior to probate, and here I had to confess that an item of value had indeed gone missing, along with the imposter. I explained what the item was and she informed me of what I already knew, which was that if the genuine legatee wished to make trouble, and should the issue be brought to the attention of the court, then I had committed a disbarrable offense. In any event, I could have no further involvement in any legal matters pertaining to the Bulstrode estate. She glanced at the strewn papers with a look on her face that was not at all pleasant, a disgusted look, as if I had been trolling through the chattels of the deceased in hopes of looting some overlooked piggy bank. With no further discussion she made a call to our office manager to s.h.i.+ft some papers ASAP. While she was thus engaged I managed to toss Bulstrode's appointment diary under my office sofa.

A pair of husky porters arrived, boxed all the Bulstrode papers, and took them away. As soon as my office was empty again I s.n.a.t.c.hed out the diary and riffled through the pages for the weeks prior to his death. In July I found what I was looking for, the twenty-fourth at eleven-thirty: it read "Sh. Ms? Carolyn R. Crosetti." That had to be it: the fake Miranda had mentioned a Carolyn who was somehow involved and there was the "Sh. Ms" as well. Carolyn R. Crosetti had to be either the seller or the agent for same. I rushed outside to Ms. Maldonado's desk, made a photocopy of the relevant page, gave her the diary, told her that it was part of the Bulstrode material that had unaccountably been overlooked, and required her to take it immediately to Ms. Ping's. I believe that this was the first actual lie I had ever offered Ms. M. and it was an even more significant indication of my depravity than the error over the will or Ms. Ping's resultant disdain. It is bad, very bad, when a lawyer starts lying to his secretary.

Crosetti is not, fortunately, a particularly common name. After thumbing through the white pages for all five boroughs and the surrounding counties, I found only twenty-eight of them, but no Carolyn R. Crosetti. I went back to my office with a list I copied and began to punch b.u.t.tons on my cell phone. Of course, only the elderly or sick were at home at this hour and I did not wish to leave a lot of messages. For reasons I cannot now recall I had started with the suburban names and closed in on the city from outside. Somewhere in Queens, Ms. M. popped her head in and informed me that Mr. Geller would like to see me right away. I nodded and went on with my number punching. After a spate of answering machines, or empty-house ringing, I got a woman's voice, a throaty New York accent with a layer of cultivation painted over it. I asked if she knew a Carolyn Crosetti and she said she thought that she knew all the Crosettis in the New York Standard Metropolitan Statistical Area and that there was no such person. Then a pause and a short laugh and she added, "Unless my son married her and didn't tell me."

"Who?" I asked.

A pause, and in a more formal voice, "To whom am I speaking?"

At this point I was staring at the page from Bulstrode's diary and I saw that I had made a slight error. Bulstrode wrote in a loose, nearly medical, scrawl and his appointment for the morning of July 24 had leached over into the line for the previous day. What he had written was not "Carolyn R. Crosetti" but

Carolyn R.

A. Crosetti

I decided to answer the woman semifrankly and said, "My name is Jacob Mishkin of Geller Linz Grossbart and Mishkin. I'm the lawyer for the estate of Andrew Bulstrode and I'm trying to trace a transaction Professor Bulstrode entered into this past July. I've located a notation in his diary of an appointment with an A. Crosetti and a Carolyn R. Would you know anything about that?"

"I would," said the woman. "Albert Crosetti is my son. I a.s.sume this is about the ma.n.u.script."

A rush of relief on hearing these words. "Yes! Yes it is," I exclaimed, and then found myself at a loss for words, thinking now about the various possibilities I had laid out for Mickey Haas. Was I talking to a thief, a victim, or a villain?

"And...?" said the woman.

"And what?"

"And is the estate going to make good the despicable ruse through which your late client cheated my son into surrendering a valuable seventeenth-century ma.n.u.script for a paltry sum?"

So this was the victim. "That's certainly one of the issues open to discussion, Mrs. Crosetti," I said.

"I should hope so."

"We should arrange to meet."

"I'll have my lawyer contact you. Good-bye, Mr. Mishkin."

I would have immediately called her again, but my office doorway was now occupied by the stout pugnacious figure of Ed Geller. Now, on paper all the partners of Geller Linz Grossbart & Mishkin are equals, but as often happens in such firms, command flows toward where it is most coveted, and it was the case at our firm that Ed was that coveter and so usually got his way. Besides this, he and Marty Linz were the founding partners and somewhat more equal as a result. Ed was twitching-angry, mainly I suppose because I had not come when called, and so he had to deal with me standing, rather than from behind his desk, which is subtly raised above the normal floor level and surrounded by stuffed legless chairs into which one deeply sinks. I knew better than to stand to my full height now.

I said, "I guess you've talked to Jasmine."

"Yes, I have," he said. "And could you please now tell me what the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k is going on?" is going on?"

"A misunderstanding is all, Ed. I'm sure it'll be cleared up shortly."

"Uh-huh. So you didn't convert a valuable part of our client's estate to your own use and convey said property to your girlfriend?"

"No. I was the victim of a fraud. A woman presented herself as the legatee of the Bulstrode estate with a will that appeared genuine-"

"This was a will we prepared?"

"No. I a.s.sumed it was found with his effects at death. I...we were only retained by the deceased in a particular capacity, which was to hold a doc.u.ment in safekeeping and to advise him on its IP status and the IP status of such other doc.u.ments that might be derived from it."

"Derived how?"

I took a deep breath. "It was a seventeenth-century doc.u.ment purportedly written by a man who knew William Shakespeare. Aside from its scholarly value, which was substantial, it suggested the existence of an unknown Shakespeare play in autograph ma.n.u.script and provided what might be clues to the present location of same."

Ed is a great litigator, as I believe I've mentioned, and part of the litigator's art is to never seem surprised. But now he gaped. "Holy f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t! And this was legit?"

"Unknown, but Bulstrode believed it was, and he was one of the world's great experts on the subject."

"And this property, this seventeenth-century ma.n.u.script, is now in the possession of your fraudulent bimbo?"

"I wouldn't call her my fraudulent bimbo. But, yes it is."

He ran a hand through his implants. "I don't understand. How could you have been so stupid? Wait, don't answer that! You were shtupping shtupping this honey, right?" this honey, right?"