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“I know that he made … replicas of old coins.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“True. I just want to know if he did any work for anyone up in Seaboard.”

“I think you would owe him about a hundred for that.”

I took out my wallet and fingered a couple of fifties. I gave him one and hung on to the other.

He nodded and glanced with longing toward our vehicle. “LeBlanc never told me much. There was a guy with a German name that dropped off a set of really old coins.”

“Heinrich von Grümh?”

“Sounds about right.”

I gave him the second fifty. “How many copies did you make?”

“Hey, listen, I didn’t have anything to do with what he did.”

“What did you do?” I still had my wallet out.

“I did odd jobs. Cleanup. Supplies. Packing and shipping. He said he’d teach me how to use his gear, but he never did.”

“So how many copies of those coins did you make?”

“You’d owe another … fifty for that.”

I took out two twenties and a ten and looked at them.

“Okay, I’m pretty sure he made two copies.”

“And sent them both back?” I handed him the money.

“As far as I know.”

“Nice truck.”

“Yeah, ain’t it.”

“How did the fire start?”

His eyes turned hostile for a flash. He shrugged. “Fire marshal’s been up here asking me the same thing. An insurance guy, too.”

“What did you tell them?”

“The truth.”

“I’m still listening.”

“Look, I had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. There was lots of chemicals left behind. Oil-soaked rags, that sort of thing. Could have been spontaneous combustion.”

“And you don’t know where I could reach Mr. LeBlanc?”

“He’s back in Switzerland all’s I know.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Marsden. You’ve been a great help.”

“What about that money you owe him?”

“I thought I just paid that.”

We drove up into the hills for some sightseeing through forest and farmland before checking in at the Inn at Mountcharles. A rambling quaint clapboarded affair, it dated from the Revolutionary War. I liked it immediately, though Diantha balked at the accommodations, which were rudimentary but comfortable. We settled in and then lingered down to the bar and restaurant. I was charmed by what might be called the inadvertent authenticity of the place, especially the framed sepiatoned photos from long ago and folk art in the reception rooms with the chintz-covered armchairs and sofas.

“It’s very local,” Diantha said after we had taken our drinks to a table by a window looking out over a well-wooded ski slope.

“That’s exactly what I like about it.” I was perusing the menu but really thinking about the case. It was clear now that de Buitliér had found something that led him to suspect the authenticity of Heinie’s collection. He had a few samples tested, confirming his suspicions. Did he then try to blackmail Heinie, threaten to expose him unless …? Heinie refused to pay. De Buitliér leaked the story to the Bugle. They met, argued. De Buitliér got the gun away from him and shot him. It didn’t add up.

“I’m going to have the chicken,” Diantha said to the matronly waitress, who had highly recommended the rib roast. Local, I thought, looking up at the work-worn, pleasant face. “The rib,” I said, “medium rare.”

Later, on a comfortable bed in our sparsely furnished room, I lay spent in the aftermath of lovemaking that had been truly lovemaking. In the course of our prolonged encounter, Diantha had noticed that the level of my amatory expectations had risen. Not that she objected except to say, with a rueful laugh, “It’s Merissa, isn’t it? She’s spoiled you.”

23

I must confess that I have been remiss in not investigating Feidhlimidh de Buitliér’s possible role in the murder of Heinrich von Grümh. He still does not appear to me as a probable suspect. What did he have to gain? Academic spite can corrode steel. But murder? Members of the professoriat of whatever rank are seldom people of action. With the exception, perhaps, of paleontologists and other natural historians.

Perhaps I simply cannot take him seriously as a suspect in a murder when I do not take him seriously as a man. I could not believe that he would have the gumption