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He nodded, pecked at a keyboard, and after several false starts brought it up with a flourish. “There,” he said, giving the word two syllables.

I frowned. The record showed that de Buitliér left the building around six thirty and did not return that night.

“Mort, tell me, is there any way of getting into and out of the building without swiping your card?”

When he began to squirm and shake his head, I said, “Mort, this is very important.”

“Well … You know the loadin’ dock in the back and the two big doors that open out. Off to the side, there’s a small access door. You need to swipe there to get in, but it ain’t wired into the records yet. They’re supposed to come look at it all summer, but you know how contractors are.”

“Who knows about this?”

“Don’t know. Word gets around.”

“Good. Thanks. And what’s the score?”

“Three to nothing Sox in the fifth. Last I knew.”

Back in my office I again considered calling Lieutenant Tracy and letting him in on what I was doing. But I felt I needed to tie up a few more loose ends first. For instance, who had reported to the police the meeting between me and Heinie at the Pink Shamrock? Who but de Buitliér?

It was one o’clock and I had gotten a bit peckish. I printed out a likeness of de Buitliér I found on the museum’s Web site. With this in pocket I drove over to that establishment, which I found to be busy with a mixed crowd in terms of sexual preference, at least as far as I could tell.

A large-faced genial bartender by the name of Pat asked what he could do for me. I ordered a pint of ale and glanced at the menu. “The ham on rye looks good,” I told him.

“Ham on rye it is.”

I sipped my ale and ate the sandwich, which I found excellent. I didn’t begin my inquiries until it was time to pay the bill.

“You’re Pat?” I asked, fishing several twenties out of my wallet.

“The very same. Pat Kelly.” He reached a big hand across the bar. “From Ballinasloe, County Galway.”

“Norman de Ratour. I work at the Museum of Man.”

“Just up the road.”

I nodded. I said, as casually as I could, “You don’t strike me, Pat, as very much like a lot of your clientele.”

“As indeed I’m not. It’s a job. And they’re people, you know, no less than you and me.”

“Do they confide in you?”

He laughed. “Some of the more desperate ones do.”

“What do you tell them?”

“I don’t. I just listen.” His eyes turned shrewd. “What can I do for you, Mr. de Ratour?”

I produced the folded printout of de Buitliér’s likeness and showed it to him. “You could tell me if this gentleman frequents this bar.”

Pat eyed me suspiciously for a moment. “You’re not police, are you?”

“No.”

After a glance at the picture, he leaned over the bar and, keeping his voice dramatically low, said, “That’s Philly de Buitliér. He’s not really a regular. He comes and goes. I would say he was from Ulster if I had to, but I don’t think the man is from anywhere.”

I thanked him and placed a couple of twenties on top of the few dollars I had left as a tip.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, but accepted them graciously when I insisted. “And do come back and see us.”

I drove home and picked up Alphus. He was in a rare good humor, showing me the e-mail he had gotten from his agent. Then raising his hand to slap mine.

Feidhlimidh de Buitliér came in to my office and sat down, glancing at Alphus and generally acting like a cornered rat. The insolence had gone out of his eyes. He didn’t exactly grovel, but his body language was that of someone very nervous.

I softened him up for my interrogation as I had before with some generalities about changes in the Greco-Roman Collection. Did it really fit into the scheme of the museum with its heavy emphasis on native arts and traditions? I asked. Especially since the coins had proven fake.

He didn’t say much until I mentioned the plans the Wainscott administration had for the museum once I had been removed.

“What do you mean?”

“Your name appears prominently in the documentation,