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“How’s that?”

I showed him the e-mail in which his name was mentioned as my successor.

“I had nothing to do with that,” he lied.

I let silence descend. I leaned back, “Tell me, Mr. de Buitliér, what was your business with Alain LeBlanc in Shetland Falls?”

“Who?”

“The Swiss gentleman who made expert copies of the coins von Grümh gave to the museum.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I produced a printout of the phone records with his calls to the number circled in red and handed it to him.

He glanced at it. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

“It proves that someone from your office called the number of a forger who had set up business in a small town in western Massachusetts.”

He shook his head.

I pressed on. “The chief of police in Shetland Falls is willing to testify that you were out there making inquiries about Mr. LeBlanc. It also turns out that the fire that destroyed the building where LeBlanc made his forgeries is considered of suspicious origin by the state fire marshal’s office.”

He said nothing.

“You’ve been very busy, Doctor Buitliér. You’re the one who told the police, anonymously, of course, that I was with von Grümh in the Pink Shamrock on the night he was murdered.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I checked with the bartender. The big Irish gentleman. He says you’re in there quite a bit.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“You also sent the anonymous letter implicating Col Saunders in the murder.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Confuse things. Saunders doesn’t think much of you. Never has.”

All the while to one side, Alphus was regarding him intently and with his right hand making signals for the video camera on the shelf.

Again I said nothing for a while. Then, without preamble, I launched into the set of defining questions. “Tell me, Doctor Buitliér, did you kill Heinrich von Grümh?”

He looked at me almost with alarm. “Why do you ask me that?”

“Just yes or no.”

“No. Why should I?”

“Did you want to murder Heinrich von Grümh?”

“No.”

“Do you know who murdered Heinrich von Grümh?”

“No.”

“Do you know where the murder weapon is?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Because you were here the night of the murder. I think you know a lot more about this than you are telling me. I think you are hiding something.”

He said nothing, but a touch of the old defiance had crept back into his eyes.

Not long afterward, I thanked and dismissed him. I locked the door so that Alphus and I could review the results undisturbed. They proved very interesting. According to Alphus, de Buitliér’s response to the first question was ambivalent. Was he like me in that he didn’t know if he did or didn’t murder the man?

De Buitliér told the truth about not wanting to murder von Grümh. Out of principle? Because his murder would not be to his advantage? Because, complementary to that, he was more valuable to de Buitliér alive than dead?

When Alphus said de Buitliér lied about knowing who killed von Grümh, my blood ran cold. Because it still could have been I. But then, if it was, why wouldn’t he simply have called the police and told them?

It gave me a distinct throb of excitement to know that he lied when he said he didn’t know where the murder weapon was. But what if my prints were on the weapon? What if …

I didn’t hesitate. I put in a call to Lieutenant Tracy and left word that I needed to see him as soon as possible. I didn’t want to waste much time, because de Buitliér had the keen intuition of the cunning. He knew something was afoot.

While I was waiting for the lieutenant to get back to me, Diantha called with some results from her search of de Buitliér’s background.

“You were right. I’m e-mailing you his information.” We chatted. She asked me if the interest in Alphus’s memoirs was the real deal. I told her absolutely. I had checked into Esther Homard and found that she was not someone to waste anyone’s time, especially her own.

It turned out that Feidhlimidh de Buitliér had an intriguing résumé. For starters he was born Philip Bottles in Riverbend, Missouri. While attending