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involved in her murder. If not for that, Ginny Voorhees would probably have given him what she assumed was an old flea market violin—why not? Or if it had reached the Cahns he would have made the same approach to them: something to remember her by, and then I’m sure he would have resigned from the university and moved to a distant city—California, perhaps—where he could safely sell the Stradivarius and live that life of ease he craved.”
    â€œAnd where is the violin now?” she asked.
    â€œThe Cahns are presenting it to the music department of the university, to be loaned out upon request. As a gift from their daughter. In her name—Darlene Cahn.”
    Madame Karitska nodded. “Something to remember her by.”
    Pruden said dryly, “Which, ironically, was just what Professor Blake wanted, too, something to remember her by which he’ll have, now, for a good many years.”

3

    There was still no news of Georges Verlag, which troubled Madame Karitska. She had given Pruden a description of him to quietly circulate at police headquarters in case he was seen on the street, but to list him as an official missing person could only endanger him. On this morning, a mist clouding the sky after a night of rain, Pruden stopped in to tell her it would soon be time they returned the jewels, with or without Verlag. They had contacted the Manhattan police, asking them to make inquiries in the Diamond District on Forty-seventh Street between Fifth and Sixth avenues, where—among the dealers, diamond cutters, polishers, brokers, and importers—they hoped to extract information as to the European dealer for whom Georges Verlag would have been delivering his attaché case of uncut diamonds.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he told her, “sorriest for you that he’s not turned up.”
    â€œI understand,” she said, nodding. “It’s scarcely legal for you to hold a small fortune in your safe for long.”
    â€œFrom New York we’ve learned that just such a salesman was recently murdered at one of their airports, but not, fortunately, Georges Verlag. Diamonds are obviously
too
valuable and rare.”
    Madame Karitska said dryly, “Not so rare as people think. De Beers very cleverly holds back an enormous number of diamonds lest they flood the market and lower their price, but that’s another story. . . . You look tired, you’ve been working too hard?”
    He sank to the couch with a sigh. “Yes, damn it. What began as a case for Swope to handle has everyone in the department involved now, and yes, it adds considerably to my work. If you read the newspapers—”
    She smiled faintly. “You know I don’t.”
    He nodded. “The murder has been in the headlines for most of this week.” With a glance at his watch he said, “If you still have some of your Turkish coffee handy—it’s as good as a shot of brandy—maybe talking it out will stop its haunting me.”
    â€œCoffee it will be,” she said, and leaving him slumped on the couch, obviously exhausted, she presently returned with carafe and a cup. “Talk,” she told him, smiling, and seated herself on the couch opposite him, the low square table between them.
    â€œGood,” he said, taking a sip. “I’ll make it brief; I’ve not much time. One of Trafton’s well-known citizens—John Epworth—has been murdered under the most bizarre circumstances. Retired and wealthy, lives in a posh apartment in that high-rise on Sixty-fifth Street. Wife’s name Joanna. Since retirement Epworth had been devoting his time exclusively to charitable work at the Trafton Home for Disabled Children.”
    â€œAnd you say he’s been
murdered
?”
    He sighed. “Unfortunately and tragically, yes. The Epworths would bring one of the disabled children home to their apartment quite frequently. . . . This particular weekend