The Delphi Agenda
patronizing. “I would like you to look over the desk, if you don’t mind.”
    Two things rested on the gray leather. The list of composers, written in his elegant script, was crushed against the side of the gallery. Now that she could see the original writing she thought Foix must have scrawled a little more hastily than usual. Still, there was nothing much out of the ordinary about that and she remained silent.
    The second item was a copy of Turner’s
Greek Papyri.
This was pushed back against the lowest bank of small drawers. The dead man’s hand lay palm down on the desk, as if he had just let go of the book, or were just reaching for it.
    “May I?” Lisa asked, reaching for the thin leather-bound volume.
    Hugo shook his head and handed her a pair of gloves. “In case the killer touched it,” he said, but his voice expressed his doubts. This killer wouldn’t leave prints.
    She put on the gloves. There were bloodstains on the cover. Avoiding them, she turned it back. The endpaper and flyleaf were stuck together. She carefully pulled them apart. The blood, dried black, let go reluctantly. The two surfaces held mirror images of what Foix had drawn in his own blood.
    “What is it?” Hugo asked.
    A smeared vertical line bisected a circle inside a triangle:

    Lisa frowned. “Some kind of corporate logo?”
    “I’ll have someone check. But he was a professor, wasn’t he, not a businessman?”
    “Retired professor,” Lisa said. “He stopped teaching long ago, though he still writes an occasional article on Hesiod.”
    “So this logo would belong to what corporation?
    She shook her head. “It may not be a logo, for all I know. It could be a couple of superimposed Greek letters. After all, it’s drawn in a book on Greek papyri. Or it could be some kind of alchemical combination of circle, triangle and line, symbols of the masculine, feminine, and individual principals.”
    “Yes?”
    “Then again, a triangle is a D in Greek, a Delta. A circle with a line through it is the letter Phi. So this could mean Delta-Phi, perhaps, a fraternity. Though I have no idea why Raimond would have drawn it in this book. He’s not the sort of man who would belong to a fraternity, and besides the letters shouldn’t be superimposed like that…”
    “So it doesn’t mean anything to you? You said you study old writing. He drew this in his own blood. He left the acrostic list for you, unless he meant that you…” He stopped and scratched his temple. “Well, as I said, we must consider all possibilities.”
    “So I
am
a suspect?”
    “I wouldn’t say that, not just yet. Of course, he left your name and he did draw this. It all must mean something.”
    “Of course it means something! He wasn’t a fool, nor did he suffer fools. He wouldn’t do anything idly, either, and certainly not when he was dying. I just don’t know what. You brought me here, Captain Hugo, you and M. Rossignol. Do you know why? I don’t.”
    There was an awkward silence, after which Hugo merely said, “Well, please think about it.”

6.
    “How long?” the Prior General barked, pacing back and forth before the barred window. Intermittent rain spattered against the glass and obscured the village across the river.
    Defago shifted from foot to foot. The opulence of the room unnerved him as much as the Prior General, who was, after all, fifteen years his junior. At the same time, the wait for Brother Cedric’s follow-up report had been difficult, and now that he had received it he just wanted to sink into the deep white cushions of the leather couch, take a handful of the pistachios from the cloisonné bowl on the pear-wood coffee table, shell them slowly, and savor them one by one. Despite the success of this long-planned operation he yearned to let go of the tension he felt since receiving the report. He cleared his throat. “Brother Cedric says the policeman arrived with the woman at eight thirty-two.” His French was lightly flavored with the
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