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I’ll look for the secret passage—” She froze—literally froze , just as he turned to look at her. Why had she said notebook with such conviction? Were her new abilities kicking in again?
    His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, his tone was cautious. “Notebook?”
    Emma looked away, flustered. “Why not? That’s what people put in desk drawers. Maybe he kept a journal or something.”
    “Maybe.” But he sounded doubtful.
    Emma had to wonder: was he suspicious because she had guessed what they should be looking for or because she had guessed what he was looking for?
    Whatever. She didn’t have time to think about this now. She checked the bookcases for the possibility of a secret passage, even though the idea of a passage felt less and less exciting by the second.
    Like Grandpa’s house, this was an old maison , probably one-hundred fifty or two-hundred years old. Old constructions often had moving bookcases…or at least they did in the movies. She had never seen one for real, of course. For the next several minutes, she searched the walls while he concentrated on the desk. She tapped and knocked for hollow sounds and secret latches. But all along, her mind kept whispering... notebook .
    “Damn,” she said, feeling frustrated. She turned to him. “Did you find anything?”
    “Yeah, you could say that.” He was leaning against the desk with an open notebook in his hands. He was reading, absorbed by its contents. Then he looked at her.
    Emma swallowed. “What’s that? A journal?”
    “No, not a journal. A notebook. How did you—?
    “I told you. It was just a wild guess. Why? Is it important?”
    “Maybe. Did Monsieur Dupriez ever mention to you that some modern violinists were playing in a way similar, very similar, to some of the old masters?”
    Emma frowned. “What do you mean?”
    “Once, while watching a New Year’s concert on TV, he said that the violinist who played—the famous Maria Damasio—was a copycat of Jean Pierre. You know, the famous Swiss violinist who disappeared in the 30s.”
    Monsieur Dupriez often had them watch concertos on TV to demonstrate the performers’ techniques.
    “What’s so unusual about that?” she said. “Many young violinists copy the techniques and mannerisms of the old masters.”
    “That’s true, but the way Monsieur Dupriez said it struck me; he was very insistent.”
    Emma remained thoughtful.
    “Look,” he said, showing her a notebook page filled with two columns of names. “Here’s a list of new violinists… and next to it is a list of old ones.” His finger moved down the list until he reached Maria Damasio. Next to her name Monsieur Dupriez had written ‘Jean Pierre.’ “This is a list of all the violinists he thought were copying the old masters. I’m not sure if this has anything to do with his disappearance. Probably not. But I have a hunch...Anyway, I’m taking it with me.”
    “You’re taking the notebook? That’s illegal. What if the police find out?”
    “I have to do something about this. The police aren’t doing anything. They’ve found nothing so far about the other three violinists. What am I supposed to do? Sit and wait?”
    She felt just a twinge of suspicion. Why would he go to such extreme? But then again, wasn’t she doing the same? Here she was, trespassing at the scene of a crime and messing with the evidence.
    She sighed. “I feel the same way. He was my friend, too.” Then she asked, rummaging among the books and papers. “Isn’t there anything else that can give us a clue?”
    “I don’t think so. He was working on his book. The stuff on his desk seems like it has to do with the book.”
    “There’s his violin case,” Emma pointed. The black leather case lay on the floor by one of the armchairs. She crouched, opened it, and inspected the empty, red velvet interior. “Don’t you think it’s odd that his violin disappeared with him?”
    “Maybe whoever’s responsible wanted his violin,