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the wardrobe. Sliding open the mirror doors that reflected the steep-sided gabled rooftops of the house opposite, he flicked through his clothes. He recalled yesterday’s heat and selected a silk shirt, lightweight linen suit and clean shorts and socks before walking down the spiral staircase that led from the mezzanine sleeping area in the attic into the living room. The apartment was small, but it held everything he needed. An upper section to sleep in and house his wardrobe, desk and computer, a living area to get drunk in, preferably with friends, and a tiny bathroom and kitchen. The living room took up three-quarters of the floor space and anything out of place constituted a mess in his eyes.
    He tossed the cushions he and Helga had dislodged back on to the sofa and went into the bathroom. Showered, shaved, and dressed, he left Helga to her dreams, and ran down the stairs to Waleria’s gallery on the ground floor.
    ‘Heard you and your lady friend banging about in the early hours.’ Waleria’s well-preserved features tensed as she wrestled a large shapeless bronze from a plinth.
    ‘I tried to keep the noise down.’
    ‘You didn’t succeed.’
    ‘Sorry.’ He rescued the bronze from her wilting arms. ‘Where do you want this?’
    ‘In the packing case. It’s been sold.’
    ‘Glad to see you’re still servicing the local art industry by fleecing the tourists.’ He heaved the sculpture into a wooden box.
    ‘Thankfully some people have taste discerning enough to appreciate modern art,’ she countered.
    ‘Who bought it?’ He was unabashed by her gibe. ‘Nouveau riche Russian or pretentious German?’
    ‘Swede, actually.’
    ‘It’ll go with their furniture.’
    ‘If you’re going to insult the exhibits, clear off.’
    ‘No offer of coffee?’
    ‘She still here?’ Waleria quizzed, filling a mug from the jug in the filter machine.
    ‘Is who where?’
    ‘Don’t play innocent with me. Lady croupier. She still upstairs?’
    ‘Why do you want to know?’
    ‘Because if she is, I need to lock the silver in my safe and it’s inconvenient to lose the use of my teaspoons for a morning.’
    ‘It’s my silver not yours she’s after.’ Adam took the coffee she handed him.
    ‘With all the girls in Gdansk on the lookout for Americans to buy them a ticket out of Poland, why did you have to pick her?’
    Adam sipped the coffee. ‘Because Helga wears her price on her sleeve, and unlike every other woman I’ve met, I know that’s all I’ll have to pay.’
    ‘Ever thought there could be a hidden tax?’ she called after him as walked out.
    ‘If there is, it’s got to be less than my ex-wife levied.’
     
     
    Even the thought of last night’s murder and the occasional whiff of foul air from the sewers failed to dampen Adam’s spirits as he strolled along the length of Mariacka Street in the bright spring sunshine. The last building on the right, adjoining the gate, had been commandeered by the town’s Archaeological Museum, and the young curator, Edmund Dunst, had been delighted to lease the top floor to the Polish branch of the Salen Institute. Without Salen Institute rent, loans and project funding, there would have been fewer exhibits in both the town’s Historical and Archaeological museums.
    Unlocking the door, Adam raced up the three flights of stairs to his office. After opening the windows on the Mottlau Canal side, he ground coffee, filled the machine and switched it on. Only then did he sit behind his desk and gaze at the daunting mountain of mail.
    ‘Regretting playing truant?’ Edmund Dunst walked in and added more offerings to the pile.
    ‘Truant! It was hard work.’
    ‘I heard there wasn’t anything worth looking at. All fakes and forgeries.’
    ‘That was the problem.’ Adam slit open an envelope with a paper-knife fashioned into a miniature Roman sword. ‘In my opinion, that particular rural museum should have closed years ago.’
    ‘Well, it’s closed now. Did you buy