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swivel chair and reached back into another file behind him, where he rummaged about a bit. When his chair squealed around again, his face was red and he dangled a slim folder.
    Manship, scarcely breathing, watched the thin, strong fingers flip with remarkable agility through a stack of papers.
    “Ah, yes, here it is.”
    Manship leaned forward.
    “A special unit of our division,” von Marie began, “devotes itself solely to the recovery of art stolen during the war.”
    “Yes, of course. Our own FBI and U.S. Army intelligence have such a branch, too.”
    “There was so much of that unfortunate looting then.” The major shook his head regretfully. “During the occupation here, the Russians were the worst offenders along those lines.
    “Ordinarily, we would not have pursued the matter,” von Marie went on, “but work of this quality, by an artist of this stature, we were not prepared to forget quite so quickly.”
    “Of course,” Manship waited breathlessly.
    “I remember the case very well, Mr. Manship. As a matter of fact, I was in charge of the task of seeking out paid informants both here and in the Berlin underworld in order to put together a profile of the guilty party.”
    “And?”
    “Interesting. Several of our most reliable sources, quite independent from one another, were all certain the assassins were Italian. Possibly even Corsican.”
    “You speak of more than one.”
    “Indeed. So we were led to believe. I seem to recall something about some group there—a handful of disaffected fascists, holdovers from the Mussolini era. The typical failures and misfits you find in such groups. Never got over the humiliation of defeat. Determined to redeem all works of Italian art, the heritage of the motherland looted during the war. You know the drill. That sort of typical folderol.”
    Manship pondered a while. “Presumably, then, this group would still have the drawings.”
    “I should think so. We were not successful in recovering them. And the last attempt …”
    Manship waited, barely moving.
    “Several of our people—top agents, highly responsible—they never returned.” The major seemed tired now, and his mouth drooped at the corners. “Simply disappeared. We tried for months after to find them. Never a trace.”
    There was a moment of silence while the two men appeared to weigh the significance of this last detail.
    “You don’t happen to have the name of the organization?” Manship asked.
    The major shrugged. “If I did, I don’t any longer. May I interest you in some refreshment? I have an excellent plum brandy.” He held up a bottle of slivovitz.
    “That’s very kind of you, Major.” Manship rose. “I’ve a plane to catch to Florence and I’m running late already. May I take these?” He pointed to the photos of the drawings on von Marie’s desk.
    “By all means. I have no further use for them.” The major smiled somewhat sadly. “Good luck with your exhibition, I wish I could come,” he added somewhat wistfully, and raised his glass to Manship as the younger man waved good-bye from the door.
    Before checking out of his hotel in Berlin, Manship called the number in Florence Osgood had given him. He was unable to reach Isobel Cattaneo herself but spoke to a housekeeper who knew little, if any, English. Their conversation went on in halting, demotic Italian, from which he was able to gather that the signorina was out and not expected back until much later that evening. He left his name and said he would call again when he reached Florence. Having spelled his name for her the sixth time, he had no great hope that the signorina would ever receive his message.
    Late that afternoon, checking into the Excelsior, he was given a room with a terrace overlooking the Arno. It was sunset and already the city had begun to glow in the burnt pinks and russets for which it is famous. The streets below Manship’s window were thronged with shoppers swarming along the embankment. Motor