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was what made the case so interesting, of course—the impossibility of it. For between Muller’s private room and any conceivable exit of the building there were dozens of staff, managers, well-wishers, cleaners. On an average night, the Post-Courier had calculated, in an ingenious bit of journalism, Muller had seen thirty-six people between leaving his dressing room after a performance and stepping into his carriage.
    Aside from the dread possibilities of what might have befallen the pianist, his disappearance was known to be an embarrassment to the Queen and her retinue. She was part German herself, of course, Prince Albert had been entirely German, and many of their retainers were, as well. All of them had watched Muller perform on his opening night; now the Queen’s cousins across the channel were extremely aggrieved at the disappearance of one of their finest artistic exports.
    Lenox had seen him play and had to admit the fellow was magical—a short, slim, swarthy, balding, unprepossessing person, and yet when he sat before a piano, suddenly transformed into the most sensitive and subtle conduit of artistic beauty. His pauses, his rhythms, gave new meaning to music that a whole audience had heard dozens of times, and thought they knew.
    Where could he be?
    The room showed no sign of violence; nothing was discomposed or shifted, except that Muller’s black silk evening jacket was thrown across an armchair, and that glass of wine had been emptied, as Lenox knew from a private conversation with Inspector Nicholson. In the same conversation, Dallington and Lenox had offered the assistance of their agency, free of charge, and been immediately rebuffed. The Yard was extremely sensitive, at the moment, to any implication that they might be failing in their duties, Nicholson said. It wouldn’t do.
    â€œBut of course you are failing in your duties,” Dallington had replied. “A pig with a magnifying glass would be as much use as the lot down at the theater.”
    Nicholson frowned. “A pig couldn’t even hold a magnifying glass.”
    â€œI won’t have you besmirch pigs in my hearing,” said Dallington moodily. He desperately wanted a chance to find Muller; indeed, Lenox suspected that he had been absent from the offices so much that week because he was conducting his own investigation. “Some of the finest chaps I ever met were pigs.”
    â€œWell, as you know, I’m not on the case myself, though I would very much like to be. Anyone who finds Muller, particularly alive, is guaranteed promotion.”
    â€œI still think you ought to come work for us,” Lenox had said.
    They’d been sitting in the Two Princes, a dim pub with a bright little coal fire and very good ale. Nicholson, packing his pipe, had shaken his head. “I love the Yard. I’ll never leave, if they’ll keep me.” Both Dallington and Lenox must have looked doubtful, because he had felt compelled to add, “It’s my Oxford, you see.”
    Lenox nodded. He liked Nicholson. The three had grown close earlier that year, working together on a case. “So then,” said Lenox, “can’t you ask to be put on the case?”
    â€œI have. McKee is protecting his turf very carefully.”
    â€œWe kept a pig when I was a boy,” said Dallington, taking a sip of his dark beer. “His name was George Washington.”
    â€œWhat an utterly fascinating story,” said Lenox.
    â€œHe could eat thirty potatoes in a sitting if he got a head of steam up.”
    â€œ Thirty potatoes? Really, I mean to say, you ought to tell people about this at parties.”
    Dallington had looked at him suspiciously and then broken into a laugh, which Nicholson joined. Nicholson shook his head as it died down, tapping his pipe on the table to pack it more tightly. “Ah, that glass of wine,” he said. “The two stewards swear up and down that they filled it after