“Russ found your wallet after a fight you’d had. He went through it thoroughly before he returned it to you. That’s how I knew your middle name. And if a musician carries a reed in his wallet, autographed by a jazz legend, it must mean a lot to him.”

I looked at Martha in amazement. “You’re the devil,” I said. “You knew that even if I had not lost my own child, if I believed Gail might be my daughter, I’d do anything for her. And if at any point I realized the significance of Swing, you knew I’d keep silent. If it were anyone else, I’d be headed straight to the FBI. But for a daughter, I’d make any sacrifice. Why, you even covered yourself if you or Gail got caught. I had written the orchestration, it was in my handwriting, the original had been destroyed . . . the Swing code could have all been my doing.” I realized just how smart Martha had been. “That’s why you had the photos taken with me and those Nazi sympathizers at the picnic, to show that I was in league with them! And if I was blamed for revealing the coded information in Swing, you knew there was every likelihood I’d take the fall for Gail. You could have framed me and, for her sake, I would have kept quiet.”

I turned on Gail, wounded, and asked again, “Did you know I’d been told you might be my daughter?”

Her face seemed genuinely anguished. “Oh, Ray, no, of course not! It really happened the way I said—I am a fan of your work. When it turned out you were in town, well, it was perfect! I’d figured a regular jazz arranger, he’d hear what I’d written and just laugh me out of the room, like the Japanese band did. But someone like yourself, knowledgeable about very modern music, would hear my piece as something daring and adventurous.” Despite our grim circumstances, a pleasurable realization flitted across her face. “Oh my gosh, no wonder you never made a real pass at me! I was so insulted that you didn’t even once try to kiss me! Oh, Ray . . .” She moved to embrace me, but I reflexively pushed her away.

“Don’t! It’s not that simple! I’m all mixed up. You don’t know what you’ve—” She was just a college girl who’d taken advantage of me and now she wanted to kiss me? “I’m not Russ Hewett, you know!”

She looked baffled. “What do you mean by that?”

“I saw the love letter you wrote to him, Gail! It was in his cigar case when he died.”

“Are you crazy?” she asked. “Me, write a love letter to him?”

“Gail, you forget I orchestrated your score, I know your handwriting by heart. Culpepper showed me the letter. It had a violet ink stain . . .”