“Taste buds seem in order, anyway,” Alex’s grandfather said. “Now, Harry. We were in the middle of something, remember? The stolen paintings?” He quickly filled Harry in on what had been happening in his absence, including his vague recollections of the Shadow Gate story and the news of the most recent painting stolen in Paris.

“We’re still in the dark,” he continued, speaking lightly. Alex sensed him working hard to hide his desperation, trying not to put too much pressure on Harry to remember. “So, can you recall what you’ve been up to since the last time I saw you? I mean, before your, ah, accident. We split up, remember? We were trying to track down any trace of my father’s movements.”

“Oh,” Harry said quietly. He nodded at Alex. “You’ve told ’im then. About . . . your father.”

“More or less. But back to the point: I headed for Italy. You stayed in Paris. And then you found something, you got onto their trail.”

“That’s right,” Harry said dimly. “Yeah. We’d put word out on the concierge network—that’s the people who run the front desks in all the ’otels,” he explained, catching Alex’s uncomprehending look. “Receptionists, concierges. Pays to keep in their good books. Add in all their connections with taxi drivers and restaurants and everything, it’s still the best way of knowing what’s going on in a city. Grapevine. We’d circulated descriptions ’alfway across Europe. Bit of a long shot, but I got an it: a message next afternoon that someone matching Willy von Sudenfeld’s description ’ad been spotted arriving in Paris from London. Willy’s not very good at the cloak-’n’-dagger stuff.”

“Arriving from Britain. The Schalcken picture,” Alex’s grandfather muttered. “The painting that was stolen in Cambridge, Alex, waffle lady. Must’ve been Willy. Might have been him that carried over the flier that was sent to watch you.”

“Yeah.” At mention of a flier, Alex shifted slightly, feeling guilty.

“It’s coming back,” Harry went on. “I got on their trail at the ’otel they’d checked into. Willy and the bald bruiser. I tailed ’em when they left that night. They left Paris, drove east. I followed them to an ’ouse, a château. I ’id nearby. When they ’eaded for the ’ouse, I stuck a GPS tracker under their car.”

“A what now?” Alex’s grandfather frowned.

“Cheap little gizmo, tells me where the car is. Sends messages to me cell phone. I showed you one before, but you said you weren’t interested.” Harry turned to Alex, gesturing to the old man. “See, unlike your grandad, I try to keep up with technology.”

“Well, what was wrong with the little electronic bugs we always used to use?” Alex’s grandfather said petulantly. “The beepers. I liked those.”