“Your luggage is already in the car. Now.” A nod of his head toward the front door. “We will go.”

“Please, come in, Mr. Middleton. Sit. Yes there is good . . . I am Jozef Padlo, first deputy inspector with the Polish National Police.” This time an ID was exhibited, but Middleton got the impression the gaunt man, about his own age and much taller, was flashing the card only because Middleton expected it and that the formality was alien in Polish law enforcement.

“What’s this all about, Inspector? Your man says murder and tells me nothing more.”

“Oh, he mentioned that?” Padlo grimaced. “Krakow. They don’t listen to us there. Slightly better than Posnan, but not much.”

They were in an off-white office, beside a window that looked out on the gray spring sky. There were many books, computer printouts, a few maps and no decorations other than official citations, an incongruous ceramic cactus wearing a cowboy hat and pictures of the man’s wife and children and grandchildren. Many pictures. They seemed like a happy family. Middleton thought again of his daughter.

“Am I being charged with anything?”

“Not at this point.” His English was excellent and Middleton wasn’t surprised to notice that there was a certificate on the wall testifying to Padlo’s completion of a course in Quantico and one at the Law Enforcement Management Institute of Texas.

Oh, and the cactus.

“Then I can leave.”

“You know, we have anti-smoking laws here. I think that’s your doing, your country’s. You give us Burger King and take away our cigarettes.” The inspector shrugged and lit a Sobieski. “No, you can’t leave. Now, please, you had lunch yesterday with a Henryk Jedynak, a piano tuner.”

“Yes. Henry . . . Oh no. Was he the one murdered?”

Padlo watched Middleton carefully. “I’m afraid he was, yes. Last night. In the recital hall near Old Market Square.”

“No, no . . . ” Middleton didn’t know the man well—they’d met only on this trip—but they’d hit it off immediately and had enjoyed each other’s company. He was shocked by the news of Jedynak’s death.

“And two other people were killed, as well. A musician and a cleaning woman. Stabbed to death. For no reason, apparently, other than they had the misfortune to be there at the same time as the killer.”

“This is terrible. But why?”

“Have you known Mr. Jedynak long?”

“No. We met in person for the first time yesterday. We’d emailed several times. He was a collector of manuscripts.”

“Manuscripts? Books?”

“No. Musical manuscripts—the handwritten scores. And he was involved with the Chopin Museum.”

“At Ostrogski Castle.” The inspector said this as if he’d heard of the place but never been there.

“Yes. I had a meeting yesterday afternoon with the director of the Czartoryski Museum in Krakow, and I asked Henry to brief me about him and their collection. It was about a questionable Chopin score.”