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  “Then you have seen something rather rare,” the professor told Griffin. “Do you know about Maximilian the Younger of Bavaria? Is he in the dissertation which brought you here?”

  “No,” Griffin answered, realizing he was about to hear something unknown to Alexandra Webb, despite her extensive research. Eyes on the ring, Griffin said, “For all its thoroughness, the dissertation says nothing about rings or Maximilian of Bavaria. Who was he?”

  Professor MacGregor also kept his eyes on the ring, which covered much of his palm, as he spoke.

  “After Maximilian the Younger’s death on February 23, 1821, an order named in his honor was inaugurated, celebrating his aid to violinists. In the nearly two centuries since, individuals have been inducted into the order. Each receives a ring like the one you see. They are inducted into the Order of Maximilian the Younger for their advancement of violins – composing, performing, or teaching. Teaching is why my father was awarded the ring in 1938, for his teaching at the Dresden Conservatory.

  “Understand Mr. Gilmore,” Dr. MacGregor went on, suddenly shifting into a sharp tone. The tone left Griffin no doubt that what was to follow mattered greatly to the professor. “My father was given this ring for reasons completely unrelated to the Special Task Force For Music.”

  “The ring is very big. Oversized,” Griffin commented.

  “King Maximilian ordered the ring oversized, a royal gesture to demonstrate his oversized appreciation. By tradition, recipients are not measured for the ring. They receive an exact duplicate of the first ring.”

  Griffin slipped the ring onto his finger; it was several sizes too large. He realized that even the 6’5” man in white, who probably had well above average sized hands, would find this ring too big to wear comfortably. Yet he wore it. The ring meant that much to him.

  “Is someone inducted into the Order of Maximilian the Younger every year?” Griffin asked. He slipped the ring from his finger.

  “By no means,” was the reply. “Most years no one is inducted. No one has received a ring for more than a decade. The Order is highly selective. If you saw a ring like this elsewhere, Mr. Gilmore, you saw something quite rare.”

  Rare enough the ring can be traced, Griffin said to himself. Through the ring perhaps the identity of the man in white could be learned. Griffin caught himself smiling at the thought. As soon as he got home he’d ask Grace to track down all those awarded a ring by the Order of Maximilian the Younger.

  *

  “Where were we, Mr. Gilmore?

  “You were about to show me some pages you pulled from the box, professor.”

  “Yes. My Mom put this list together from my birth father’s notes. Done on a manual typewriter, that’s how long ago I turned eighteen. It’s a list of those who served in the Special Task Force For Music and yes, Hans Baeder survived the war. There’s no asterisk next to his name. My Mom said my father told her that he wrote notes of sympathy to the families of those killed – and many were killed. Look at all these asterisks.”

  He showed Griffin page after page of German names, dozens and dozens with asterisks.

  “I’m not surprised to hear about your father writing to the families,” Griffin said. “He sponsored Hans Baeder coming to the United States a few years after the war. That’s in the dissertation as well.”

  “My Mom said Dad sponsored a number of the men. Many of them settled in the Baltimore area for that reason.”

  Griffin returned to the photo. The shattered looks on the faces of the men held him.

  “See the hollowness of their eyes?” Professor MacGregor asked. Griffin did. “Haunting, isn’t it? These men were musicians, not soldiers. Must have been hellish for them.”

  “Did your father ever mention Hans Baeder?”

  “He may have to my Mom. I was too young to remember. Sorry.”

  “Hans Baeder was wounded outside the German city of Ulm. An air attack. The last summer of the war. Do you happen to know anything about the air attack?”

  “That I can help you with. My father was wounded that same morning. I can tell you the date: August 17, 1944. My father could never play the violin after that day. Six of the violinists were killed that day. Of 24 in the Sonderstabe of violinists. Even more were wounded, including my Dad, who lost his left arm below the elbow.

  “The American planes surprised them. There was some delay so their train had to travel in daylight. Otherwise, they only traveled at night. The Special Task Force men were defenseless against the planes. Their train cars were stuffed with instruments, not weapons.”

  “Dr. MacGregor, what happened to the trainload of stolen musical instruments when the planes attacked? The dissertation does not say. I’ve learned the air raid is officially listed as ‘partially successful.’ Did the instruments survive?”

  “I asked my Mom the same question. Apparently many of the instruments were destroyed. Only a few were saved. Collateral damage, they’d call it today.”

  Next Griffin asked a question he knew the answer to. He was trying to double check the accuracy of what Professor MacGregor was telling him. If the professor admitted this, he was likely telling the truth as best he knew it: “Was your father a member of the Nazi Party?”

  He nodded. “My partner’s not Jewish, but I know this shoe box makes him uncomfortable. It’s Nazi memorabilia, as far as he’s concerned. It’s a link to my father, as I see it. That’s why I keep the box here, not at our Charles Village condo.”

  “Do you know why he joined the Nazis? Was your father political?”

  “God, no. He was a musician. Worshipped Mozart, as does his son. The men in the Special Task Force For Music had to join. It was very important to my mother that I understand that. They had to join or they would be killed.”

  “I spoke to Hans’ longtime girlfriend. Her name is Miriam. She says your father recruited Hans – his former student at the Dresden conservatory – for the Special Task Force. She said your father did that to keep Hans from serving in the regular army. She believed by doing that your father saved Hans’ life.”

  “I hope that’s true. I’d like to think my father saved someone’s life.”

  The phone on Professor MacGregor’s desk rang.

  “I’ll have to take that call, Griffin.”

  “Hans’ girlfriend told me that the day Hans was wounded – your father also – Hans had with him a violin more valuable than any Stradivarius. Could that be true?”

  The phone rang again.

  “I’ve got to take this.” He smiled wryly. The phone kept ringing. “Not that I want to.”

  “Which violin could it have been, professor? Hans built a special crate to protect this violin. He never did that for any other violin and he and the Special Task Force looted violins all over Europe.” He spoke more rapidly over the ringing phone. “Hans was especially good at judging the worth of violins. Which violin was it, professor?”

  “Good afternoon,” he said into the phone, “this is Professor MacGregor. How can I help you?”

  To Griffin he made a motion like he was writing on paper. Griffin found a pad of paper on the desk. He handed the pad to the professor, along with a pen.

  “Yes, Mrs. Sikorsky,” the professor was saying, as he wrote on the pad. “I was the judge in today’s competition.”

  He wrote a few words on the pad and tore off a piece of paper, which he handed to Griffin.

  Griffin, somewhat to his surprise – delaying intellectual gratification was not his strong suit – never glanced at the paper, which he pocketed. He leaned across the desk to shake hands with Professor Michael S. MacGregor.

  The professor may not have noticed. He had turned off the office lights again. He was verbally backpedalling already: “Yes, Mrs. Sikorsky…yes, I know my ass from my elbow…”

  TWENTY-NINE

  June 24

  6:07 pm

  Rush hour was over, but with the endless repair work to Charles Street, traffic poked along. Griffin turned right onto 33rd Stree
t, but traffic here was more congested. He got stuck through two green lights at 33rd and Greenmount, the surliest intersection in Baltimore, in Griffin’s driving experience. None of which troubled him. He needed time to think about his next step after meeting with Professor MacGregor.

  Griffin hadn’t yet shared Alexandra Webb’s dissertation with any of the others. He wanted to settle into the details first. By the time Griffin turned onto York Road, Griffin knew his next step was to make copies of the dissertation for Annie, Kit, Bobby, and Saif. He wanted each of them to answer the question he’d asked the professor: Which violin did Hans Baeder try to save during the Ulm air raid all those years ago?

  He stopped at the Staples on Goucher Boulevard to run off four copies of the dissertation. When he got home Annie was not there. She’d left a message that Grace called. Grace had finally gotten the passport information Griffin requested. Had either of the ladies at Future-Ride traveled to Europe? Annie’s message was that Grace had learned De-BOR-ah Miller had never been to Europe. Alexandra Webb had gone to Germany 11 times.

  “Confirmed,” Griffin said aloud. He walked through the back door toward Kit’s garage apartment. The apartment door was partially open, to catch a soft evening breeze. Griffin watched, unobserved, as Kit sprawled sideways on a chair. Kit was writing on a pad of paper. Griffin knew Kit was compiling some kind of list.

  The first list Griffin had ever seen Kit make was in kindergarten, when he ranked his favorite colors. At that time Kit could print letters, but not whole words. The list, in its entirety, consisted of: Y, R, B, O. The “R,” now that Griffin thought about it, was reversed and the “Y” upside down.

  He knocked and stepped into the apartment.

  “Here’s Alexandra Webb’s dissertation.” He handed a copy to Kit. “Can I take you from whatever you’re listing and ask you to read this?

  “Kit, remember when I told you what Miriam Freitag said? That during the air raid on the Special Task Force For Music train outside Ulm, Hans wanted to protect one particular violin?” Kit remembered. “Here’s what I’d like you to think about while reading the dissertation — which instrument did Hans have? To put it differently – which violin stolen by the Special Task Force is the most valuable?”

  “Valuable means which is worth the most money?”

  “An excellent question. Define ‘valuable’ any way you want. Money or whatever else. Which instrument is she after? It’s a safe bet the man in white is after it too, but for now we focus on Alexandra Webb and her dissertation. I’ll ask Annie, Bobby, and Saif to read the dissertation also.

  “I’ll do the same. I just came back from asking a violin professor at the Peabody Institute the question. I’ve got his answer in my pocket. I haven’t read it yet. I want all of us to approach the question without influence from anyone else. We’ll get together tomorrow night for dinner to compare answers.”

  “Sure thing,” Kit said. The two looked at each other a few seconds. “Since you so obviously want to know,” Kit told Griffin, “the list I’m drawing up is the greatest guitar riffs of all time.”

  “Did “Layla” make the list?”

  “That goes without saying. See you for dinner tomorrow night.”

  *

  Griffin called Bobby, who agreed to meet him at the Dunkin Donuts on 41st Street in Hampden. Bobby wore his Marlon Brando clothes – tight jeans, plain white tee, leather jacket.

  “Read this, if you would,” Griffin requested, handing Bobby the dissertation. “Tell me your answer to this question: What is the most valuable instrument Alexandra Webb discusses? When I handed Kit his copy he made the fine point that ‘valuable’ may mean different things to different people. Define it any way you’d like. After this, Saif gets his copy; then Annie. They’ll answer the question. I’ll do the same.”

  “What’s in it for me?” Bobby wondered.

  “Dinner tomorrow night. At the restaurant of your choice.”

  “How about a Russian restaurant? I may be auditioning for a part in Chekov’s Cherry Orchard next week.”

  “Russian it is, then.”

  A young mother of two, she couldn’t have been more than 19 or 20, pushed a stroller into the Dunkin’. She carried a squalling infant. A two year old clung to his mother’s legs so fiercely the woman struggled to open the door. This child was crying even louder.

  “I must away,” Bobby announced, in his baritone Shakespearean voice. He hustled over to help the young mother through the door. His sudden appearance startled the two year old into silence. Bobby flexed his hands repeatedly in front of the boy, as if proving to the child the hands were empty.

  “Watch closely,” Bobby instructed, in his loudly confident stage voice. “At no time do my hands leave my arms.”

  The boy did watch, with wide brown eyes. Griffin noticed the gratitude on the mother’s face.

  “Holy moly, guacamole!” Bobby announced. While distracting the child by waving his right arm, Bobby slipped his left hand into his belt at his back and pulled out a chunk of honey dip. He performed the move very smoothly. Griffin had a sense of what Bobby was up to and even Griffin could barely see where the piece of donut came from.

  “Honey dip for you!” Bobby shouted. “If it’s okay with your Mom, that is.”

  The woman said, sure it was fine, just fine, and, mister, could you maybe be here again tomorrow?

  *

  Griffin couldn’t get Saif on the phone. The Statistics Department secretary, working late, informed him Professor Venkatesan was in the library, getting ready for his doctoral defense. Griffin drove to the Venkatesans’ house in Homeland. He slipped the dissertation into the mailbox. On the outside of the envelope he wrote instructions for Saif, explaining what question he should answer. Griffin also mentioned dinner at the Russian restaurant in Towson at six the following night.

  Back home, Griffin read the dissertation. Annie did as well, falling asleep around midnight, three-fourths of her way through the 256 page dissertation. For a moment Griffin watched her sleep. He gratefully listened to her steady, reassuring breathing. He turned out the light and went downstairs and stretched out on the couch. Griffin had read the dissertation straight through twice by this point. He had a very strong sense of the violin Alexandra Webb felt was most valuable. For an hour or so he dipped back into the dissertation, checking out various points, to see if anything could change his mind. It didn’t.

  Around three in the morning he fell asleep. Two hours later Annie came downstairs and slipped onto the couch with him. And then, for a while, for a very nice while, the dissertation and everything else was totally forgotten.

  THIRTY

  June 24

  5:09 pm

  Everyone drove separately to the Russian restaurant in Towson, even Annie and Griffin. It had not been easy for Griffin to restrain himself from asking Annie which instrument she’d picked. He managed to stay silent by keeping busy with household chores, transforming himself into a true domestic god for the day. The shower grouting never looked as it good as it did by mid-afternoon.

  Dinner had been scheduled for six but Griffin pushed the meal ahead to five thirty, then to five, unwilling to wait the extra time.

  The restaurant had a small side room and Griffin requested a table there. They had the room to themselves.

  “Let’s order and then discuss what we came here for,” he said, as soon as they were seated. There were nods around the table. Griffin could sense their anticipation, as intense as his own.

  Their waiter – Griffin thought the man had an uncanny resemblance to Vladimir Lenin, down to the Satanic pointed beard – took their orders. Griffin went with the Kamchatka shrimp, because the waiter assured him the garlic sauce “had a nice bite to it.” Bobby asked for the grilled sturgeon. Saif, after extended internal debate – Kit at one point loudly suggested, “Can’t you just flip a coin?” – selected the carp stuffed with mushrooms. Kit got the potato pierogies, and Annie chose the Varenki dumplings. Griffin waited until t
he waiter disappeared into the kitchen.

  Griffin began: “We all remember the assignment. We each read Alexandra Webb’s dissertation, ‘Establishing the Value of Musical Instruments Stolen by the Special Task Force For Music.’ We’re here to decide which violin Alexandra Webb considers most valuable.

  “Which violin did Hans Baeder have that awful day when the American bombers hit the Special Task Force train? Whichever violin Hans held that day, the man in white wants it as well. His connection to Alexandra Webb remains unknown, but I now have a theory.

  “This violin must be why Hans got all those calls from someone on the alcove phone at Future-Ride. That little mystery has at last been cleared up. It was Alexandra, not De-BOR-ah, calling Hans every month for 19 months. She must have been calling to ask him, do you have the violin? If you have it, what do you want for it? If you don’t have it, do you know where it is?

  “Hans was a man of few words. He couldn’t have told her much one way or the other – that’s why she kept calling.

  “That violin also had to be why Dude broke into Hans Baeder’s house during Hans’ funeral. He was after a violin. Which one? Which violin is it? Here’s the violin I picked.”

  Griffin placed a piece of paper in the center of the table.

  “And here is the violin that Dr. MacGregor, the professor at the Peabody Institute, picked.”

  That piece of paper went next to Griffin’s.

  Annie, Kit, Bobby and Saif each placed a piece of paper on the table

  Griffin came prepared to defend his selection and had mentally cataloged reasons for his choice. Saif, Griffin saw, was holding a single spaced sheet of paper with his reasons for why he felt this was the violin Alexandra Webb was after. Kit had a numbered list of reasons. Bobby was drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, a sign he was primed for debate.