I nodded.

“Well, I cannot help you with finding this engraver. We independent artisans tend not to-to make public our handiwork and I am not part of a network of forgers. But perhaps I could help you find the client.”

“How?” Lotty asked before I could.

“By making up such a piece and letting it be known that I have one for sale.”

I thought about it. “It might work. But you’d be running a terrible risk. Even with my most persuasive intervention, it would be hard to convince the feds that your motives were pure. And remember that the people who ordered these things might be violent-I’ve already had a threatening phone call. If they found out you were doublecrossing them, their justice would be even harder to take than a stint at Fort Leavenworth.”

Uncle Stefan leaned over and clasped one of my hands. “Young lady, I am an old man. Although I enjoy life, my fear of death has passed. And such an occupation would be rejuvenating for me.”

Lotty interrupted with some vigorous arguments of her own. Their discussion got quite heated and moved into German, until Lotty said disgustedly in English, “On your grave we will put a marker reading ‘He died stubborn.”

After that, Uncle Stefan and I discussed practical details. He would need to keep my Acorn certificate and get some others. He would find any supplies he needed and send me the bills. To be on the safe side, in case my anonymous caller really meant business, he wouldn’t phone me. If he needed to talk to me, he’d run an ad in the Herald-Star. Unfortunately, he couldn’t promise very speedy results.

“You must resign yourself to weeks, perhaps many weeks, not days, my dear Miss Warshawski.”

Lotty and I left amid mutual protestations of goodwill-at least between Uncle Stefan and me. Lotty was a little frosty. As we got into the car she said, “I suppose I could call you in to consult on geriatric cases. You could think of criminal enterprises that would bring adventure and the flush of youth back to people worried about making ends meet on Social Security.”

I drove over to Route 41, the old highway connecting Chicago and the North Shore. Nowadays it offered a quiet, pretty drive past stately homes and the lake. “I’m sorry, Lotty. I didn’t go there with anything more than the hope that your uncle might know who’s who in Chicago forging. Personally, I think his idea is a long shot. If he can do the job and make some contacts, how likely is it he’ll come up with the right people? But it’s a clever idea, and better than anything I can think of. Anyway, I’d certainly rather have a charming criminal as my only Chicago relative than an honest bitch; if you’re too upset, I’ll trade you Rosa for Stefan.”

Lotty laughed at that and we made the drive back to Chicago peaceably, stopping on the far North Side for a Thai dinner. I dropped Lotty at her apartment and went on home to call my answering service. A Father Carroll had phoned, and so, too, had Murray Ryerson from the Star.

I tried the priory first. “They told me you were by here yesterday, Miss Warshawski. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you then. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we had some rather extraordinary news this morning: We found the original certificates.”

I stood momentarily stunned. “That is extraordinary,” I finally said. “Where did they turn up?”

“They were on the altar this morning when we began celebrating mass.” Since well over a hundred people had legitimate business in the priory chapel on Sunday mornings, no one could possibly say who might or might not have gone there early and returned the stolen goods. Yes, the FBI had sent someone out to take possession, but Hatfield had called at three to say that these shares were genuine. The FBI was keeping them awhile to run lab tests on them. And Carroll didn’t know now if they’d ever get them back.

Out of curiosity I asked if Rosa had been to mass that morning. Yes, and looking grimly at anyone who tried to talk to her, Carroll assured me. Her son stayed away, but he usually did. As we started to hang up, he remembered my question about whether anyone at the priory had talked to Rosa about pulling out of the investigation. He had asked the fathers whom Rosa would most likely listen to and none of them had talked to her.

I called Murray next. He wasn’t as full of the returned certificates as I expected. More recent news occupied his attention.

“I talked to Hatfield twenty minutes ago. You know what an arrogant, uncommunicative bastard he is. Well, I couldn’t get shit Out of him about the returned stocks and I asked every question in my arsenal and more besides. I got him in a corner finally and he as good as admitted the FBI is dropping the investigation. Putting it on the back burner, he said, cliché hack that he is. But that means dropping it.”

“Well, if the real things have turned up, they don’t need to worry so much.”

“Yeah, and I believe in the Easter bunny. Come on, Vic!”

“Okay, wordly-wise newspaperman. Who’s applying the screws? The FBI isn’t scared of anyone except maybe J. Edgar’s ghost. If you think someone’s backing them off, who is it?”

“Vic, you don’t believe that any more than I do. No organization is exempt from pressure if you know where the right nerves are. If you know something you’re not telling I’ll-I’ll-” he broke off unable to think of an effective threat.

“And another thing. What was that crap you gave me about your poor frail old aunt? I sent one of my babies out to talk to her yesterday afternoon and some fat goon who claimed he was the son practically broke my gal’s foot in the door. Then the Vignelli woman joined him in the hall and treated her to some high-level swearing on newspapers in general and the Star in particular.”

I laughed softly. “Okay, Rosa! Two points for our side.”

“Goddamn it, Vic, why’d you sic me onto her?”

“I don’t know,” I said irritably. “To see if she’d be as nasty to anyone else as she is to me? To see if you could learn something she wouldn’t tell me? I don’t know. I’m sorry your poor little protégé had her feelings hurt, but she’s going to have to learn to take it if she plans to survive in your game.” I started to tell Murray that I, too, had been warned off the investigation, then held back. Maybe someone had brushed back the FBI. And maybe that someone had called me as well. If the FBI respected them, so should I. I bade Murray an absentminded good-night and hung up.

THE SNOW HELD off overnight. I got up late to do my virtuous five miles, running north and west through the neighborhood. I didn’t think anyone was watching me, but if they were, it was sensible to vary my route.

A little later I followed the same procedure in my car, looping the Omega north and west through the side streets, then hitting the Kennedy from the west at Lawrence. I seemed to be clean. Thirty miles south on the expressway, past the city limits, is the town of Hazel Crest. You cannot buy handguns in Chicago, but a number of suburbs do a flourishing legal business in them. At Riley’s, on 161st Street, I showed them my private investigator’s license and my certificate that proved I’d passed the state’s exam for private security officers. These enabled me to waive the three-day waiting period and also to register the gun in Chicago; private citizens can’t register handguns here unless they bought them before 1979.

I spent the rest of the day finishing up a few outstanding problems-serving a subpoena to a bank vice-president hiding unconvincingly in Rosemont, and showing a small jewelry store how to install a security system.

And I kept wondering who was backing off first Rosa and then the FBI. It wouldn’t help to park in front of Rosa ’s and watch her. What I really needed was a tap on her phone. And that was beyond my resources.