“Whoever is responsible for this flamboyant display has taken great care to involve you in it,” Michael Lowenthal said. “He or she has also gone to some trouble to place Rappaccini’s name at the very center of the investigation. You have suggested—and I agree with you—that the roots of this affair must extend into the remote past, and that it may have been more than a century in the planning. When you made the suggestion, what you seemed to have in mind was a scenario in which Jafri Biasiolo, alias Rappaccini, had decided at some point in his career to construct an entirely new identity for himself, leaving behind an electronic phantom, and that he had done this in order to prepare the way for this theatrical series of murders.

“The problem with that scenario is that it gives us no clue as to how, why, or even when Biasiolo could have formed a grievance against the two people who are so far definitely numbered among the victims. If Paul Kwiatek is, in fact, the third, that puzzle becomes even more awkward. If Kwiatek is the third, I think we must consider a different scenario, whereby the motive for the crime originated in Wollongong in 2321 or 2322. If that is the case, then it is possible that every record of Jafri Biasiolo’s existence and every aspect of his subsequent career as Rappaccini might have been a contrivance aimed toward the eventual execution of this plan. If so, we should not be asking our surfers to discover who Jafri Biasiolo became when he vanished into thin air in 2430 or thereabouts, but to discover who the person was who created him in the first place and used him as a secondary identity for the preceding hundred years. Do you see my point, Dr. Wilde?” “I certainly do,” Wilde replied with perfect equanimity. “I fear, dear boy, that I have also anticipated your punch line—but I would not dream of depriving you of the opportunity to declaim it. There is certainly considerable virtue in your powers of imagination, and not a little in your logic, but I fear that your conclusion will not seem so compelling. Do tell us—who is the person that you suspect of harboring this remarkable grudge against Gabriel and Michi for more than a hundred and seventy years?” Charlotte could see that Wilde’s teasing sarcasm had had a far more devastating effect on Lowenthal’s confidence than any simple appropriation of the Natural’s conclusion could have had. The young man had to swallow his apprehension before saying: “Walter Czastka.” Having already heard Wilde’s response to the observation that Czastka had been at Wollongong at the same time as King and Urashima, Charlotte expected another dose of scathing sarcasm—but Wilde seemed to have repented of his cruelty in setting Lowenthal up to deliver a punch line that was bound to fall flat. He leaned back, giving the appearance of a man who was thinking a matter through, reappraising everything he had previously taken for granted.

“I can see the attractions of the hypothesis,” Wilde admitted finally. “Walter can be cotemporally linked to both the murdered men, and to one who might have been murdered. As an expert in creative genetics, specializing in flowering plants, he might conceivably have had the expertise necessary to run two careers instead of one, diverting all his flair and eccentricity into the work allocated to the Rappaccini pseudonym while cunningly taking credit for a flood of vulgar commercial hackwork. You have observed that I have a very low opinion of Walter, and you presume that he must have an equally low opinion of me—thus providing a possible motive for the admittedly curious determination of the murderer to involve me in the investigation.

“It would certainly be ironic if I were to insist now that Walter could not possibly be the murderer because he is so utterly dull and unimaginative, if it were to turn out in the fullness of time that he is the murderer, and that I had spent the greater part of my life mistakenly despising him. The possibility is so awful that I am almost moved to caution. Nevertheless, I feel obliged to stand by my earlier judgment. Walter Czastka could not have invented Rappaccini because he does not have the necessary aesthetic resources. He is not the author of this bizarre psychodrama. If I am proved wrong, I shall unhesitatingly admit that he has outplayed me magnificently, but I cannot believe that I will be proved wrong.” “Do you have an alternative hypothesis to offer?” Lowenthal demanded, carefully suppressing his ire.

“Not yet,” Wilde replied. “I am obliged to wait until I discover what awaits me in San Francisco.” Charlotte was just about to say that thanks to the presumably premature discovery of Michi Urashima’s body they already knew what awaited them in San Francisco, when the buzzer on her beltphone sounded. She snatched up the handset, but that was unnecessary; the table’s screen was still patched through to UN police headquarters, and it was there that Hal Watson’s face appeared.

“One of Rappaccini’s bank accounts just became active again,” Hal informed them.

“A debit was put through about ten minutes ago. The credit was drawn from another account, which had nothing on deposit but which had a guarantee arrangement with the Rappaccini account.” “Never mind the technical details,” Charlotte said. “What did the credit buy? Have the police at the contact point managed to get hold of the user?” “I’m afraid not,” Watson told her. “The debit was put through by a courier service. They actually got the authorization yesterday, but it’s part of the conditions of their service that they guarantee delivery within a certain time and don’t collect until they’ve actually completed the commission. We’ve got a picture of the woman from their spy eye, looking exactly the same as she did when she went to Urashima’s apartment, but it’s almost three days old. It must have been taken before the murder, immediately after she arrived in San Francisco.” Charlotte groaned softly. “What did she send, and where did she send it to?” she said.

“It was a sealed package—a broad, shallow cylinder. It was addressed to Oscar Wilde, Green Carnation Suite, Majestic Hotel, San Francisco. It’s there now, awaiting his arrival.” Even though Charlotte had not quite had time to get her foot into her mouth, she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. She turned from the screen to stare at Oscar, who shrugged his shoulders insouciantly. “I always stay in my own personalized hotel suites,” he said. “Rappaccini would know that.” “We don’t have the authority to open that package without your permission,” Hal put in. “I could get a warrant—but it would be simpler, with your permission, to send an order to the San Francisco police right now, instructing them to inspect it immediately.” “Certainly not,” Wilde replied without a moment’s hesitation. “It would spoil the surprise. We’ll be there in less than an hour.” Charlotte frowned deeply. “You’re inhibiting the investigation,” she said. “I don’t think you should do that, Dr. Wilde. We need to know what’s in that package. It could be a packet of deadly seeds, fine-tuned to your DNA.” “I do hope not,” said Wilde airily. “I can’t believe that it is. If Rappaccini wished to murder me he surely wouldn’t treat me less generously than his other victims. If they’re entitled to a fatal kiss, it would be unjust as well as unaesthetic to send my fleurs du mal by mail.” “In that case,” Charlotte said, “it’s probably just another ticket. If we open it now, we might be able to find out where the woman’s next destination is in time to stop her making her delivery.” “I cannot believe it,” said the insultingly beautiful man, in his most infuriating tone. “The delayed debit was almost certainly timed to show up after that event. The third victim—whoever it might have been—is probably already dead. Perhaps the fourth and fifth also. No, I must insist—the package is addressed to me and I shall open it. That is what Rappaccini intended, and I am certain that he has his reasons.” “Dr. Wilde,” Charlotte said, in utter exasperation, “the reasons of a murderer—or a murderer’s accessory—are hardly deserving of respect. You seem to be incapable of taking this matter seriously.” “On the contrary,” Wilde replied with a sigh. “I believe that I am the only one who is taking it seriously enough. You, dear Charlotte, seem to be unable to look beyond the mere fact that people are being killed. At least Michael has imagination enough to see that if we are to understand this strange business, we must consider hypotheses which are extraordinarily elaborate and frankly bizarre. We must take all the features of this flamboyant display as seriously as they are intended to be taken: the kisses, the flowers, the cards… everything that is calculatedly strange and superfluous. They are, after all, the details that the newscasters will focus on as soon as Michael’s careful employers decide to let them off the leash. Those details hold the key to the nature and purpose of the performance.