Simone nodded, her eyes meeting his, sharing his distress.

He glanced at the leather bag and the neatly wrapped package.

“Open them,” she said. “Let’s find out what this is about.”

He chose the package first. Using his Swiss Army knife, he sawed through the twine. The paper peeled away easily, revealing a glossy black box. A golden sticker embossed with a designer name decorated the upper right-hand corner.

“Bogner,” said Simone. “It must be a present.”

“Looks like it,” said Jonathan, unconvinced, as he cut the ribbon encircling the box.

Bogner made high-end clothing designed to keep jet-setters warm and chic on their trips to the Alps. On a lark, he and Emma had ducked into one of their shops while on a getaway to Chamonix last October. It was a sunny day, he remembered, a weekend between fall and winter when the nip in the air sharpens to a bite.

“Which one do you fancy?” Emma had asked, under her breath as they prowled the aisles. They were raiders operating behind enemy lines. The “enemy” being the vain and wealthy. Those who ignored their “duty to interfere.”

Jonathan pointed to a charcoal crewneck sweater. “I’ll take this one.”

“Consider it yours.”

“Really?” he said, playing along.

“It suits you. We’ll take it,” she said to the hovering salesgirl.

“We will?” said Jonathan, loud enough to risk blowing their cover.

Emma nodded, threading an arm through his. “I have hidden resources,” she whispered in his ear, though not before giving it a nibble.

“Does Madam have some Monopoly money hidden in a shoe box?”

Emma didn’t answer. Instead, she continued speaking to the salesgirl as if he weren’t there. “An extra large. And wrap it, please. It’s a present for my husband.” Her tone was no longer subdued or surreptitious. And neither was the look in her eye.

“Emma, come on,” he said. “Enough’s enough. Let’s get out of here.”

“No,” she insisted. “You’ve earned it. Back pay.”

“For what?”

“I’m not telling.”

At which point, Jonathan had seen the price tag, and after practically fainting, yanked her out of the store. Outside, they’d laughed at her impetuous behavior. But even then, she’d shot him a chilly look that said he’d committed a sin and was exiled to her bad graces until further notice.

Jonathan recalled her expression as he removed the box cover. Gauze paper concealed a dark garment. Parting the wrapping, he lifted it partially out of the box. He’d forgotten how soft it was.

“Lovely,” said Simone.

It was the sweater from Chamonix. A simple charcoal crewneck. Well made and elegant, but at first sight, nothing out of the ordinary, which was precisely his style. He passed his fingers over the collar. Fourply cashmere. There was nothing softer on earth. It had cost sixteen hundred dollars. Half a month’s salary.

“I have hidden resources.”

Was this the birthday present she’d mentioned to the manager of the Bellevue?

Jonathan laid the sweater back in the box. The balance of Dr. and Mrs. Ransom’s checking account presently stood at fifteen thousand some-odd Swiss francs. Roughly twelve thousand dollars. And that was before paying the hotel bill.

Setting aside the box, he pulled the calfskin bag onto his lap. He had the unsettling feeling that he was never meant to see its contents, just as he was never supposed to have opened Emma’s letter. “Those who listen at closed doors rarely hear good of themselves,” his mother had warned him as an adolescent. But to Jonathan, there was no longer good or bad. There was only truth and deception. He could no sooner discard the bag than he could ignore the baggage receipts. He had an image of himself opening a colorful Russian matryoshka stacking doll, each shell containing its smaller twin.

A sturdy gold lock held the zipper closed. He looked at Simone. She nodded. With that, he slipped the blade of his knife into the calfskin and guided it the length of the bag.

The first thing he saw was a ziplock bag containing a set of Mercedes-Benz car keys and a hand-drawn map with a square labeled “Bahnhof,” and a rectangle next to it labeled “Parking” with an “X” inked at its far end. Was it referring to the Landquart station? There were a lot of Bahnhofs in Switzerland.

A navy crepe blazer lay beneath the keys, along with a pair of matching slacks and an ivory blouse. It was the kind of stylish outfit worn by young executives in Frankfurt and London. Women you saw charging through airports on four-inch heels, cell phone clapped to their ear, and laptop bag over their shoulder. Then came a black lace brassiere and panties. There was nothing businesslike about these, he mused, lifting them by a finger. These were designed to impress an entirely different clientele.

A makeup kit presented itself next. Jonathan dug around inside it. Mascara. Eyeliner. Lipstick. Foundation, blush, moisturizer, and God help him, a set of false eyelashes. There was perfume, too. Tender Poison by Dior.

“And Emma?” he asked himself. She swore by Burberry’s Tender Touch. An English Rose by name and virtue.

Beneath the tubes and jars and compacts, he found a satin pouch bound by an elegant golden rope. With an inelegant yank, he unknotted it. A pirate’s booty lay inside: a Cartier slave bracelet and an emerald baguette; diamond earrings and a gold mesh necklace. He had no experience with jewelry, but he knew quality, and this was it.

He glanced up to find Simone staring at him. Jonathan felt an eerie communion between them. Their Emma did not wear power suits. Their Emma did not sport flaming red lipstick. She did not put on false eyelashes or dab Tender Poison behind her ear; and she most certainly did not possess an heiress’s jewelry. He had the impression that he was looking through another woman’s belongings.

Simone was examining a ring she’d taken from the pouch. “E.A.K.,” she said. “Know anyone by those initials?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Take a look on the inside.” It was a gold wedding band engraved “E.A.K. 2-8-01.” “That’s who the bag belongs to,” she said. “Mrs. E.A.K., who was married February 8, 2001. It must be one of Emma’s friends.”

Jonathan ran through the E’s he knew. He came up with an Ed, an Ernie, and an Étienne, but he didn’t think the thong was their size. The female list was shorter and ran to one name: Evangeline Larsen, a Danish doctor with whom he’d worked four years earlier.

There was a last item in the jewelry pouch. A stainless and gold ladies’ Rolex wristwatch with a diamond-crusted bezel. To Jonathan, it was the surest proof yet that his wife had no claim on the bag. A Rolex was the symbol of everything they found wrong with the world. Status for sale at five thousand bucks a shot. And Emma’s timepiece of choice? A Casio G-Force favored by hockey players, U.S. Marines, and aid professionals with a duty to interfere.

There was more in the bag. A pair of shoes. Size 5¹/₂. Emma’s size. He knew because she had small feet and often carped about how hard it was to find anything that fit. Stockings. A box of breath mints. An eyeglass case holding fashionable tortoiseshell spectacles.

Jonathan ran his hands along the inside of the bag. He felt something firm and rectangular tucked inside the wall. A wallet, he guessed. But even as he unzipped the compartment and removed the grosgrain crocodile billfold inside, something was nagging at him. It was the ring. A married woman didn’t take off her wedding band unless she was bathing or swimming, and even then, it was questionable. The thought of trusting it to a poorly secured overnight bag that had been placed on a common train was…well, it was unthinkable.

The billfold held a Eurocard, a Crédit Suisse ATM card, an American Express card, and a Rainbow Card entitling the bearer to use of Zug public transit for a year’s time.