The Villa Principessa sat at the end of a gravel drive, a renovated eighteenth-century cottage with ivy creeping up pitted walls and geranium-filled window boxes decorating its upstairs bedrooms. A low stone-and-mortar wall surrounded the dormant rose garden that fronted the house. At nine a.m., the rain fell in a steady curtain, as pounding and relentless as a waterfall.

Simone buttoned up her coat and tucked her hair behind her ears. “So we’re just going to confront him? What if he says he didn’t send the bags? Then what are we going to do?”

“Why would he deny it?” said Jonathan. “Once he knows Emma’s dead, he’ll be happy to get his car back.”

“And his money?”

“And his money.” Jonathan opened the glove compartment and took out the cash-filled envelope. “I’ve been thinking about this all night…I mean about what Emma was up to.”

Simone’s eyes ordered him to go on.

“Medicine,” said Jonathan. “Emma was always talking about how aid never reached its intended destination. It drove her crazy. You know how it is where we operate. Half the time cargos are impounded by the government or stolen by customs officials who then try to sell it back to us at twice the price. If we get seventy percent of what’s meant for us, that’s considered good. I think it had something to do with that. I mean, look at this house. It had to cost a bundle. My guess is that Blitz is an executive at one of the big pharmaceutical companies. Together they were up to something. Bribing someone. A payoff. Emma always thought she wasn’t doing enough to make a difference.”

“And you expect Blitz to tell you about it?”

“A hundred thousand francs buys a lot of cooperation.”

“Or a lot of silence. It seems to me that you’re overlooking something. Have you considered that Blitz might have been the one who sent the policemen?”

“It doesn’t compute. First off, he’d have had to know about Emma’s accident, and that’s impossible. How do you see it? That he sent Emma the bags, then stuck some crooked cops on her to take the bags back as soon as she picked them up? No way. It wasn’t Blitz. It was someone else.”

“Someone who knew about Emma’s accident?”

“Or someone who was waiting for the bags all along.”

Jonathan left the car and passed through the wrought-iron gate. Simone caught up a moment later. “Gottfried Blitz” read the nameplate below the doorbell. Jonathan pushed the button and the bell chimed like the tolling of a campus carillon. No one answered. Digging in his pocket, he found the breath mints he’d taken from Eva Kruger’s overnight bag and popped one into his mouth. “Want one?”

Simone shook her head.

Jonathan pressed his ear to the door. Strains of classical music came from within. He rang the doorbell again. When no one answered, he threw a leg over the railing and craned his neck to look through the front window. Three dachshunds lay sleeping on the marble floor. He caught a shadow flitting at the periphery of his vision.

“Mr. Blitz,” he called. “I need to speak with you. Open up, please.”

He looked back at the dogs. His vision felt sharper than normal. He observed how still the animals were lying. Unnaturally still, to a doctor’s eye. He studied their torsos. It didn’t appear as if any of them were breathing. One, in particular, lay with its head cocked at a severe angle, its tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth.

Jonathan tried the door, but found it locked.

“What are you doing?” Simone asked. “You can’t just go inside.”

Jonathan banged on the door. “Mr. Blitz! My name’s Ransom. I think you know my wife, Emma. Please open up. It’s about the bags. I’ve got them. And the money.”

Just then, a door slammed inside the house.

“Keep knocking,” he said, turning and running down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Simone called.

“Around back. Something’s wrong here.”

“But…wait!”

He ran around the side of the house and came up the rear path through the garden. Somewhere behind him, Simone was calling for him to stop, but her words registered as a distraction. The back door was open. Music played from the stereo. “Ride of the Valkyries.” He stepped inside the house, finding himself in a narrow kitchen. He advanced across the floor, grimacing with every squeak of the parquet. He sensed an imbalance in the atmosphere, but instead of being frightened, he felt alert and exhilarated. Battle bright.

He left the kitchen and crossed the living room to where the dogs lay near the front door. None lifted a head as he approached. He bent to examine them. The dachshunds were dead, their necks broken. He stood, aware of his sharp breathing and his heart’s pistonlike contractions. Directly ahead, a flight of stairs led to the second floor. He heard something…something just ahead…and he continued down the hall. He threw open the door to his left. Guest bathroom: empty. The sound grew more distinct. A labored, arrhythmic wheezing.

It was then that he smelled the cordite and his eyes began to water.

He came to the study.

“Oh, God,” he said as he rushed into the room.

A man sat slumped over his desk. His mouth hung open, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. Blitz? He assumed so. There was an entry wound at the temple, a neat hole ringed by gunpowder. Was it a suicide? Jonathan stepped back, searching for a pistol, but he didn’t see one anywhere. He recalled the shadow flitting at the far corner of the living room. Not suicide. Murder.

Jonathan glanced toward the door, wondering if the killer might still be in the house, and if he himself might be in danger. He dismissed the thought and began talking to Blitz, telling him his name and that he was Emma’s husband. He instructed him to hang on, and stated that he was going to do everything he could to keep him alive.

As gently as possible, he lifted Blitz off of the desk and laid him on the floor, taking care to keep his air passage open and unobstructed. He turned Blitz’s head and studied the exit wound. He’d seen too many like it before. Large caliber. Hollow point. He was not optimistic about Blitz’s chances. Still, at that moment, the man was alive. Nothing else mattered.

Running into the living room, he snatched the phone and dialed 144 for Emergency Services. When the operator asked what had happened, he said, “Life-threatening head injury with a large loss of blood.” When he realized that he was speaking English, he repeated the words in Italian.

“Jon, what is it? What happened?” Simone stood at the entry to the living room, concern etched across her forehead. “You have blood on your hands.”

“There’s a bathroom down the hall. Soak some towels in hot water and bring them to me.”

“Towels? What happened? Why-”

“Do it!”

Jonathan returned to the study and knelt down beside Blitz. There was little he could do until the paramedics arrived except make sure that the man’s heart continued beating. Blitz’s pupils were dilated and his respiration was shallow. Jonathan took the man’s wrist, but was unable to find a pulse. He commenced CPR. Three plunges, then two breaths. Simone barreled into the room. Seeing Blitz, she let out a cry and dropped the towels onto the floor.

“I called EMT,” he said. “They should be here any minute. Put the towels beside his head.”

“But why?” Reluctantly, she picked up the towels and deposited them on the floor next to Jonathan. She stood quickly, teetering as she viewed the blood spreading across the carpet. “He’s dead.”

“Not yet, he’s not. If I can keep his heart beating until the paramedics arrive, he’ll have a chance.”

“He’s been shot in the head. Just leave him.”

Jonathan put his head to Blitz’s chest. There was no heartbeat. Respiration had ceased. He looked up at Simone and shook his head.