I should freely admit that the Gran Hotel Barolo – down in the village, next to the lake, out along the promontory, charmingly overlooking the pier – was pleasant enough. In fact, with its large grounds, its glassed-in waterfront terrace, its comfortable three-star restaurant, it was delightful, especially if you had come to it afresh or from afar. Its façade was grand, its grounds well-kempt. There were boats in its boathouse; a nice old-fashioned trio played each evening in the pleasant bar. In fact it was the ideal place, even or per­haps especially out of season, for tired Milanese businessmen to bring their wives, or more usually someone else’s, for a happy night or a good weekend. But the hotel somehow looked a little different to those of us who had just spent five pure days in paradise. To our eyes, its public rooms seemed faded and cheerless, its residents and guests drab and dull, its tablecloths dank, its silver less than silver, its menu uninspiring, its bedrooms mean and stale, by com­parison with the comforts of the Villa Barolo, high up on the crag above. Nonetheless, it did possess one virtue that the villa did not. It was prepared to admit us, after we had been summarily ejaculated out of the gardens of paradise.

This unfortunate episode happened on the morning after the great storm, which is still probably not forgotten at Barolo. When Ildiko and I woke up that morning, it was to look out on a clear, bright and faultless day. Beyond the windows of the Old Boathouse, the lake lay entirely unruffled, the mountains fresh and calm. As I walked up through the terraces for breakfast (Ildiko followed her habit and stayed in bed), I found branches and fallen trees everywhere, plants flattened, benches upturned. Still, the gardeners were at work already, repairing and perfecting the scene. So were the servants up at the villa, busily sweeping up the debris, straightening the priceless paintings. Yet somehow the storm had left its mark, and the atmosphere of the congress had subtly changed. That was clear in the breakfast-room too, where the congress members sat eating their eggs and bacon in a strange and solemn silence. Then I looked round the room, and understood why. Today there was no Bazlo Criminale.

Had he still failed to return? I sat down to eat and after a few moments Sepulchra came in. ‘Such a night! I am tempest-tossed!’ she cried, high hair spun up higher than ever. We watched her go over to the sideboard and pour Criminale’s usual cup of coffee. Then she turned, looked round, and said, ‘So? Where is Bazlo?’ People shook their heads. ‘You don’t see him?’ she asked, ‘Not know where he is? You think maybe he took long walk?’ But Sepulchra did not even then appear particularly worried; she must have had half a lifetime’s experience of dealing with Criminale’s careless wanderings and obscure absences. I said nothing about the concert the previous night, and finished my breakfast in silence. At that moment it seemed to me perfectly possible that Criminale had stepped from the music to think some fresh thought, examine some statue or fine painting, or just look for a newspaper, and that Miss Belli had thoughtfully followed. If he was not here now, he would I probably return shortly, perhaps led by Belli, perhaps brought home by the police in their van.

There was only half an hour left before the congress events were due to resume, so I went out into the hall, meaning to go back to the Old Boathouse, stir Ildiko, and give her the roll I had slipped into my pocket. Here, however, the butler stopped me, and very politely told me that I was summoned immediately to the upstairs suite of Mrs Valeria Magno, which I knew occupied most of the top floor of the villa. It was only as I followed his white back up the grand staircase that led the way to our padrona that I began to stir with anxious thoughts. Could it be possible that someone had been unkind enough to go to her and blow the gaff, strip my cover, and indicate that I was here on if not false then imperfect pretences? And if so, who was it? Could it be the operatic Cosima Bruckner, whose conspiratorial Euro-imaginings of the night before I found it, to be frank, almost impossible to take seriously? Or was it possibly Professor Doktor Otto Codicil, whose greeting to me the night before, when I found him with Ildiko, had been of the very frostiest, and who was, as Gerstenbacker had warned me, potentially a dangerous enemy?

The suite of Mrs Magno was, as befitted the benefactor of the entire enterprise, spacious and vast. The butler led me through a lobby, a sitting-room, a gracious private dining-room, and a dressing-room, before at last we reached a great bedroom, into which he ushered me. A maid with a bucket was mopping up a great pool of water from beneath the windows, another deposit from last night’s storm. Mrs Magno was sitting at her dressing-table, wearing flamboyant lounging pyjamas, and checking her face in the mirror, as if she was equally worried about storm damage there. Professor Monza stood in the room, wearing both his Royal Engineers tie and a strangely anxious expression on his small brown face. And, sitting weightily on a chair by the window, I saw the bulky figure of Professor Otto Codicil. ‘Lo, the outrageous impostor,’ he announced. Yes, it was bloody Codicil.

Mrs Magno turned, and looked me up and down. ‘You’re Francis Jay?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘Well, the prof here says you’re a phoney,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Otto, just tell us again what he’s supposed to have done.’ ‘Well, just for a starter, this young man has completely abused your hospitality with his false pretences,’ said Codicil, ‘Plainly it is outrageous.’ ‘I fear I made a very bad mistaka,’ said Professor Monza, ‘You understanda, Signora Magno, to organize a great congress is a very demandinga business.’ ‘You do a great job, Massimo,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all logged up here.’ ‘I should have checked his recorda more closely,’ said Monza. ‘I fear it is only what we must expect,’ said Professor Codicil, ‘The cunning blandishments of the media. Believe me, even I succumbed.’ ‘What do you two mean?’ asked Mrs Magno, plastering some tiny crack in her façade, ‘Is this guy some kind of journalist?’ ‘Exactly so,’ said Codicil. ‘I thought we had a policy of letting in some press,’ said Mrs Magno. ‘But in this case also an impostor, as I found out in Vienna to my cost,’ said Codicil. ‘Okay, what’s the story?’ asked Mrs Magno. ‘If you do not mind, I will not mince my words,’ said Codicil. ‘Go ahead, be my guest,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘I can take anything. I’m Californian.’

‘Very well,’ said Codicil, rising to his feet and pacing the room, ‘This man, an illiterate hack of no importance, by the way, appeared in Vienna a few days ago and solicited my assistance. He told me he was making a television show on the subject of our dear esteemed friend Bazlo Criminale.’ ‘So why come to you?’ asked Mrs Magno, adding blusher. ‘My dear lady,’ said Codicil, a little stung by this, ‘You lead a world life, so you may not know it, but I am the author of the one great study of the work of our master.’ At this point it crossed my mind to dispute him; then I thought not. I could be in enough trouble already. I was. ‘I arranged to meet the lout,’ said Codicil, ‘At once I saw he was unworthy, if not unwashed, even by peasant standards.’ ‘He is kind of brutal, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Magno, looking me up and down pensively. ‘How could a man of this type possibly make a programme about Criminale?’ demanded Codicil, ‘I was reminded of Heidegger. He, you know, rejected Öffentlichkeit, the light of publicity which obscures everything.’ ‘Didn’t he have good reason?’ asked Mrs Magno.

‘Well, even so, every assistance was offered,’ said Codicil, rather hastily, ‘Witness coffee and cakes at a first-rank Viennese café, for which incidentally I coughed up the tab. For two days I sacrificed to him the services of my invaluable servant Gerstenbacker, to make sure his each want and whim was satisfied.’ ‘Aren’t you good?’ said Mrs Magno. ‘However from the start I was uneasy,’ Codicil went on, ‘I could not accept the project was, well, correct.’ ‘Not kosher?’ asked Mrs Magno. ‘It stank a little somewhere, to speak frankly,’ said Codicil, ‘Happily I have friends worldwide. I called a good old mate colleague in London who asked some enquiries. Within hours the whole pathetic deception was exposed. This was not some great TV company, as the lout had said. It was a front only, run by women and children. It made programmes for speculation, like some street-corner tout. It kept a postal address in a bad part of Soho, the most degenerate part of London. Perhaps you know it, though I hope not.’ ‘Only by reputation, honey, I’m afraid,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘So you mean the whole thing is some kind of scam?’ ‘I fear so,’ said Codicil, ‘And worse was to come.’