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dilettante.”
    â€œWhat about his wife?”
    â€œHah!” He grinned. “The Dilettante’s Apprentice. You talked to her? She lay her Egyptian number on you?”
    â€œShe mentioned something about the cards being originally Egyptian.”
    â€œTypical Bouvier bullshit. Bullshit that’s been handed down by pseudo-scholars for centuries. People like de Gebelin and Eteilla believed that the cards were introduced into Europe by the Gypsies, and that the Gypsies were originally Egyptian. Wrong on both counts. The Gypsies are from India and the cards are originally Italian. But Quentin had an Egyptian bee in his bonnet, thought he was the reincarnation of Akhnaton. And Justine, who’s never had an original thought in her entire life, bought his story. She liked the idea of being Mrs. Pharaoh.”
    I said, “She believes, or says she believes, that this card possesses a power it picked up from the magicians who handled it.”
    For a moment his face was as scornful as Justine Bouvier’s had been, earlier today. “Justine believes anything that her idiot husband believed. Well, let’s face it, the woman is not a giant of the intellect—she was his bloody secretary before she was his wife. But all right, sure, the card probably did pick up vibrations from whoever handled it. A sensitive psychometrist might even be able to identify some of them. But personal vibrations become attenuated over time. And they get overlaid by the vibrations of the people who handle an object more recently. The strongest vibrations on that card would’ve been the vibrations of Eliza Remington.” He grinned. “So Bouvier paid two hundred thousand bucks for the vibrations of an anemic little old lady who pretends to be an astrologer.”
    â€œHow did you know how much Bouvier paid for the card?”
    â€œWhat?” His eyes narrowed, in pain or in thought, and his fingertips touched delicately at his temple again, and began kneading. “I don’t know. Someone mentioned it that night.”
    â€œDo you remember who?”
    â€œNo,” he said. Lightly, his fingertips made small circles in the gray hair.
    â€œWho else might’ve known how much the card was worth?”
    Gruffly: “How would I know?”
    I said nothing. I let his anger lie between us, across the wooden table, and I waited to see what he did with it.
    He stopped kneading, held up his hand, showed me his palm. “Sorry,” he said. “I had a rough night last night. My head’s killing me. I just don’t know, all right?” It wasn’t particularly gracious, but it was an apology.
    â€œNo problem,” I said. “What do you think of Leonard Quarry?”
    He frowned. “Why?” He lifted his bottle, took a hit of his beer.
    I said, “I need to learn everything that I can about these people. You know them. I’d appreciate any insights you might be able to offer.”
    He shook his head. “You’re trying to help Bernardi. I understand that. But you’re wasting your time, my friend. There are two kinds of people in this world. There are winners and there are losers. And Bernardi is definitely a loser.”
    Whenever I hear someone express a sentiment like this, I’m reminded of Robert Benchley’s observation about the two kinds of people in this world: there are those who divide the world into two kinds of people, and those who don’t.
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “But I’m being paid to learn what I can.”
    â€œAnd you think one of the others killed him.”
    â€œI’m not being paid to think.”
    He grinned. “That’s good. Because if you think Bernardi’s innocent, you’re wrong.”
    â€œMaybe. It happens fairly often. Leonard Quarry?”
    He shrugged. “But this is all off the record, right? The last thing I need right now is one of these clowns coming back at me with a