DUNNE stood in the library hall beside the same backless marble bench on which he’d left Bassante the previous day. “‘Luck is fate’s knuckleball. It has a will of its own.’ So an OSS colleague once opined to me.” Bassante dangled his hat between his knees. Dunne studied the thinning weave of gray-black threads atop Bassante’s head. “You have a good memory.” “You told me that once before. It’s still good, I guess—just not as good as it used to be, like the rest of me.” Bassante patted the empty space beside him. “Sit.” Dunne unpocketed the letter and offered it to Bassante. “Quite a story.” “Keep it. I don’t want it back.” “Did the police investigation of Pully’s suicide turn anything up?” “There was no note.” “No sign anyone else was in the room?” “Pros don’t leave clues.” “Any idea what the autopsy showed?” “Alcohol in the bloodstream. But he wasn’t drunk.” “No drugs?” Dunne sat. “No LSD, if that’s what you mean.”
