At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances by Alexander McCall Smith

is quite beyond reason.’
    Prinzel smiled. ‘It was just as well that you understood how to deal with these people, Captain Oates and his like,’ he said. ‘I should have been terribly confused.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But in spite of all this, I did enjoy the experience.’ He paused, and they waited. This was the moment. ‘And of course it was a great reassurance to know that I had my room at the Institute to come back to.’
    The silence was complete. Von Igelfeld did not look at Unterholzer, but he knew that his words had found their target. He would wait a few more seconds before he continued; if he waited too long, the Librarian might start talking about hoops or whatever and he did not want the dramatic impact of his find to be diminished.
    He took a deep breath. ‘Speaking of rooms, I found something in my room this morning. It was very puzzling.’ He put his hand into his pocket, watched by all eyes, and extracted the button, holding it up for all to see. ‘This.’
    ‘A button,’ said the Librarian. ‘You found a button.’
    ‘Precisely,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘A button on the carpet.’
    They all stared at the button.
    ‘This button,’ said Prinzel. ‘Is it an important button, or just . . . just a button?’
    ‘You would have to ask that question of the person who dropped it,’ said von Igelfeld slowly, each word chosen and delivered with care, so as to have maximum effect. ‘That person – whoever it might be – would be able to answer your question. I cannot.’
    Von Igelfeld still did not look directly at Unterholzer. He gazed, rather, out of the windows, at the bare branches of the trees, ready for the onset of spring. Those who deceived would always be found out, he reflected. We reap what we sow, or, in this case, what we drop. That, he thought, was quite amusing, but he should not laugh now, nor should he even smile. Perhaps he could express the thought later, in confidence, to Prinzel, or he could write to Zimmermann and put it in as an aside, as a freshly-minted aphorism. Zimmermann had a highly developed sense of humour and always appreciated such remarks.
    Unterholzer put down his cup. ‘Could you pass me the button, Herr von Igelfeld?’ he said.
    This tactic took von Igelfeld by surprise. Usually the accused does not ask to see the prosecution’s principal exhibit, as he feels too embarrassed to handle it, fearing, perhaps, that he would not be able to conceal his familiarity with the object. But he could hardly refuse, and so he passed the button to its putative owner.
    ‘Yes,’ said Unterholzer, taking the button. ‘Just as I thought. It’s your own button, Herr von Igelfeld. If you look at the left sleeve of your jacket, you will see that there are only two buttons sewn on behind the cuff. On your right sleeve there are three. This button matches the others. What good fortune that it fell off in your office and not outside. It could have fallen into a tramline and rolled away.’
    At this last remark, Prinzel and Unterholzer burst into laughter, although the Librarian, inexplicably, did not. Von Igelfeld, humiliated, said nothing. He did not understand what tramlines had to do with it, and it was outrageous that Unterholzer should have wriggled out of his difficulties in this way. His one consolation was that Nemesis would take note, would stalk Unterholzer, and would trip him up one of these days. It was only a matter of time.

    The Librarian realised that von Igelfeld was somehow put out by the way in which the button incident had been concluded, and decided that this would be the right time to mention the Colombian request. He did not like to see von Igelfeld humiliated, particularly when it was at the hands of his colleagues. They were so rude, sometimes; always interrupting him as if they were the only ones who had any right to speak. Well, now he would speak, and they would have to listen this time.
    ‘Herr von Igelfeld,’ he began. ‘Putting