Kneeling, he zipped open his bag and got the right tools out by sense of touch. The chisel. The small crowbar. The large screwdriver with the rubber handle.

“Ssiss!”

He paused. He looked around and- saw nothing but the darkness. It had sounded like somebody hissing at him.

Probably a rat in a garbage can. Dortmunder stood, and prepared to wedge the chisel in at the top corner of the door.

“Ssiss!”

By God, that almost sounded human. Dortmunder, feeling the hair starting to stand up on the back of his neck, clutched the chisel like a weapon and looked around some more.

“Ssiss! Dort-munder!”

He almost dropped the chisel. The hisser had hissed his name, a sibilant whisper that made the name Dortmunder sound as though it were full of esses. Here in the darkness, with nobody around, somebody—some thing—was hissing his name.

My guardian angel, he thought. But no; if he had a guardian angel, it would have given up on him years ago.

It’s Satan, he thought, he’s come to get me. The hand holding the chisel trembled, and the chisel made little skittery rapping noises against the metal door.

“Dortmunder, up here!”

Up? Would Satan be above him? Wouldn’t the devil be underneath? Blinking uncontrollably, Dortmunder looked up. Above him, the grillwork lines of the fire escape stood out dimly against the dull red light that New York City always casts up to its cloud cover at night. Something, some creature, was on the fire escape, one level above him, silhouetted vaguely against the red sky, looming over him like a gargoyle on a church roof.