He disappeared into the back, then reappeared a few moments later. “If you’ll step into the back room, sir, our Mr. Talbot will see you.”

Our Mr. Talbot was a red-faced man with uncommonly large ears. He sat at a rolltop desk dipping coins into a glass of clear liquid and wiping them on a soft rag. The solution, whatever it was, managed to turn the coins bright and silvery while staining the tips of our Mr. Talbot’s fingers dark brown.

“Carradine,” he said. “Never met the gentleman, but I do recall the name. Late summer, I think. Don’t believe he was here long. Have you tried the owner?”

I hadn’t. He gave me a name and address and telephone number, and I thanked him. He said, “Not a collector, are you?” I admitted that I wasn’t. He grunted and resumed dipping coins. I thanked the clerk on the way out and called the building’s owner from a booth down the block.

A voice assured me the man was out and no one knew when he might be returning. I thought for a moment, then called again and announced that I was an inquiry agent interested in the whereabouts of a former tenant. The same voice introduced itself as the owner. Evidently he’d been avoiding some tenant who wanted his office painted; landlords, after all, are the same the whole world over.

He told me what I wanted to know. A Mr. T. R. Smythe-Carson had taken a third-floor office under the name of Carradine Imports in late July, paid a month’s rent in advance, left before the month was over, and provided no forwarding address.

For form’s sake, I looked for Smythe-Carson in the telephone directory. He wasn’t there, and I wasn’t surprised.