To no avail.

I gave him a minute, then rang again. When nothing happened, I found myself looking wistfully at the locked door. I knew the lock would be no problem, and I didn’t expect more of a challenge from the one upstairs on the fourth floor. I couldn’t think what had become of Candlemas, but suppose he’d tired of waiting for me and ducked around the corner for a plate of scrambled eggs? I could be in and out while he was waiting for the waitress to pour him a second cup of coffee.

The prospect of reclaiming my attaché case without having to endure any human contact was not without appeal. I’d have to talk to Candlemas sooner or later, to tell him what had happened and try to figure out why, but that could wait.

I put my hand in my pocket, let my fingers close around my little collection of burglar’s tools.

Wait a minute, I thought. Suppose he’s home, relaxing in the bathtub or entertaining a visitor. Or suppose he’s out and comes home in time to catch me in the act. Oh, hi, Hugo. I struck out at the Boccaccio, so I thought I’d take a few minutes to knock off your apartment.

For that matter, suppose I was overcome by an irresistible impulse to lift something. I’m neither a sociopath nor a kleptomaniac, I don’t plunder the digs of my friends, but was Hugo Candlemas a friend? He’d been Abel’s friend, or at least had so described himself, and I’d liked him and found him a congenial fellow, but that was before he sent me off to get locked in a closet and come home empty-handed. That might not have been his fault, and indeed it might have been at least partly mine for having taken my time about it, but whoever deserved the blame, it did tend to soften the glue in the bonds of friendship.

From the dispassionate vantage point of the vestibule, the last thing I wanted to do was loot Candlemas’s apartment. But how would I feel when I got upstairs and something special caught my eyes and tugged at my heartstrings?