Not that gorgeous Aubusson, it was too big to steal, but what about the Tibetan tiger? Or his little display of netsuke, so easy to wrap up and chuck in the attaché case? Or, most appealing of all, some sweet untraceable cash? I could probably hold off, but I was embittered and the job had gone sour and I was not going to pass Go or collect five thousand dollars, and I’d had a couple Ludomirs, and-

Oh.

I couldn’t go in, could I? I’d been drinking, and I don’t work when I drink or drink when I work.

So that settled that.

I rang his bell one more time, and don’t ask me which finger I used. I didn’t expect a response and I didn’t get one. Out on the street, I walked a block or so to clear my head, and when a cab came along I grabbed it.

It almost figured I’d get Max Fiddler for the third time, but nobody’s that lucky. This time my driver was a young fellow who ate pistachio nuts as he drove, spitting the shells all over the front of the cab. He got me home in one piece, but not for lack of trying.

Back in my own apartment, I stowed my tools and flashlight, got out of my clothes and under the shower. I stayed there for a long time, trying to wash the night away, but it was still there when I emerged. I put on a robe and poured myself a nightcap, wondering how Scotch would sit on top of Ludomir.

I drank half of it, then searched my wallet for the slip of paper with Hugo Candlemas’s phone number on it. Was it too late to call? Probably, but I picked up the phone and dialed the number anyway, and after two rings someone picked up and said, “Hello?”

It didn’t sound like Hugo.

I didn’t say anything. There was a silence, and the same voice said the same thing again, sounding a little peevish this time around.

Definitely not Hugo.

I put the receiver in the cradle.

I took another small sip of Scotch and made a mental list. Item: My visit to Apartment 8 – B at the Boccaccio had turned out badly. Item: Hugo Candlemas, who was supposed to be home waiting for me to show up with the portfolio, had been absent when I went to see him. Item: An hour later, someone else was answering his phone. Someone who was definitely not Hugo Candlemas, but whose voice was curiously familiar.