He measured me with a long look. “I guess there’s no reason not to tell you,” he said. “Anyway, another couple of hours an’ you’ll be readin’ about it in the papers.”

“He’s dead?”

“If he’s not,” he said, “then it’s a hell of an act he’s puttin’ on.”

“Who killed him?”

“I don’t know, Bern. I was kind of hopin’ it’d turn out to be you.”

“Get a grip, Ray. It never turns out to be me, remember? I’m not a killer. It’s not my style.”

“I know that,” he said. “All the years I known you, you never been a violent fellow. But who’s to say what might happen one of these days if somebody surprises you while you’re burglarizin’ their premises? And don’t give me any of that crap about how you’re spendin’ all your time sellin’ books these days. You’re a burglar through an’ through, Bernie. You’ll still be breakin’ an’ enterin’ when you’re six feet under.”

There was a cheering thought. “Tell me about Candlemas,” I said. “How was he killed?”

“What’s the difference? Dead is dead.”

“How do you even know it was murder? He wasn’t a kid. Maybe he died of natural causes.”

“Naw, it was suicide, Bernie. He stabbed himself a couple of times in the chest and then ate the knife to throw us off.”

“That’s what killed him? Stab wounds?”

“That’s what the doc tells us. A lot of internal bleedin’, he said. Plenty of external bleedin’, too. Made a mess of the rug.”

I winced, feeling sorry at once for Hugo Candlemas and his Aubusson. I told Ray I hoped he hadn’t suffered much.

“He must of,” he said, “unless he was some kind of a massy-kissed. Somebody sticks a knife into you two or three times, naturally you’re gonna suffer.” He frowned, considering. “They say you go into shock the first time you get stabbed and don’t feel the others, an’ I guess I’ll have to take their word for it. I wouldn’t want to test it out for myself.”