Nice room. Large, about fifteen by twenty-five feet. A highly polished dark oak floor with two oriental rugs on it. The larger one was Chinese and the smaller one at the far end of the room might have been a Bokhara, but I couldn’t tell you for sure. I suppose I ought to know more about rugs but I’ve never taken the time to learn because they’re too much trouble to steal.

Naturally I went over to the desk first. It was a nineteenth-century rolltop, oaken and massive, and I’d probably have been drawn to it simply because I like desks like that, but in this case my whole reason for being in this apartment was tucked away in one of its drawers or cubbyholes. That’s what the shifty-eyed and pear-shaped man had told me, and who was I to doubt his word?

“There’s this big old desk,” he had said, aiming his chocolate eyes over my left shoulder. “What you call a rolltop. The top rolls up.”

“Clever name for it,” I’d said.

He had ignored this. “You’ll see it the minute you walk in the room. Big old mother. He keeps the box in the desk.” He moved his little hands about, to indicate the dimensions of the box we were discussing. “About like so. About the size of a box of cigars. Maybe a little bigger, maybe a little smaller. Basically I’d call it cigar-box size. Box is blue.”

“Blue.”

“Blue leather. Covered in leather. I suppose it’s wood under the leather. Rather than being leather straight through. What’s under the leather don’t matter. What matters is what’s inside the box.”

“What’s inside the box?”

“That don’t matter.” I stared at him, ready to ask him which of us was to be Abbott and which Costello. He frowned. “What’s in the box for you,” he said, “is five thousand dollars. Five kay for a few minutes’ work. As to what’s actually inside the box we’re talking about, see, the box is locked.”