"I think it's worth looking into," I said. "Her side window looks right down into the Grices' entryway. Maybe she saw the burglar."

Tillie made a skeptical face. "In the dark?"

I shrugged. "It doesn't seem likely, does it, but I don't know what else to think."

"But why wouldn't she have gone to the police if she knew who it was?"

"Who knows? Maybe she wasn't thinking straight. People panic. They don't like to get involved in these things. Maybe she felt she was in jeopardy herself."

"Well, she was nervous," Tillie said. "But then we were all a bundle of nerves that week. You want to come in?"

"Actually I do. I think I ought to take a look at those bills of hers. At least we can see how recently she's used her charge accounts and where she was at the time. Has anything else come in?"

"Just a couple of things. I'll show you what I've got."

I followed Tillie through the lobby and into the corridor beyond.

She unlocked her front door and moved into the living room, crossing to the secretary. Since the glass had been broken out of the doors, there was no need to unlock anything, but I saw her hesitate, nonplussed, putting an index finger on the side of her cheek like someone posing for a photograph. "Now, that's odd."

"What?" I asked. I crossed to the secretary and looked in. We'd replaced the tumble of books the night before, and there was nothing else on the shelves now except a small brass elephant and a framed snapshot of a puppy with a stick in its mouth.

"I don't see Elaine's bills and they should be there," she said. "Now, isn't that strange." She glanced at the shelves again and then opened the drawers one by one, sorting through the contents.

She moved into the kitchen and dug into the big black plastic bag where we had dumped all the broken glass and debris the night before. There was no sign of them.

"Kinsey, they were in the secretary yesterday. I saw them myself. Where could they have gone?"

She looked up at me. It didn't take a massive leap of intelligence to arrive at the obvious possibility.

"Could she have taken them?" Tillie asked. "That woman who broke in last night? Is that what she was really up to?" "Tillie, I don't know. Something about it bothered me at the time," I said. "It didn't make sense to think someone would break in while you were here just to tear the place apart. Are you sure you saw them yesterday?"

"Of course. I put the new batch of bills with the other ones on the shelf. They were right here. And I don't remember seeing them at all when we cleaned up. Do you?"

I thought back, chasing it around in my memory. I'd only seen the bills once, the first time I'd talked to her. But why would someone bother to steal them? It didn't make sense. "Maybe she deliberately scared the pants off you to keep you out of the way while she searched the place," I said.

"Well, she sure had the right idea. I wouldn't have come out of my room on a dare! But why would she do that? I don't understand."

"I don't either. I can always get duplicates of the bills, but it's going to be a pain in the ass and I'd rather not do it if I don't have to."

"I want to know who has a key to my apartment. That makes my blood run cold."

"I don't blame you. Listen, Tillie. Nothing makes me crazier than sixteen unanswered questions in a row. I'm going to see what I can find out about this murder next door. It has to be connected somehow. Have you talked to Leonard Grice recently?"

"Oh, he hasn't been there since it happened," she said. "I haven't seen him at any rate."

"What about the Snyders on the other side? Do you think they could be of any help?"

"They might. Do you want me to talk to them?"

"No, don't worry about it. I'll check with them myself. Just one more thing. Leonard Grice has a nephew… a kid with a pink Mohawk."

"Mike."

"Yeah, him. Is there any chance he might have been the person who broke in last night? I just talked to him outside and he's not a big guy. He might well have looked like a woman in the dark."

"I don't think so," she said, skepticism plain. "I couldn't swear to it, but I don't think it was him."

"Well. Just a thought. I don't like to make assumptions about gender. It really could have been anyone. I'm going to go next door and see what the Snyders have to say. You take care of yourself."

The house at 2093 was similar in feeling to the house that burned… the same-size lot, same ill proportions, the same white frame and red brick. The brick itself was roughly textured, a cunning imitation of fired clay. There was a FOR SALE sign out front with a banner pasted across it boasting SOLD! as though an auction had been enacted just before I started up the walk. A large tree shaded the yard down to a chill, and dark ivy choked the trunk, spreading out in all directions in a dense mat that nearly smothered the walk. I went up the porch steps and knocked on the aluminum screen door. The front door had a big glass panel in it, blocked by a sheer white curtain stretched between two rods. After a moment, someone moved the curtain aside and peered out.

"Mr. Snyder?"

The curtain was released and the door opened a crack. The man appeared to be in his seventies, corpulent and benign. Old age had given him back his baby fat and the same look of grave curiosity.

I held out a business card. "My name is Kinsey Millhone. Could I have a few minutes of your time? I'm trying to track down Elaine Boldt, who lives in that big condominium over there, and Tillie Ahlberg suggested I talk to you. Can you help me out?"

Mr. Snyder released the catch on the screen door. "I'll do what I can. Come on in." He held the screen door open and I followed him inside. The house was as dark as the inside of a soup can and smelled of cooked celery.

From the rear of the house, a shrill voice called out.

"What's that? Who all is out there, Orris?"

"Someone Tillie sent!"

"Who?"

"Hold on a minute," he said to me, "she's deaf as a yard of grass. Take a seat."

Mr. Snyder lumbered toward the back. I perched on an upholstered chair with wooden arms. The fabric was a dark maroon plush with a high-low pattern of foliage, some nondescript sort that I'd never seen in real life. The seat was sprung; all hard edges and the smell of dust. There was a matching couch stacked with newspapers and a low mahogany coffee table with an inset of oval glass barely visible for all the paraphernalia on top: dog-eared paperbacks, plastic flowers in a ceramic vase shaped like two mice in an upright embrace, a bronze version of praying hands, six pencils with erasers chewed off, pill bottles, and a tumbler that had apparently held hot milk which had left a lacy pattern on the sides of the glass like baby's breath. There was also an inexplicable pile of pancakes wrapped in cellophane. I leaned forward, squinting. It was a candle. Mr. Snyder could have moved the entire table outside and called it a yard sale.

From the back end of the house, I could hear his exasperated explanation to his wife. "It's nobody selling anything," he snapped. "It's some woman Tillie sent, says she's looking for Mrs. Boldt. Boldt!! That widda woman lived upstairs of Tillie, the one played cards with Leonard and Martha now and again."

There was a feeble interjection and then his voice dropped.

"No, you don't need to come out! Just keep set. I'll take care of it."

He reappeared, shaking his head, his jowls flushed. His chest was sunken into his swollen waistline. He'd had to belt his pants below his big belly and his cuffs drooped at the ankles. He hitched at them irritably, apparently convinced he'd lose them if he didn't hang on. He wore slippers without socks and all the hair had been worn away from his ankles, which were narrow and white, like soup bones.

"Switch on that light there," he said to me. "She likes to pinch on util'ties. Half the time, I can't see a thing."