I shook my head. “Will Durant wrote about him, but I forget what he said. You read that stuff and it’s all very interesting, but then you put the book down and it all runs together. I think Tiglath-Pileser kicked a lot of ass back in ancient times, but then most of them did.”

“And you think Tiglath Rasmoulian is named after him?”

“Jesus, I don’t know. Maybe he changed his name from Caphob. Maybe he’s planning on opening a restaurant called Two Guys From Nineveh.”

“ Nineveh?”

“That was the big city in Assyria. I think.” I stood up. “You know what the trouble is? I know all this crap, or half know it, everything from scraps of poetry to the capital of South Dakota, but I don’t know any of the important stuff, like what the hell’s going on. One man’s been stabbed to death and another man stuck a gun in my face and I went and fell in love with a beautiful woman just hours before she disappeared without a trace, and all I know is the name of a city in Assyria, and I’m not even sure if I’m right. What are you doing?”

“I’m looking in the dictionary,” she said. “How do you spell it, anyway? Never mind, I found it. ‘ Nineveh, a capital of Assyria, the ruins of which are located on the Tigris River, opposite Mosul.’ Do you want me to look up Mosul?”

“What for?”

“I don’t know. Mosul, Mosul, Mosul. Where are you, Mosul? Ah. ‘ Mosul, a city in northern Iraq, on the Tigris opposite Nineveh.’ Maybe Tiglath got his name from the Tigris.”

“That’s the whole problem in a nutshell,” I said. “We’ve got a million questions and we’re looking for the answers in stamp catalogs and dictionaries. I’m not going to find out what’s in that portfolio by looking in a book, and I’m not going to catch Hoberman’s killer by browsing in a library.”

“I know,” she said, “but you have to start somewhere, Bern. Don’t you?”

“I have to start with a person,” I said, “but I don’t know how to find any of them. Ilona disappeared. So did Hugo Candlemas. Hoberman’s dead. Who does that leave?”

“How about Tiggy?”

“Rasmoulian? He gave me a card, but there was nothing on it but his name.”

“Maybe he’s in the book.”

“Which book? The stamp catalog or the dictionary?”

“The phone book.”

“Fat chance,” I said, but I went and looked anyway, and he wasn’t listed.

“Speaking of fat…”

“Tsarnoff,” I said. “The fat man. But I don’t know his first name.”

“How many Tsarnoffs can there be, Bern?”

“Good point,” I said, and checked. There weren’t any, which saved having to call them all and try to guess their weight over the phone.

“I bet there are plenty of Sarnoffs,” Carolyn said.

“Rasmoulian was very adamant about the Tsss sound. But maybe the fat man spells it with a Z.” I looked, and there weren’t any Tzarnoffs, either.

Carolyn said, “Who else is there? The two burglars? We don’t know their names. You said a man and a woman, huh?”

“They made love.”

“It could still be a man and woman. Maybe it was the guy who lived there and his girlfriend. Did you think of that?”

“Yes.”

“You did?”

“Sure. It would explain how they happened to have a key. Maybe they weren’t burglars at all, maybe the guy suddenly got the urge to check his portfolio in the middle of the night. Maybe that’s the kind of guy he is.”

“Who is he, anyway, Bern?”

“Good question.”

“Candlemas didn’t tell you?”

“Candlemas didn’t tell me anything. He told me what a good friend he was of Abel Crowe’s, and he told me how I’d pick up five thousand dollars, or maybe a lot more, for an hour’s work, and that’s pretty much all he told me. Can you believe I risked a felony arrest on the basis of that little information?”

“Frankly,” she said, “no. Bernie, we just went through the list and drew nothing but blanks. I know you want to do something about Hoberman’s death-”

“He was my partner,” I said. “I’m supposed to do something about it.”

“Whatever you say. The thing is, there’s no place to start.”

“Weeks,” I said suddenly.

“Weeks?”

“Hoberman knew him,” I said. “That’s why I needed Hoberman, because he knew Weeks, who lived in the building. Weeks doesn’t have anything to do with it, but maybe he can tell me something about Hoberman.”

I reached for the phone book again. I didn’t know his first name, but I knew his address on Park Avenue, and there weren’t that many Weekses listed to start with. His first name turned out to be Charles.

I dialed his number, and when he answered I said, “Mr. Weeks? Sir, my name is Bill Thompson, and I met you very briefly several nights ago in the company of a Captain Hoberman.” It took him a minute to place me, but then he remembered. “I need to talk to you,” I said. “I wonder if you could give me perhaps fifteen minutes of your time.” He hesitated, and said he hoped I wasn’t selling anything, or soliciting for some fund-raising effort, however worthwhile it might be. “I’m not,” I assured him. “I’m in a pickle, Mr. Weeks, and you may be able to help me. I’ll come to your apartment, if that’s all right. Good. In half an hour, say, or forty-five minutes at the outside? Very good. And it’s Bill Thompson.”

I hung up. Carolyn said, “Bill Thompson?”

“I’ll explain later. I’ve got to get going. Do I look all right to go over there?”

“You look fine.”

I brushed a hand across my cheek. “It wouldn’t hurt me to shave,” I said.

“It will if you use my razor. You look fine, Bern, and you’re not going to ask the guy for a job, are you? Anyway, you haven’t got time to shave. Let’s go.”

“You’re not coming, are you?”

“I’m not staying home,” she said. “Remember what you said? When your partner gets killed, you’re supposed to do something about it. Well, when your best friend’s up a creek, you’re supposed to help.”

“I guess it won’t hurt anything,” I said. “I told Weeks I was coming. I didn’t mention that anybody would be with me.”

We were in the hallway, and she turned to lock up. “Relax, Bern,” she said. “I’m not coming to the Boccaccio with you. That wouldn’t be any help. I’d just get in the way.”

“Then where are you going?”

“To your store,” she said. “Remember Raffles? Somebody’s got to feed him.”

CHAPTER Thirteen

“Mr. Thompson,” Charles Weeks said. “I remember you now. I didn’t get more than a glimpse of you the other night, and I couldn’t picture you in my mind. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize you, but of course I do. Come right in, won’t you? And tell me how you know Cap Hoberman, and why you think I can be of help to you.”

I’d had a clear picture of him in my mind, but I don’t know if I’d have recognized him if I’d passed him in the street. The other night he’d been in shirtsleeves and suspenders and wearing a homburg, and this morning he’d left the hat on the shelf and was wearing a Hawaiian shirt over white cotton trousers and espadrilles. He was bald now except for a gray fringe. I suppose he’d been every bit as bald the other night, but the hat had concealed it.

“If you’d called five minutes earlier,” he said, “you would have missed me. I have a cup of coffee upon rising, and then I walk for an hour, or close to it. On the way home I pick up my newspaper, and I read it with my breakfast. I used to have it delivered and read it with my coffee, but I found I’d never get out the door for my walk. This morning I was just breaking an egg when you called.”

His eyes were on me as he nattered away, and I sensed he was watching me carefully. “So your timing was excellent,” he went on, “but for all I know you called more than once, because I don’t have an answering machine. I’m retired, you see, and I don’t get that many calls, and few of them are terribly urgent. A disheartening percentage of the ones I do get are to advise me that someone of my acquaintance has died, and you can’t leave that sort of news on an answering machine, can you?” He smiled gently. “At least I couldn’t, although I’m sure there are people who can. There’s coffee, but I’m afraid it’s the sort with the caffeine left in it, and I must warn you it’s rather strong.”