A large black man sitting behind the front desk with his sleeves rolled up. One elbow was on the counter, and his head was propped in his open hand. With his other hand he turned the pages of a tabloid newspaper, barely pausing to read the words. He looked bored enough to have been there all his life.

"I'd like to leave a message for one of your guests," Quinn said.

The man looked up at him slowly, as if wishing him to disappear.

"I’d like to leave a message for one of your guests," Quinn said again.

"No guests here," said the man. "We call them residents."

"For one of your residents, then. I'd like to leave a message."

"And just who might that be, bub?"

"Stillman. Peter Stillman."

The man pretended to think for a moment, then shook his head. "Nope. Can't recall anyone by that name."

"Don't you have a register?"

"Yeah, we've got a book. But it's in the safe."

"The safe? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the book, bub. The boss likes to keep it locked up in the safe."

"I don't suppose you know the combination?"

"Sorry. The boss is the only one."

Quinn sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. He slapped it on the counter and kept his hand on top of it.

"I don't suppose you happen to have a copy of the book, do you?" he asked.

"Maybe," said the man. "I'll have to look in my office."

The man lifted up the newspaper, which was lying open on the counter. Under it was the register.

"A lucky break," said Quinn, releasing his hand from the money.

"Yeah, I guess today's my day," answered the man, sliding the bill along the surface of the counter, whisking it over the edge, and putting it in his pocket. "What did you say your friend's name was again?"

"Stillman. An old man with white hair."

"The gent in the overcoat?"

"That's right."

"We call him the Professor."

"That's the man. Do you have a room number? He checked in about two weeks ago."

The clerk opened the register, turned the pages, and ran his finger down the column of names and numbers. "Stillman," he said. "Room 303. He's not here anymore."

"What?"

"He checked out."

"What are you talking about?"

"Listen, bub, I'm only telling you what it says here. Stillman checked out last night. He's gone."

"That's the craziest thing I ever heard."

"I don't care what it is. It's all down here in black and white. "

"Did he give a forwarding address?"

"Are you kidding?"

"What time did he leave?"

"Have to ask Louie, the night man. He comes on at eight."

"Can I see the room?"

"Sorry. I rented it myself this morning. The guy's up there asleep. "

"What did he look like?"

"For five bucks you've got a lot of questions."

"Forget it," said Quinn, waving his hand desperately. "It doesn't matter. "

He walked back to his apartment in a downpour, getting drenched in spite of his umbrella. So much for functions, he said to himself So much for the meaning of words. He threw the umbrella onto the floor of his living room in disgust. Then he took off his jacket and flung it against the wall. Water splattered everywhere.

He called Virginia Stillman, too embarrassed to think of doing anything else. At the moment she answered, he nearly hung up the phone.

"I lost him," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"He checked out of his room last night. I don't know where he is."

"I'm scared, Paul."

"Have you heard from him?"

"I don't know. I think so, but I'm not sure."

"What does that mean?"

"Peter answered the phone this morning while I was taking my bath. He won't tell me who it was. He went into his room, closed the shades, and refuses to speak."

"But he's done that before."

"Yes. That's why I'm not sure. But it hasn't happened in a long time."

"It sounds bad."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Don't worry. I have a few ideas. I'll get to work on them right away."

"How will I reach you?"

"I'll call you every two hours, no matter where I am."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, I promise."

"I'm so scared, I can't stand it."

"It's all my fault. I made a stupid mistake and I'm sorry."

"No, I don't blame you. No one can watch a person twenty-four hours a day. It's impossible. You'd have to be inside his skin. "

"That's just the trouble. I thought I was."

"It's not too late now, is it?"

"No. There's still plenty of time. I don't want you to worry."

"I'll try not to."

"Good. I'll be in touch."

"Every two hours?"

"Every two hours."

He had finessed the conversation rather nicely. In spite of everything, he had managed to keep Virginia Stillman calm. He found it hard to believe, but she still seemed to trust him. Not that it would be of any help. For the fact was, he had lied to her. He did not have several ideas. He did not have even one.

10

STILLMAN was gone now. The old man had become part of the city. He was a speck, a punctuation mark, a brick in an endless wall of bricks. Quinn could walk through the streets every day for the rest of his life, and still he would not find him. Everything had been reduced to chance, a nightmare of numbers and probabilities. There were no clues, no leads, no moves to be made.

Quinn backtracked in his mind to the beginning of the case. His job had been to protect Peter, not to follow Stillman. That had simply been a method, a way of trying to predict what would happen. By watching Stillman, the theory was that he would learn what his intentions were toward Peter. He had followed the old man for two weeks. What, then, could he conclude? Not much. Stillman's behavior had been too obscure to give any hints.

There were, of course, certain extreme measures that they could take. He could suggest to Virginia Stillman that she get an unlisted telephone number. That would eliminate the disturbing calls, at least temporarily. If that failed, she and Peter could move. They could leave the neighborhood, perhaps leave the city altogether. At the very worst, they could take on new identities, live under different names.

This last thought reminded him of something important. Until now, he realized, he had never seriously questioned the circumstances of his hiring. Things had happened too quickly, and he had taken it for granted that he could fill in for Paul Auster. Once he had taken the leap into that name, he had stopped thinking about Auster himself. If this man was as good a detective as the Stillmans thought he was, perhaps he would be able to help with the case. Quinn would make a clean breast of it, Auster would forgive him, and together they would work to save Peter Stillman.

He looked through the yellow pages for the Auster Detective Agency. There was no listing. In the white pages, however, he found the name. There was one Paul Auster in Manhattan, living on Riverside Drive -not far from Quinn's own house. There was no mention of a detective agency, but that did not necessarily mean anything. It could be that Auster had so much work he didn't need to advertise. Quinn picked up the phone and was about to dial when he thought better of it. This was too important a conversation to leave to the phone. He did not want to run the risk of being brushed off. Since Auster did not have an office, that meant he worked at home. Quinn would go there and talk to him face to face.

The rain had stopped now, and although the sky was still gray, far to the west Quinn. could see a tiny shaft of light seeping through the clouds. As he walked up Riverside Drive, he became aware of the fact that he was no longer following Stillman. It felt as though he had lost half of himself. For two weeks he had been tied by an invisible thread to the old man. Whatever Stillman had done, he had done; wherever Stillman had gone, he had gone. His body was not accustomed to this new freedom, and for the first few blocks he walked at the old shuffling pace. The spell was over, and yet his body did not know it.