Auster’s building was in the middle of the long block that ran between 116th and 119th Streets, just south of Riverside Church and Grant's Tomb. It was a well-kept place, with polished doorknobs and clean glass, and it had an air of bourgeois sobriety that appealed to Quinn at that moment. Auster's apartment was on the eleventh floor, and Quinn ran the buzzer, expecting to hear a voice speak to him through the intercom. But the door buzzer answered him without any conversation. Quinn pushed the door open, walked.through the lobby, and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor.

It was a man who opened the apartment door. He was a tall dark fellow in his mid-thirties, with rumpled clothes and a two-day beard. In his right hand, fixed between his thumb and first two fingers, he held an uncapped fountain pen, still poised in a writing position. The man seemed surprised to find a stranger standing before him.

"Yes?" he asked tentatively.

Quinn spoke in the politest tone he could muster. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"My wife, as a matter of fact. That's why I rang the buzzer without asking who it was."

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Quinn apologized. "But I'm looking for Paul Auster."

"I'm Paul Auster," said the man.

"I wonder if I could talk to you. It's quite important."

"You'll have to tell me what it's about first."

"I hardly know myself" Quinn gave Auster an earnest look. 'It's complicated, I'm afraid. Very complicated."

"Do you have a name?"

"I'm sorry. Of course I do. Quinn."

"Quinn what?"

"Daniel Quinn."

The name seemed to suggest something to Auster, and he paused for a moment abstractedly, as if searching through his memory. "Quinn," he muttered to himself "I know that name from somewhere." He went silent again, straining harder to dredge up the answer. "You aren't a poet, are you?"

“I used to be," said Quinn. "But I haven't written poems for a long time now."

"You did a book several years ago, didn't you? I think the title was Unfinished Business. A little book with a blue cover."

"Yes. That was me."

“I liked it very much. I kept hoping to see more of your work. In fact, I even wondered what had happened to you."

“I'm still here. Sort of."

Auster opened the door wider and gestured for Quinn to enter the apartment. It was a pleasant enough place inside: oddly shaped, with several long corridors, books cluttered everywhere, pictures on the walls by artists Quinn did not know, and a few children's toys scattered on the floor-a red truck, a brown bear, a green space monster. Auster led him to the living room, gave him a frayed upholstered chair to sit in, and then went off to the kitchen to fetch some beer. He returned with two bottles, placed them on a wooden crate that served as the coffee table, and sat down on the sofa across from Quinn.

"Was it some kind of literary thing you wanted to talk about?" Auster began.

"No," said Quinn. "I wish it was. But this has nothing to do with literature."

“With what, then?"

Quinn paused, looked around the room without seeing anything, and tried to start. "I have a feeling there's been a terrible mistake. I came here looking for Paul Auster, the private detective."

"The what?" Auster laughed, and in that laugh everything was suddenly blown to bits. Quinn realized that he was talking nonsense. He might just as well have asked for Chief Sitting Bull-the effect would have been no different.

"The private detective," he repeated softly.

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong Paul Auster."

"You're the only one in the book."

"That might be," said Auster. "But I'm not a detective."

"Who are you then? What do you do?"

"I'm a writer."

"A writer?" Quinn spoke the word as though it were a lament.

"I'm sorry," Auster said. "But that's what I happen to be."

"If that's true, then there's no hope. The whole thing is a bad dream."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Quinn told him. He began at the beginning and went through the entire story, step by step. The pressure had been building up in him since Stillman's disappearance that morning, and it came out of him now as a torrent of words. He told of the phone calls for Paul Auster, of his inexplicable acceptance of the case, of his meeting with Peter Stillman, of his conversation with Virginia Stillman, of his reading Stillman's book, of his following Stillman from Grand Central Station, of Stillman's daily wanderings, of the carpetbag and the broken objects, of the disquieting maps that formed letters of the alphabet, of his talks with Stillman, of Stillman's disappearance from the hotel. When he had come to the end, he said, "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"No," said Auster, who had listened attentively to Quinn's monologue. "If I had been in your place, I probably would have done the same thing."

These words came as a great relief to Quinn, as if, at long last, the burden was no longer his alone. He felt like taking Auster in his arms and declaring his friendship for life.

"You see," said Quinn, "I'm not making it up. I even have proof."' He took out his wallet and removed the five-hundred-dollar check that Virginia Stillman had written two weeks earlier. He handed it to Auster. "You see," he said. "It's even made out to you. "

Auster looked the check over carefully and nodded. "It seems to be a perfectly normal check."

"Well, it's yours," said Quinn. "I want you to have it."

"I couldn't possibly accept it."

"It's of no use to me." Quinn looked around the apartment and gestured vaguely. "Buy yourself some more books. Or a few toys for your kid."

"This is money you've earned. You deserve to have it yourself." Auster paused for a moment. "There's one thing I'll do for you, though. Since the check is in my name, I'll cash it for you. I'll take it to my bank tomorrow morning, deposit it in my account, and give you the money when it clears."

Quinn did not say anything.

"All right?" Auster asked. "Is it agreed?"

"All right," said Quinn at last. "We'll see what happens."

Auster put the check on the coffee table, as if to say the matter had been settled. Then he leaned back on the sofa and looked Quinn in the eyes. "There's a much more important question than the check," he said. "The fact that my name has been mixed up in this. I don't understand it at all."

"I wonder if you've had any trouble with your phone lately. Wires sometimes get crossed. A person tries to call a number, and even though he dials correctly, he gets someone else."

“Yes, that's happened to me before. But even if my phone was broken, that doesn't explain the real problem. It would tell us why the call went to you, but not why they wanted to speak to me in the first place."

"Is it possible that you know the people involved?"

"I've never heard of the Stillmans."

"Maybe someone wanted to play a practical joke on you."

"I don't hang around with people like that."

"You never know."

"But the fact is, it's not a joke. It's a real case with real people. "

"Yes," said Quinn after a long silence. "I'm aware of that."

They had come to the end of what they could talk about. Beyond that point there was nothing: the random thoughts of men who knew nothing. Quinn realized that he should be going. He had been there almost an hour, and the time was approaching for his call to Virginia Stillman. Nevertheless, he was reluctant to move. The chair was comfortable, and the beer had gone slightly to his head. This Auster was the first intelligent person he had spoken to in a long time. He had read Quinn's old work, he had admired it, he had been looking forward to more. In spite of everything, it was impossible for Quinn not to feel glad of this.

They sat there for a short time without saying anything. At last, Auster gave a little shrug, which seemed to acknowledge that they had come to an impasse. He stood up and said, "I was about to make some lunch for myself. It's no trouble making it for two."