“I and my brave little band of brothers. We work, we live in harmony, with mutual respect and understanding. We pursue a common, or perhaps I should say,” he smiled a smile that had no gladness in it, and his gleedy eyes narrowed mysteriously, “…an uncommon goal, in this calm and pleasant manse.”

“What?”

“Manse.” He sniffed querulously. “Dwelling, abode, if you prefer.”

“I mean, what do you do?”

“Research, of course.”

“Research on what? What am I supposed to do?”

He squinted at me as if the answer to my forthright question was too obvious to merit a response. Finally: “Why, to play the tuba,” he said. “You do have it handy?”

“Handy enough.” I had left it along with my minimal wardrobe in the checkroom at Union Station. “You’ve got some kind of orchestra around here? A military band?”

“Goodness, no,” he chuckled, deep in his throat. For a moment I thought he was choking. “You play solo,” he said, “observing as you play the response of, well, we’ll start with this.” From his bathrobe pocket he plucked a small stone rectangular block about the size of a domino. “This,” he said, “is your audience. But we can’t expect you to spend ten to twelve hours a day blowing your horn without a break, can we? So,” he added with the sanctimonious air of a vigilant shop steward concerned over the exploitation of the workers in a salt mine, “so I want you to take time out every now and then.”

“To do what?” I asked warily.

“Think.” He tilted his head to one side, lolling his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, winked a watery eye, and tapped a finger against his temple. “I mean, that’s your job, along with the tuba. What you do here is think.”

“About what? Anything in particular?”

“Suicide,” he said, favoring me once more with his murky, fraudulent smile. He rose from his chair and lumbered across the room like a famished wolf. He plucked the solitary tin can from the bookshelf, lifted the lid, and peered inside.

“My own?” What the hell kind of job was this?

It was as if he hadn’t heard me. His face went livid, as if it were lit by an internal torch. The ropey veins in his neck seemed about to burst through the skin. Combusting, he lunged to the door and threw it open. “Gorelik!” he roared, head thrown back, like a statue trumpeting on a pedestal, and the muted strains of the fipple flute were silenced. “You running sore!” Chatterton shouted. “You’ve been at my peanuts again!”