"You don't understand," she said again. "That's locked."

"No, it's not. See?" I opened the door and Moza put a hand on her heart.

"She'll come back," she said with a quaking voice.

"Moza, I'm not going to take anything," I said. "I will work with great care and she'll never know I was here. Why don't you sit out there in the living room and keep an eye open, just in case? O.K.?"

"She'll be so angry if she finds out I let you in," she said to me. Her eyes were as mournful now as a basset hound's.

"But she won't find out, so there's nothing to worry about. By the way, did you ever find out what little town in Idaho she's from?"

"Dickey is what she told me."

"Oh good. I appreciate that. She never mentioned living in New Mexico, did she?"

Moza shook her head and began to pat her chest as if she were burping herself. "Please hurry," she said. "I don't know what I'd do if she came back."

I wasn't sure myself.

I eased into the room and closed the door, flipping on the light. On the other side of the door, I heard Moza shuffling back toward the front of the house, murmuring to herself.

The room was furnished with an ancient wood-veneer bedroom suite that I doubt could be called "antique." The pieces looked like the ones I've seen out on thrift-shop sidewalks in downtown Los Angeles: creaky, misshapen, smelling oddly of wet ash. There was a chiffonier, matching bed-tables, a dressing table with a round mirror set between banks of drawers. The bed frame was iron, painted a flaking white, and the spread was chenille in a dusty rose with fringe on the sides. The wallpaper was a tumble of floral bouquets, mauve and pale rose on a gray background. There were several sepia photographs of a man whom I imagined was Mr. Lowenstein; someone, at any rate, who favored hair slicked down with water and spectacles with round gold rims. He appeared to be in his twenties, smooth and pretty with a solemn mouth pulled over slightly protruding teeth. The studio had tinted his cheeks a pinkish tone, slightly at odds with the rest of the photo, but the effect was nice. I'd heard that Moza was widowed in 1945. I would have loved seeing a picture of her in those days. Almost reluctantly, I turned back to the task at hand.