Suddenly Virtue found herself stepping out onto the sidewalk, oblivious to the intense heat, as the Angel pulled away and sped off into the distance. Forcing herself to look straight ahead, she walked past the desk, then turned left and found a chair that was partially hidden from the doorway.

She sat absolutely motionless, afraid to call any attention to herself, and wondered what to do next. She began furtively studying the people in the lobby, trying to determine which of them looked like killers, and came to the uneasy conclusion that they all did.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the Angel entered the lobby, accompanied by the panhandler, who looked terribly confused. The bounty hunter glanced in her direction and jerked his head.

She stood up immediately and gestured questioningly toward herself. He nodded, and as she joined them on their way to the elevator she noticed that the Angel had a small hand weapon pressed against the panhandler’s back.

“I keep telling you, sir—you’re making a terrible mistake,” whined the panhandler when the three of them were alone in the elevator, ascending to Virtue’s floor. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, honest to God I haven’t.”

“But I’ve seen you,” replied the Angel grimly. “Staring out at me from the post office wall.”

“I’ve never even been to the post office.”

The Angel made no reply, and a few seconds later the elevator came to a stop.

“Who is he?” asked Virtue as they stepped out into the empty corridor.

“His name’s Simple Simon,” said the Angel, prodding the panhandler with his weapon until the man began walking. “And he’s just a little more sophisticated than he appears to be.”

“Well, there you are, sir,” said the panhandler. “My name’s not Simon at all. It’s Brubaker, sir, Robert Brubaker. I have my identification with me.”

“Keep walking,” said the Angel.

“If he’s really a wanted killer, how did he get past customs?” asked Virtue.

“The same way William Jennings did,” said the Angel. “If I wanted, I could come up with ten authentic passports proving that I was Robert Brubaker.”

“I suppose you could, at that,” acknowledged Virtue.

“But I am Robert Brubaker!” protested the panhandler. “I’m an honest, hardworking man, I am.”

“Hardworking, anyway,” said the Angel as they came to Virtue’s room. “Stop here.”

The panhandler came to a halt.

“All right,” said the Angel, backing about fifteen feet down the corridor. “Virtue, open the door and then step aside. You,” he continued, gesturing toward the panhandler with his weapon, “walk in first.”

“Then can I go home?” asked the man.

“Then we’ll talk about it.”