He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer and removed Avrum’s mahogany candlestick box.

“This,” he said, holding it, “they would never touch.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t answer that,” Sol said. “I think Mr. Feldman let them believe that it contained something of, well, a supernatural power.” He looked at the box for a moment, then admitted, “I inspected it once, after a complaint. It had nothing in it but some candlesticks and candles and a few other things.”

“A photograph?” I asked. “Was there a photograph?”

“Yes. I assumed it was of her.”

“You mean Amelita Galli-Curci?”

“Yes.”

“It was,” I said. “Does that strike you as strange?”

Sol hesitated for a moment. “No. Not if he cared for her as it was rumored.”

“He did,” I said forcefully. “You can damn well bet on it.”

“Would you like to inspect it?” Sol asked.

“Yes, I would,” I said. “By the way, when you looked in it, were there any audiocassette tapes?”

“I don’t remember. It’s been a couple of years since I looked at it. Why?”

“I made copies of Avrum’s records a few years ago. I thought it would be easier for him to use a tape recorder than his record player, but he didn’t like the recorder and he put the tapes in his box.”

“Then maybe they’re still there,” Sol said. “I have the key. I found it on the floor.”

He placed the box on the sliced mattress and handed me the key and I opened it. Everything was there—the candlesticks wrapped in purple velvet, the white candles, the sheet of music, the costume jewelry, the photograph of Amelita Galli-Curci, and the six audiocassette tapes I had given him.

“I think you should take possession of this,” Sol said. He looked over the room, shaking his head. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Murphy. It’s a desecration. I think if his body had been in here, they would have mutilated it as well.”

“You could be right,” I said.

Sol picked up a broken piece of a record and turned it in his hand, then he tossed it on the bed. He said hesitantly, “It may be an imposition, but I’d like to ask a favor.”

“What?”

“When I got to the room, there were three people still in it. I had them escorted to my office. Will you talk to them?”

“Me? Why?”

“I’m not sure I have an answer. Something tells me it would help. Maybe they’ll say something to you they won’t say to me.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

Sol named them—Carl Gershon, Leo Gutschenritter, Morris Mekel. They were in their mid to late eighties.

“They’ve been here a long time,” Sol explained. “Never a minute’s trouble from any of them.”

“What kind of mood are they in now?”