Cupping his hands around his face, Jack peered into the office. It was sparsely furnished. There were two desks. One was functional as a desk with the usual accoutrements; the other supported a copy machine and a fax. There were several upright file cabinets. In the rear were two interior doors. Both were closed.

Jack walked to the door. The gold stenciling glittered against the darkened interior. Jack tried the door. It was locked, as he expected.

The stamp shop was just west of the rug shop, and Jack went there directly. The bells on the entrance door surprised him with their harsh jangle and made him realize he was tense.

A customer was seated, poring over a collection of stamps in glassine envelopes.

A man whom Jack took to be the proprietor stood behind the counter. As soon as he looked up, Jack introduced himself.

“Ah, Dr. Stapleton,” Hyman said softly, as if the spoken word were somehow irreverent in the philatelic peacefulness. He motioned for Jack to step to the side.

“It’s a terrible tragedy what happened to Mr. Papparis,” Hyman whispered. He handed Jack a set of keys on a ring. “Do you think there is any reason for me to be alarmed?”

“No,” Jack whispered. “Unless Mr. Papparis made it a habit to show you his merchandise.”

Hyman shook his head.

“Did Mr. Papparis ever bring any of his rugs and hides to his office? I mean, other than the ones in his window.”

“Not lately,” Hyman said. “He used to bring in samples years ago when he’d go out on the road. But he didn’t have to do that anymore.”

Jack held up the keys. “Thanks for your help. I’ll have these back to you in short order.”

“Take your time,” Hyman said. “I’m glad you’re checking things out.”

Jack went back out to his bike and got his supplies out of his basket. He then went to the door of the rug office and unlocked it. Before he opened it he put on the gown, the hood, the gloves, and the mask. A few of the passersby altered their pace ever so slightly when they caught a glimpse of Jack’s preparations. Jack considered their indifference a tribute to the equanimity of New Yorkers.

Jack pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold. He felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise. There was something unnervingly sinister about the possibility that some of the motes dancing in the ray of light spilling in from the street could be lethal. For a second he considered backing out and leaving the job to others. Then he chided himself for what he called medieval superstition. He was, after all, reasonably protected.

The office was as spartan as it had appeared through the window. The only decoration was a series of travel posters of the Greek Islands put out by Olympic Airlines. A large wall calendar also had scenes of Greece. Although the hides and rugs in the window were dusty, the rest of the office was spotless and smelled slightly of cleanser. At Jack’s feet were a few letters and magazines that had evidently been shoved through the mail slot. Jack picked them up and moved over to the desk.