I didn't know all this just yet, because I hadn't moved. I did turn my head so that I could see what little was visible beneath the car that had just taken a bullet for me, and what I saw was this: the door of the shooter's car opened and somebody, presumably the shooter, hopped out, scurried over to where the fat man lay, reached down, picked up something that could well have been a book-sized brown paper bag, and got back into the car and closed the door. Whereupon the car burned rubber getting out of there, took a right at University without slowing down, and inspired a good many other drivers to honk their horns in righteous indignation.

I don't remember walking over to where the fat man lay, but I must have, because the next thing I knew I was standing there looking down at him. He must have been hit a dozen times, and the blood had poured out of him. He wasn't smiling, and who could blame him?

" Bern?" It was Carolyn. "I came out when I heard shooting. What happened? Who's he? And where'd all the money come from?"

I looked down and saw I was holding the $1300 in my hand. "It's his change," I said. "But I guess there's no point giving it back to him now."

Okay," Ray said. "Let's go over it one more time."

We were in the bookstore, and it wasn't quite three o'clock yet, for all that it felt like three in the morning. I'd had a rough night with not much sleep in it, and an easy day until the shooting started, and since then I'd been behind my counter with Ray in front of it. He kept asking questions, and I'd have answered more of them if I knew more of the answers.

"So this guy comes in," he said now, "an' you never saw him before in your life."

"Never."

"Big fat guy, all dressed up in a suit an' tie, an' you never set eyes on him before."

"That's what I just told you."

"He never wandered in here before, lookin' to pick up somethin' for a friend in the hospital?"

"If he had," I said, "I'd have remembered him. But it's hard to remember something that never happened."

"Oh, I dunno," he said. "Some people do it all the time. It's called tellin' lies, Bernie, an' over the years I've known you to be a master of it."

"I'm not lying now," I said. "He came in and played with my cat and told me I had something for him."

"An' you gave him a book."

"Right."

"You never saw him before, an' yet you knew just what book to give him."

"Oh, God. How many times do I have to tell you the same damned thing?"

"Till I understand it, Bernie. So tell me again."

"I had a phone call."

"From the fat guy."

"No, not from the fat guy. From some customer, I think, who asked if I had a copy of a particular book."

"By this Conrad guy. What was his last name?"

"Conrad. His first name's Joseph. He was Polish, and spent a good many years at sea, and ultimately he taught himself English and became a great novelist."

"That's a Polish name, Conrad?"

"He changed it."

"Can't blame him," he said. "Probably full ofZ s andY s, and you'd have to be Polish yourself to pronounce it, an' even then you might have your hands full. So you said you had this book, an' you put it aside for the guy."

"Right."

"An' when this other guy came in, the fat guy, you gave it to him instead of keepin' it for the guy who called you."

"I assumed the caller had sent the fat man."

"You ask him what book he was lookin' for?"

"I said the title and he couldn't have been happier. I handed him the book and he held it like the Holy Grail. He asked how much and I told him the price and he couldn't wait to put the money in my hand."

"And then he left."

"First he said goodbye to the cat," I said, "andthen he left."

"An' got his ass shot off. Why'd you run out after him?"

"He walked off without his change."

"An' you were gonna give it back? You, Bernie?"

"In here," I said, "I'm as honest as the day is long. Even today, which is shaping up to be the longest day of the year."

"How much was the book?"

"Thirteen dollars."

"An' how much did he give you?"

"Fifteen," I said. Honesty, in or out of the bookstore, has its limits. "He gave me a five and a ten and didn't wait for me to give him his change."

"So that's two bucks we're talkin' about, Bernie? You mean to tell me you ran out into the street after him to return two measly dollars?"

"When Abraham Lincoln was a boy," I said, "he had a job clerking in a shop. One day he shortchanged a customer-"

"Abe did? An' here I always thought he was supposed to be honest."

"It was accidental, and the man walked off before Lincoln realized his mistake. So that night he walked all the way to the man's house, in the pitch dark and through deep snow, to return the man's change. And do you know how much it was?"

"Two dollars?"

"A penny," I said.

"A penny? Did it at least have his pitcher on it?"

I gave him a look. "One cent," I said, "but Lincoln knew it wasn't right to keep it, and so he gave it back."

He frowned in thought, or the Kirschmann equivalent thereof. "You know," he said, "I heard that story in school when I was a kid. You figure it's true, Bernie?"

"I think it contains a great spiritual truth."

"What's that mean?"

"In a word," I said, "it means no. I don't believe it."

"I didn't believe it back then," Ray said, "an' I still don't. I think it's like George Washington, coppin' the neighbor's cherry. Makes a nice story but it never happened. Gettin' back to the book, Bernie. It's just another old book off the shelves, right?"

"Right."

"Not rare or valuable or anythin'."

"Not remotely."

"Or why would you be lettin' it go for thirteen bucks? An' I think you said you owned it a long time."

"Years."

"So it ain't really what the fat guy was lookin' for."

"Good thinking, Ray."

"Now let me ask you somethin'," he said, "which you can answer without incriminatin' yourself. Is there anythin' that I don't know about, and don't need to know about, that you been up to lately? Somethin' that might lead to someone thinkin' you had somethin' they wanted back?"

I didn't have to think long and hard. The only two things I'd been involved in were my adventure Wednesday night, when I'd prowled my way into Barbara Creeley's apartment, and the Mapes burglary, which hadn't happened yet. There was no way either could have led the fat man to my store.

"Not a thing," I said.

"Then it's the Rogovin murders," he said. "They got in an' they killed the people an' they popped the safe, but there musta been somethin' they wanted an' didn't get. Somethin' that coulda been a book."

"A McGuffin."

"What the hell's that?"

"Never mind," I said. "I'd say you're right, they were looking for something at least vaguely booklike."

"Gotta be."

"But notThe Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad. That'd be too much of a coincidence."

"What it'd have to be," he said thoughtfully, "is somethin' that they don't know exactly what it is, or else when you handed him that particular book he'da handed it right back to you."

"Or thrown it at me."

"Or at the cat. Though you'd think he'd have smelled a rat when all you wanted for it was thirteen bucks."

Quite so, which explained why he'd assumed I meant thirteen hundred. And even that was evidently a low price for the McGuffin, which explained the enigmatic smile, and the way he hadn't wanted me to see how much money he'd brought along to the bargaining table. God only knows what I could have asked for.

"Maybe he thought I just wanted to get rid of it, and the thirteen dollars was just to save face."

"You couldn't save much face for thirteen bucks. Not much more'n a couple of whiskers. There's got to be two sets of players, Bernie. The ones who hit the Rogovins and the others. My guess is Fat Boy was one of the others, and the ones who hit the Rogovins are the ones who hit him, too."