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Marais agreed. “But I didn’t.”
    I sat with Marx in his office. “What do you think?”
    â€œRobbery,” Marx said, “what else? Pawn shop. A prime target for small-timers, junkies, street kids.”
    â€œThree hundred in cash left? The safe not touched?”
    â€œPanic. Points even more to junkies or kids.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “What was actually taken?”
    â€œWe’re still checking. Marais kept lousy records. Jimmy Sung and the wife, Viviane, are helping us check.”
    â€œDoes the wife have an alibi?”
    Marx sighed. “She was home all night—alone.”
    â€œSo no one has an alibi. Jimmy Sung was curled up alone with his bottle. When I tailed the brother to the shop, he had to knock. The door was locked. I checked all doors and windows. No marks of entry, and most windows barred. Either the killer had a key, or Eugene Marais let him in. Which makes it an inside job. But then more should have been taken. With Eugene Marais dead, the killer had plenty of time.”
    â€œExcept that he panicked when he saw Marais was dead.”
    â€œIf he panicked, he wouldn’t have stopped to search.”
    â€œUnless he hit Marais, started his search, decided to tie Marais up halfway, found him dead, and then ran.”
    Marx had a good point. I could see some thief hit Eugene Marais, start to ransack the shop, maybe hear a groan or just realize Marais might come awake, go back to tie the owner up, find him dead, and panic. That would explain the half search.
    â€œI still don’t like the entry,” I said.
    â€œAll right, so maybe Marais left the door open by mistake later,” Marx said. “It’s too sloppy for an inside job. I figure an open door, a small-time thief. We’ll find the loot, talk to our stoolies, and we’ll have our killer.”
    â€œMaybe you will,” I said, and I stood up. “Can I go to the shop and get my ring out of hock?”
    â€œNo, not until we inventory and release the stock.”

4
    I went to my one-window office and tried to call Marty again. No luck, so I spent the afternoon alone in the office, sweating and paying some bills, and hoping the telephone would and wouldn’t ring. I wanted Marty to call me, but if the phone rang it might be Li Marais asking for some of her money back.
    The phone did ring—twice. It wasn’t Marty, or Li Marais, either time. The first call was a woman who wanted her fifteen-year-old daughter tailed, the second was a man who suspected his wife’s nephew of stealing from his store. I turned down both jobs. I didn’t like them, and I had five hundred dollars.
    It was after 7:00 P.M when I finally found Marty at home. She told me to come over.
    As I walked downtown in the hot evening, I suddenly felt like a boy really wanting a woman for the first time, nervous and afraid she wouldn’t want him. Uncertain and shy, like a stranger to Marty, an unseen wall up between us.
    The wall was there in her eyes as she opened her door and walked ahead of me into her living room. She repairs and refinishes all her own furniture. Antiques and junk, whatever meets her fancy. She works hard on it, a small woman in jeans and a stained man’s shirt. Now she was a different woman—somehow taller, reserved in a slim green pants suit that had cost her three hundred dollars. She usually wore it only for business, for the theater. Not for me.
    â€œI got the money,” I said.
    â€œThat’s fine,” she said, sat on the long old couch I’d known for so many years now.
    â€œI hocked the ring, but I got a job, too,” I said. I didn’t sit with her on the couch. I took a chair. “So I can get the ring back, okay? Where’ll we go? Fair Harbor?”
    â€œIt’s the best,” Marty said.
    â€œI’d have the ring back now, but the police are holding it. Eugene Marais was murdered in his store last