He went on to the next building and found what he expected -- the mingled cooking aromas of a public vestibule. On one wall was the brass front of a row of mailboxes; there were six apartments. Now what? The names on the mailboxes meant nothing to him. This was senseless -- he had no idea what to look for. He peered in the boxes themselves; all were empty except one, and that one was jammed with letters and magazines. The occupants of Apartment Number 3 were probably away for a few days, and not likely to return on a Friday. Had Muller made the same deduction? Muller was attracted to the lore of mailboxes.

He opened the inner door; the cooking odors were stronger -- all over the city, at this hour, housewives would be fussing over stoves. He climbed, as quickly as he could urge his body, up the two unbroken flights to the third floor, pulling himself along on a delicate balustrade, all that remained of the building's beauty. He paused on the landing to steady his breathing and then bent to examine the single door by the light of the weak bulb overhead. Now he was certain: the lock had not yielded to Muller's collection of keys; fresh scars showed that the door had been prized open. It had been shut again, but the lock was broken; he noted with a thrill of fear that the door moved under his touch.

What was he to do now? He had thought no further than finding Muller. He realized now he had more than half hoped he wouldn't find him -- that Muller would not be here, that the attempt would be scheduled for somewhere beyond Hoag's control. He could not break in on an armed man. He would have to climb back down to the street and signal a cop. Was there time?