monumental rough-hewn beams. A bewildering array of antique furniture and carpets on top of moth eaten carpets filled the room. I searched through a roll top desk, a wardrobe of oak stained nearly black, a steamer chest, around and under broken down sofas and chairs covered with Moroccan tapestries to hide the threadbare upholstery. Satisfied finally that I would not find the notes or laptop in the living room, I went back through the kitchen, ran up the steps to the landing, turned and kept going up to the attic.

The steep climb took me up through a square opening and into a garret that stretched the full length of the house in one unbroken volume. I stopped at the top and scrutinized the space. The ceiling of the attic was the peaked roof of the building. There was no insulation or finishing, just the bottoms of the tiles which must have weighed forty pounds each. Dust motes swam in small shafts of sunlight that entered through irregular holes where the tiles were misplaced or chipped. The far end of the attic was piled with boxes and plastic bags. Nearer the stairs, next to a dormer window, were a small table, chair, and wooden file cabinet. There was a lamp on the table but nothing else. It had to be the filing cabinet. The drawers were locked. I bent and used a little flashlight I had brought to peer into the antique brass keyhole in the top drawer. I didn’t have much practice with old locks. This one looked like it had four tumblers. I patted down my cargo pockets, found my lock picks, and worked the lock for a few minutes. It didn’t want to budge. Laying down the picks, I took a quick break and checked the timer. I had been in the house for twenty three minutes. Too long. I got my tension wrench back in the lock and was raking the tumblers again when I heard a car coming up the driveway, crackling over branches and dry weeds. I went to the opposite dormer and looked out. Dworkin and his accomplice had just pulled up, returning from the store. Why hadn’t Ashna alerted me? I unlocked my phone and swiped away the timer app. There were three text messages and a missed call. She had tried but the volume was off. I texted her back quickly.

—In the attic. Stay put. I’m going to hide and wait for Dworkin to show me where the goods are. Might be a while.—

I glanced out again. They were climbing out of the car. Dworkin’s friend was thin and frail looking, dressed in a white button up shirt that billowed out of brown corduroy pants. He removed a white trilby and fanned his face with it, revealing patchy hair plastered with sweat.

Moving away from the window, I threaded my way back, looking for a place to hide. The boxes and bags seemed to be full of antique artifacts. I saw a set of china packed with bubble wrap, a bag split open showing old wool suit coats, a box of tarnished candlesticks, three infantry sword hilts poking out of a canvas tote. In one box I found what looked like a World War Two era German pistol but when I picked it up and examined it I saw that it was a lighter made to look like a gun.

Halfway back there was a stack of boxes high enough for me to crouch behind. I stopped there and got myself into a comfortable position, seated on the warm wood planks of the attic floor. The wait might be long but I was nearly positive the little table must be Dworkin’s work space. Maybe it was his accomplice’s work space too. Based on the evidence, he seemed to be an antiques dealer who stored merchandise here in his attic.

I heard them enter through the kitchen door below. Their voices carried upstairs and I could tell from the tone that they were arguing but I couldn’t understand the words. Heavy feet ascended to the landing and Dworkin’s voice became intelligible.

“She was probably just a tourist.”

“Maybe, but she seemed suspicious. Sitting in her car with a laptop?” The antique dealer’s voice seemed exasperated and had an edge of hysteria.

“People do that all the time.”

“Not in my experience.” Their footsteps continued up the stairs, ascending toward the attic. “I think you need to get rid of that stuff. You’re never going to solve the code. He had an internationally renowned cryptographer working on it. How are you going to figure it out? With your Bachelor’s degree in medieval literature? Is there a lot of code breaking involved in that course of study?”

“I’m close. I just need to study the notes.”

“I wish you had never involved me in this Lester.” They were in the attic now. The floorboards creaked under their weight. I heard a latch move and the window opening. “It’s like an oven up here. I don’t want the money anymore. It’s too much stress. Just take your stuff and leave.”

Dworkin made a weird, keening sound, like an overloaded engine. “Fine!” He exploded. “Fine!” I heard a key go into the file cabinet lock and a drawer open. There was some fumbling in the drawer. “I’m leaving. Have a nice life Bertram.”

Without thinking too much about it I stood, grabbed the fake gun I had seen earlier, and walked toward them holding the ersatz weapon low and by my side. It felt ridiculous but I gave it my best performance anyway, channeling the ghost of Philip Marlowe. “Stop Dworkin. Put the notes and the laptop down on the table.”

Dworkin turned to face me. He held a thin black laptop with an external hard drive plugged into it and a bundle of papers and notebooks bound together with a massive rubber band in one of his meaty hands. His buddy Bertram took a step back, shock draining the remaining color from his already nearly colorless face.

“How did

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