"Alone," he said firmly.
"Oh."
"Was there anything else I could do for you, sir?" he asked bitingly. "Before I close for the evening?"
"No. No, thank you. Thank you." I turned and walked out of the shop. On the sidewalk, I stopped to look up at the numbers on the door. They seemed to be the same numbers. And the three gold gilt balls hanging over the doorway seemed the same, too. I shrugged. Perhaps I'd been wrong. There were a lot of pawn shops on Third Avenue, and maybe I'd just stumbled into the wrong one, being a little worked up and all. I started walking, stopping at the next pawn shop, ready to go in.
I noticed that the grillwork fence was already up. Gone for the day. I kept walking, stopped at two more closed, fenced shops and then decided I'd let it go for tonight. I'd start again early in the morning, looking for the fat old man with the bald head and the mustache. I'd find him then, and straighten this all out.
I went back to my room.
The typewriter was sitting where I'd left it.
I snatched the sheet of paper from the roller, tossed it onto the floor. I put a new sheet into the machine, and sat down to type what I wanted to type, knowing damned well I'd get Poe instead. I typed without looking at the sheet of paper, afraid almost at what I knew would be there. The Murders In The Rue Morgue, maybe. Or Ulalume, if the machine had forgotten I didn't write poetry.
I opened my eyes and stopped typing. I looked at what I'd written.
The day was crisp and clear, with the promise of a mild afternoon in the air. It was the beginning of April, and Spring rustled her greenness and yawned leisurely. I walked along happily.