He turned, brows raised, then gave his cocky grin. “The lady detective. Well, well. Have you come to arrest me for killing Marc?”

“Did you kill him? That would be a help. I could stop trying to ask people questions that they don’t want to answer.”

“I think a gal like you would develop a pretty thick skin by now. No one

wants to answer a dick’s questions. Not even me.” The grin was still in place, but it pushed me back as effectively as a stiff arm.

“Yeah, well, even a rhinoceros starts showing wear and tear if it’s hit by enough big sticks. I don’t imagine you killed Marc Whitby, but maybe I’ve been barking up the wrong tree all week; maybe you got tired of his ambition and his standoffishness, got him drunk, and drove him to a pond to drown him.”

He stopped smiling. “I didn’t kill the brother. I just didn’t join in the choir of the blessed shouting `Hallelujah’ every time someone said his name.”

“If you do me a favor, I won’t ask you any more questions, or even expect you to shout `Hallelujah’ over Marc’s name. I want to see Mr. Llewellyn. Without having to sweet-talk my way past your receptionistshe’s one of the people who’s whacked at my rhino hide recently.”

“Ah, yes, the dulcet Shantel. I can’t get you in to Mr. Llewellyn. He knows all his staff, of course, because he owns us, and, anyway, it’s not like we’re Time, Inc. At the Christmas party or in the elevator, when our paths cross, he greets me by name: he says, `How are you today, Mr. Thompson. That was a nice piece you did for the last issue, a very fine piece of writing indeed.’ One year he called me Mr. Pumpkin.”

I laughed. “I’ll take my chances once I’m in the building. If he hasn’t left for the day.”

“And in return?”

“If you lose your dog, I’ll find it for you, no charge.”

“Dang. You must’ve known I have a cat.” He turned around and led me back to the Llewellyn building.

The chauffeur was still reading the Sun-Times, a good sign since it meant he didn’t expect to see the boss for a bit. Inside the lobby, the hostile receptionist was gone, replaced by a uniformed guard, who asked for my ID but didn’t make any objection to J.T taking me up in the elevator. After all, the place published magazines. Writers are always bringing in people to interview.

On the sixth floor, I got J.T. to let me use his computer to type up a note for Llewellyn. “Do you know that Marcus Whitby tried to see you before he died? He had read Armand Pelletier’s unpublished memoirs about the group that used to get together at Flora’s on the West Side. He went to see Olin Taverner after he read the memoir. The forties must have been heady days for you. Can we discuss them?”