“You all right in there, doll?” It was Mr. Contreras hovering anxiously in the hall.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I guess.” I got to my feet and went back out to him with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I just need to spend some time alone. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Fine.” He was a little hurt but worked valiantly to keep it from showing. He collected the dirty dishes, waving off my offers of help, and took the tray and the dog back downstairs.

Once he’d gone I wandered moodily around the apartment. Caroline had asked me to stop looking for her father; there wasn’t any reason to push matters with Humboldt. But when a ten-billion-dollar man undertakes to run me through hoops it gets my hackles up.

I hunted around for the phone book. It had somehow gotten buried under a stack of music on the piano. Naturally enough, Humboldt’s number wasn’t listed. Frederick Manheim, Attorney, had an office at Ninety-fifth and Halsted and a home in neighboring Beverly. Lawyers with large incomes or criminal practices don’t give their home numbers. Nor do they usually hide out on the southwest side, away from the courts and the major action.

I was restless enough to want to move now, call Manheim, get the story from him, and gallop down to Oak Street to confront Humboldt. “Festina lente,” I muttered to myself. Get the facts, then shoot. It would be better to wait until morning and make the trek down south to see the guy in person. Which meant yet another day in nylons. Which meant I’d better get my black pumps clean.

I foraged in the hall closet for shoe polish and finally found a tin of black under a sleeping bag. I was carefully cleaning the shoes when Bobby Mallory called.

I cradled the phone under my ear and started buffing the left shoe. “Evening, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

“You can give me a good reason for not running you in.” He spoke in the pleasant conversational tone that meant his temper was on a tight rein.

“For what?” I asked.

“It’s considered a crime to impersonate a police officer. By everyone but you, I believe.”

“Not guilty.” I looked at the shoe. It was never going to recover the smooth finish it had when it left Florence, but it wasn’t too bad.

“You aren’t the woman—-tall, thirtyish, short curly hair—who told Hugh Mclnerney you were with the police?”

“I told him I was a detective. And when I spoke of the police, I carefully used third- not first-person pronouns. As far as I know that is not a crime, but maybe the City Council blew one by me.” I picked up the right shoe.

“You don’t think you could leave the investigation of the Cleghorn woman’s death to the police, do you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You think Steve Dresberg killed her?”

“If I told you yes, would you drop out of sight and go do the stuff you’re qualified to work on?”