I thought I would sleep out the flight, but I kept churning thoughts around uselessly during the interminable journey. The plane stopped at three little Michigan towns. I endured the flight with the passivity born of too much emotion. Why would Bledsoe have blown up his own ship? What else was Mattingly doing for him? Bledsoe had blandly offered to let me look at his financial papers. And that meant the real documents were hidden someplace else with fake books available for bankers and detectives. But he had really been in shock when the Lucella blew up. That gray face wasn’t faked. Well, maybe he just wanted to incapacitate her slightly, to collect enough insurance to meet his financial obligations. He didn’t want his pride and joy blown to bits, but Mattingly had gotten hold of the wrong kind of explosive. Or too powerful an explosive. Anyway, he’d way exceeded his instructions.

Why had Bledsoe offered me a ride in his plane if he was turning it over to Mattingly, anyway? Maybe he knew he wouldn’t have to make good on the offer. Or, if he expected the Lucella to be damaged only slightly, he could have taken off. But then how would he have explained Mattingly tome?

Round and round I went on these useless speculations, giving myself nothing but a headache. At the root of it all, I felt very bitter. It looked as though Bledsoe, who talked to me charmingly last night about Veter Grimes, had fooled me. Maybe he thought I’d be an impartial witness to his surprise at the wreck. I didn’t like the wound to my ego. At least I hadn’t gone to bed with him.

At O’Hare I looked Mattingly up in the phone book. He lived near Logan Square. Late as it was, exhausted, my head pounding and my clothes in ruins, I took a cab straight down there from the airport. It was nine-thirty when I rang the bell of a tidy bungalow in the 3600 North block of Pulaski.

It was opened almost immediately by Howard’s young, helpless wife, Elsie. She was struggling with the latter stages of pregnancy and she gasped when she saw me. I realized I must present a shocking sight.

“Hello, Elsie,” I said, walking past her into a tiny vestibule. “I’m V. I. Warshawski—Boom Boom’s cousin. We met a couple of times at hockey parties—remember? I need to talk to Howard.”

“I—Yes, I remember you. Howard—Howard’s not here.”

“No? You’re sure he’s not upstairs in bed asleep or something?”